THENEWYORKER, AUGUST 26, 2019 73
The banging stopped, and then, after
a moment, so did the running water.
A cat darted from the shelter of the
hibachi into the harsh fluorescence em-
anating from the kitchen.
“Ma’am? We’re here from Movin’
On Up?”
The creature that stepped into the
room was ghoulish, insectile: a woman
of indeterminate age, malnourished, her
single piece of clothing (a long T-shirt
printed with cartoon characters) dan-
gling from the wire hanger of her shoul-
der blades. And yet she moved with
grace, as though she were even lighter
than she appeared. Steam rose from the
cast-iron skillet clutched, with mania-
cal intensity, in her right hand, and water
dripped from it onto the floor, where a
cat soon appeared to lick it up. She
threw a glance over Bev’s shoulder and
shouted, “Don’t let the cats out!”
It was Emily the woman was shout-
ing at; the girl stood frozen in the open
door. Shocked into action, she slammed
it shut.
The woman returned her attention to
Bev. “What are you doing in my house?”
“We brought your bed.”
“Huh?”
“We’re from Movin’ On Up. You
needed a bed?”
The woman’s eyes clouded, then
cleared. “Yes. Yes. You got the bed?”
“Out in the truck.”
“All right. All right,” the woman said.
“Bring it in. Don’t let the cats out.”M
uscling the box spring to the door,
Emily said, “I don’t like this sit-
uation, Mrs. Dreyer.”
“No, it’s not great.”
“I think this lady is on drugs. I think
she needs help.”
“I agree.”
The client’s bedroom lay around the
corner; they would have to upend the
box spring to get it through the kitchen,
which was little more than a narrow hall
with a stove and a sink at one end. The
clutter continued here, towers of food
containers and cat-litter tubs sharing
the space with piles of laundry, empty
bleach bottles, and, incongruously, a tall
stack of cardboard jigsaw puzzles in
boxes, each one promising a lush land-
scape image when completed, the lower
ones crushed, their pieces spilling out.
Cat kibble crunched underfoot, and the
oven was open, pushing blazing heatinto the cramped space. Bev felt her
sweat evaporating before it could even
stain her clothes.
When they reached the bedroom, the
reason for the client’s need became clear:
the entire far corner of the space had
caught fire, and part of the futon still
lying on the floor had been consumed.
The carpet, walls, and ceiling were black-
ened; the many empty cigarette pack-
ages scattered around the space suggested
a cause. A melted electrical-outlet cover
still had a cord trailing from it, attached
to the charred skeleton of a table lamp.
The ruined futon was covered in cats.
Emily said, “Um.”
“You gonna take this out of here?”
the client asked.
“No, Ma’am. We can’t do that. Did
you tell your landlord about what
happened?”
The woman appeared to think the
question over. “Yeah, he knows,” she re-
plied, unconvincingly.
“O.K.”
“How do I get rid of this thing?”
“I’m not sure,” Bev admitted.
They lifted up the futon, scattering
the cats, and slumped it against the wall,
blocking access to a tiny bathroom dom-
inated by litter boxes. The clean area of
carpet that was revealed looked bizarre:
a rectangle of dark-blue berber empty
of debris, save for a single scrap of pink
paper. Bev picked it up: a movie ticket,
from a superhero blockbuster she’d taken
Celeste to see the week before she left
for college. When Bev raised her head,
the client was gazing at her expectantly.
She couldn’t toss the ticket back on the
floor, it would seem like an insult. And
she couldn’t keep it, because it wasn’t
hers. So she stood there, folding the
ticket between her thumb and forefinger,
for what felt like an eternity, until the
client looked away. Bev shoved the ticket
into the pocket of her jeans, and, with
Emily, went out to the living room to
collect the box spring.
It took longer than it should have.
The thing could barely be wedged into
the kitchenette; they had to move the
puzzles and empty litter boxes, and even
then they ended up scraping some paint
off the corner of the wall. By the time
they reached the bedroom, the futon had
fallen back into its place on the floor.
Except it hadn’t. It was still sagging
against the wall. But it was also on theA light pleasure in the binding, an intimacy
With the subject or the person listening
That he couldn’t see.And the pauses when neither of you spoke
Were alive, space-filling, somehow physical.You could hear rooms.
Conversations were rooted in them.
They didn’t move around.
You knew there was life in another house—doors slammed,
Supper bells, doorbells, messages scratched on pads, handwriting
that told,
People who left rooms and never came back.
People who might surprise you, come from so far there was no
phoning them.I don’t mean that life was better then,
But our conversations were theatre.
Farewell, until
You didn’t know when.—Deborah Garrison