Free to Good Home

New in the neighborhood, I’m starting over. