An Uncollected Death Read online

comfortable and practical. An upgrade. A keeper.

  Inspired, Charlotte pulled out two suitcases and opened them up on the bed, and began to fill them with a few clothes, a few shoes and boots, a few accessories and jewelry she couldn’t part with. It went quickly: one little black dress and black pumps, a pair of wool trousers, a pair of chinos, cropped pants, shorts, a good wool skirt and a gauzy summer one, two favorite summer dresses, the jeans and chambray shirt (one doesn’t clean house in good clothes), some tees and a couple white shirts, a cashmere sweater, a cotton one, and two wool ones, exercise clothing, robe, two sets of pajamas, slippers, the best of her lingerie and socks. Scarf, hats, gloves, a wool coat and a trench coat, a denim cropped jacket. A pashmina from Helene. Enough clothes for two weeks without worrying about laundry, enough clothes for all seasons and occasions, and it all easily fit in the two suitcases, with enough room for various things from the bathroom. This was doable. The knowledge that she was looking at what was very likely to be her future wardrobe excited her, as if she was packing for an extended journey. The only thing missing was knowing where she was going, but all in good time.

  It was quite a bit more than fifty things, thought Charlotte, remembering the young minimalist guy, but less than a twentieth of what remained in the closet. If she was honest, a lot of it was hopelessly outdated or little better than rags, a lot of it just never fit right or looked right, a lot of it had associations with past relationships, past life roles.

  Time to live—and dress—for the present.

  Time, also, for breakfast before Lola McKennie was due, and this time she promised herself she wouldn’t burn the bagel.

   

  At eight forty-five, Charlotte entered the kitchen for the first time since her chat with Ellis, and it took her a moment to recognize what she’d done the night before. The blur of long-familiar clutter was gone, and in its place was—space. Sunlight on an empty smooth countertop. A subtle flow of air. Serenity. The kitchen also looked twice as big. There were still the boxes of stuff over in the corner, but it was as if the doors of possibility were suddenly flung open—and she was ready. Had the security of familiar things been a trap, a prison, all along? Was she entering a dream, or leaving one?

  The surrealness of the scene hit Charlotte all at once, and she grabbed the back of a bar stool at the island counter to steady herself. Part of her thought it was a blood sugar deficit—breakfast was late, after all—but another part of her knew it was mild shock. She looked at the boxes of things in the corner, things that were now removed from their long-time familiar places, and their dislocation set loose a dislocation of the emotions attached to them. This was saying goodbye, goodbye to all of that, goodbye yellow brick road, goodbye, Mr. Chips, goodbye, so long, farewell, ta ta. She felt a pang just short of tears, and then just as quickly, she smiled.

  One of the animal cook figurines, the pig in the white toque and apron, stared at her with insane blank eyes and she recalled the very moment when her friend Hannah first gave it to her, and the real feelings she had repressed in a microsecond upon feeling them, the truth. She remembered Hannah’s words, “For the cook in the family,” knowing that Hannah knew that Jack did nearly all of the cooking at the time, in a burst of gourmet enthusiasm. He was a pig, Hannah was telling her, he was a ridiculous pig. And yet she and Jack kept collecting them, and she kept on collecting them after the divorce, and her friends kept giving them to her, and even Ellis contributed one or two.

  This, she thought, was the real meaning behind the collection: her fierce determination to put a good face on things, to bury the truth of Jack’s personal character in an anthropomorphic collection.

  What have I done, what have I been doing?

  That pig was next to the squirrel holding a spoon and a walnut. It cost three hundred dollars. In the next box there were decorative jars filled with colorful layers of beans and rice, a dozen different jars, maybe. Some of those were pricey, and some weren’t, but she dearly wished she had the cash instead of the beans and the jars. And she dearly wished she had back the time she’d spent on the shopping and browsing spent on each one, and on the work she’d done to earn the money she’d spent on a bunch of jars filled with dyed beans that were not likely safe enough to turn into a pot of soup.

  All those hours and years of working for the magazines, and now the work wasn’t there; she’d been discarded right along with the magazines themselves.

  There are no free rides, just uncollected deaths.

