89“I mean, I’d seen her enter
the forest, but we got no
answer. The woods are big. I
can’t actually think of where
those woods end.”
“Do the woods end?”
“I’ve never seen the end.
Anyway. Forget it.” J looks
around the kitchen, taking in
the cabinetry for a moment.
She places her hand flat on the
table. “Yeah. Anyway. That’s
it. A woman walked into the
woods. We looked for her
and eventually we gave up.
We came back. Did you cut
your bangs?”
“You like?”
“Super cute. I need a hair-
cut too.” J pats the table again.
J knows a woman who’s
a famous artist. She and the
woman had grown up together,
childhood friends, but now it’s
been years. J follows the wom-
an’s career from a distance. It’s
easy to, since the woman is
often featured in fancy maga-
zines or photographed wear-
ing her uniform of gold-lamé
shorts; wild, unwashed hair;
leather straps; hairy pits; work
boots; and makeup applied in
surprising ways—say, three yel-
low lines across her forehead or
a turquoise streak down each
cheek. Sometimes the woman
wears a soiled bridal veil with
her gold shorts, though from
what J can gather, the woman
is not married.
The woman bought an
abandoned house in Detroit
for $4,000. She moved into
the crumbling manor with
her posse. Yes, the woman
has a posse, a jangly bunch of
generally free spirits. Free until
the woman issues a command,
Fagin-style, as in: “Go get me
a carved-oak dresser, an armful
of red-berry branches, a petti-
coat, and a set of champagne
stemware. And remember, I
love you, babies.” A shopping
list for the raw material of her
art-making. The posse heads
out to raid one of Detroit’s
other fallen beauties that,
because of various downturns
in the economy, have been
left unpeopled, unguarded,
ostensibly abandoned. The
posse slips into these homes
under cover of darkness and
makes short work of collect-
ing treasures that belong to
the families who own these
decaying homes, or used toown them before the bank
re possessed. It’s fuzzy. The
woman’s posse, foragers of this
misfortune, throw open attic
chests, giddy with delight—
thrilled with the beautiful
trashlike detritus of the uni-
verse. They pile up old photo
albums, yearbooks, and quilts.
They return home laden with
crystal dishes, phono graph
cabinets, clarinets, cloches,
cloaks, gold chains, religious
icons, feathers, music boxes,
jewels, lamps, and lipsticks.
They return home with a sense
that they are recycling items
that would have gone to the
landfill. They present these
intimate signifiers of someone
else’s life to their queen. Bees
with knees full of pollen.On one hand, J thinks the
woman’s project is cool. Prop-
erty, after all, is a crime. But
on the other hand, what the
woman does is theft, plain and
simple. No one says that. None
of the articles mention that. In
one of the houses, they found a
check signed by Martin Luther
King Jr. They brought the
check home and the woman
posted a picture of it on Insta-
gram. J saw it. Maybe the check
would have been destroyed if
the posse hadn’t grabbed it. But
still, there’s the grabbing.Or else, maybe J is just
jealous of the woman. Maybe
J wants a posse too. One that’s
not made up of 8-year-olds,
4-year-olds. Maybe J would
also like to be recognized
for the things that make her
totally wild.“Did you guys watch last
night’s—”
“Oh my God. So good.
Love that show.” K’s picking
the popcorn from her teeth.
“Could you even believe
it? She’s like, ‘Mister, I don’t
even—’ ”
“Shut up. I had to work
late. Don’t spoil it.”
“Oh, hon. You’re in for a
treat.”
“Don’t.”“Okay, okay.”
“But I just couldn’t even
believe when she—”
“Wait. Can we get back to
the woman?”
“Who?”
“The woman in the woods.
You never found her? There’s,
like, a woman at large in the
woods somewhere and no one
cares?”
J looks reluctant, or guilty.
“I walked farther into that for-
est than anyone.”
“Were you scared?”
“It was beautiful. Green and
dark blue. I’d go back. There
were some briars here and
there but it smelled so good,
I didn’t mind. That dirt smell.
And there was something. The
woods kept opening up more,
like, Oh, there’s a clearing just
over there, and then at the clear-
ing, Oh, look, a small path, and
then, Oh, what’s that up ahead?
I kept walking and the woods
kept opening.”
“How long did you look?”
“I’m not really sure.”
“Well, I’d be pissed if I
were you,” P says. “What the
hell, right? She endangered all
of you, leading you into the
woods at night.” P is often
angry. She has her reasons.
We turn to look at her.
“What about the woods
scares you?”
“I don’t know,” P says.
“Trees?”
“No.”
“Dirt?”
“No.”
“Animals.”
“Quit it.”
“I’m more scared of an over-
whelmed mom behind the
wheel of a minivan.”
P pinches her mouth. L
tries to defuse any conflict.
“Come on. We’ve all been
there. Right? Late for some-
thing; no food in the house;
tired, bratty kids; and youShe crossed the field as if she
didn’t even see the game,
like she was chasing a stray ball ...
She ignored the kids,
walked right through them
and into the woods.