As I’ve mentioned, some years back I sold real estate. One of the many houses I had to sell was located in a small community just outside of Seattle. A true “close-and-doze” would be the real estate terminology as this place surpassed the definition of “fixer.” Apparently the owner of the property died in her kitchen while feeding her cat, Earl Grey. At the time of her death she had no living relatives. Carl, her husband, had died some twenty odd years prior leaving the entire estate in Francis’s name. All of her belongings –the dilapidated house (which rumbled every time Burlington Northern passed), the Buicks, (her Century, Carl’s Skylark), relic furnishings, and an extensive stock portfolio were all to be sold with the funds handed over to the Humane Society. Somewhat of a normal transaction since they were childless, but there was a twist. In her will it stated that at the time of her passing Earl Grey was to be captured and euthanized.
It was the attorney handling the estate who decided that the dirty task of disposing of poor Earl fell under my jurisdiction. Oh sure, I’d been asked to clean and tidy, bring flowers and food, even scrape and paint from time to time, but never kill a cat. And all the while I couldn’t help but feel the noiseless presence of Francis. A hermit with Earl for so many years and now I was to display what was left of her world to hordes of curious neighbors, looky-loos, and fast-talking realtors. I was well aware that there would be those who would want to see how she lived…where she hit the floor and took her last breath. Those who would possibly search for clues in Francis’ final scoop of Kiddle and Bits that had come to rest in the cracks of warped formica.
The first time I saw the place I was amazed how time had stopped somehow, like when you visit old people and you notice the pages of their calendar haven’t been turned in a few months or years, or the hour hand had fallen off on the Smith Selectric above the stove. There was something incredibly eerie about her untouched belongings as if she had just popped off to the store for a quart of milk or to mail a letter to a distant relative in Nebraska. But that was not the case.
My clues were many. There were waterlogged phone books on the front porch, unpaid bills in the mail slot, and shingles splayed across the lawn after a heavy winter storm. Inside, I was welcomed by time-eaten green shag carpet and sticks of worn furniture. There were shoes lined up at the front door as if they were waiting to go somewhere, a selection of plastic bonnets and hats adorning a coat stand, and a bathrobe casually draped over a chair in the bedroom. A bedroom in which she hosted a mad tea party of teddy bears. This is something I found to be a reoccurring theme in the homes of the elderly, and each time I came upon a cluster of bears I had to ask myself, at what age do grown women start their love affair with the Paddingtons?
The walls of Francis’s home were lined with black and white photographs of lustful youth in wooden frames. I could only imagine the importance of the people encapsulated in those dusty tombs of glass –the wide smiles full of lifetime guarantees, futures ripe with promise. More photos exposing middle age lines and furrowed brows, a place for disbelief to lodge. Then later life…possibly a fiftieth celebration with Carl, a resilience and shock of so many years with the same person. A disturbing sense that if death takes one before the other there will be a week or so of visitors and assurances to keep the one left behind busy, a few casseroles delivered by neighbors with easy instructions, and a sharing of tears that only dead flowers can hear. It is a parachute jump into an uncharted field that she had to navigate to the best of her ability. Had she imagined this outcome as a young bride? Could she possibly envision herself alone in this rattling old house? No, probably not, because hope instills promise… and solitude rarely gives one pause for vanity.
Instead, she thinks of protection. There is an earthquake kit and a baseball bat in the closet, a smoke detector, and a monitored alarm whose batteries had long ago ceased to hold up their end of the bargain. Francis appeared to be prepared for everything, but being alone. It reminds me how a life can sort of creepily cut loose from the web of stuff that made it habitable. It is like you are suspended above the abyss by an intricate and fascinating pattern of memories, but when they are gone…Boom, right into a bin at the Goodwill to later keep some homeless soul warm, or assist a costume seeking Halloween teen make a corny fashion statement by mockingly wearing the items that once lay flat against now cold skin.
I sat in Francis’s kitchen nook, staring out the window at the view, which must have delighted her the past fifty-seven years… and I spot Earl. Two eyeballs peeking out through a hole in the rockery like an inaccessible planet or that little kid Jessica who long ago fell into the well. No more a desperado than I. Just a little crapped-on gray clump of fur, probably damn scared and hungry. His eyes looked more pronounced, holding a stare like a person slowly going mad. We looked at each other, both lost in our own complexities and I knew I couldn’t kill him. Even when I took the listing I always knew that Earl would be safe on my watch. If this makes me a liar, so be it.