   

  Lola McKennie strode through the house in her short-skirted pastel pink suit and matching stiletto slingbacks, taking dimensions, pictures, and notes, and exclaiming with a soft Georgia accent over each room’s attractive features, which seemed to be legion.

  Charlotte struggled not to roll her eyes at the real estate agent’s strangely perfect hair and manicure, and the illusion of youth in a body so toned that when she arrived, Ernie next door said, “You could bounce a quarter off that butt.” Charlotte punched him in the arm and shooed him away.

  After the tour, they sat in the breakfast nook and Lola got down to business, setting up a laptop, several folders and papers, and a calculator. She presented similar properties for sale in Lake Parkerton, and Charlotte was dismayed at the relatively low list prices, as well as how many there were.

  “I’m going to be honest, Charlotte, you’ve got a lot of competition and unless we get the perfect buyer, you’ll be lucky to get what you paid for it ten years ago. But I’m a selling machine. If you’re willing to get this place staged, we can make it more competitive.”

  Charlotte felt a bit defeated before they’d barely started. Ten years’ mortgage payments hadn’t built much equity, and if the house didn’t sell for more than the mortgage, it wouldn’t leave her much to live on while rebuilding her career. She’d also forgotten about staging, which, as she now remembered, was creating an environment to help potential buyers imagine their own stuff in a space, or at least imagine living there. This usually meant neutralizing a homeowner’s personal touches, like toning down a color scheme or swapping a ratty old throw for a new silk one, and bringing in better-suited pieces of furniture. She thought to herself, I work in the design industry, I’m supposed to have good taste and a sense of the trends, and this woman wants to “stage” my home? Then she caught sight again of the pig cook in the box and decided that Lola might have a point.

  “I’m not even sure where I’m going from here,” said Charlotte, “let alone what I would do with all my stuff.”

  “That’s alright, it’s part of the conversation we’ll be having this morning. No matter what you decide, to leave your stuff here or take it with you, you’ll want to get all the windows professionally cleaned, and keep the big one overlooking the deck and the lake extra-clean, even if it means cleaning it every day and after every showing. That window is gonna sell this house, what with the view and the light and airiness it brings to the living room. And then—”

  Charlotte tried to contain her frustration, but had to stop this line of thinking before it got out of control. “Look, Lola, I don’t have enough money to hire professional window washers, or to pay for storage and staging.”

  Lola just looked straight at Charlotte, expression neutral. She spoke quietly. “We’ll get it figured out, even if I gotta come over here with a bucket and a squeegee myself. I’ve got a whole set of squeegees in different sizes and a couple of extension poles. It takes practice to get it right, but I’ve had more practice lately than you would ever believe.”

  “You certainly seem, um, fit.” Charlotte couldn’t resist.

  Lola laughed, her whitened teeth glowing against her bright pink lipstick. “Oh, yes, Charlotte! I’ve done the window-washing, and the hedge-trimming, and the furniture-moving, carpet cleaning, replacing light bulbs, fixing broken doorbells and leaky faucets. But there’s only so much I can do, and the more the homeowner does, the more I can put my energy and good attitude into creative selling.” She stretche
d out her perfectly manicured hand and snapped off a polished pink nail: it was fake, and covered a fingertip that showed signs of gardening, scrubbing, and even exposure to bleach.

  Charlotte’s first impression of Lola began to change. The Barbie-doll facade was exactly that, a facade that was chosen because it gave Lola another edge in a competitive field. It wasn’t only homeowners taking a hit in this economy, it was also the real estate agents, who were getting less commission, what with lower prices and sluggish sales.

  Lola saw that Charlotte understood, and continued, pressing the fake nail back on. “Charlotte, I don’t want to pressure you, but I’d like to get this house listed and ready to show within a couple of weeks. Sales are always so much slower in the winter. This area is also really beautiful in the fall, and the leaves are going to start turning pretty soon.”

  “Two weeks?” Well, Charlotte thought, in for a penny, in for a pound—the sooner this is all over with, the happier I’ll be, too. “If I could get some help with all the boxes and furniture moving, maybe, but I’d have to have a moving sale, and after the last garage sale we had a few years ago, Ellis and I swore never again—too much work.”

  “There’s no time, really, for a garage or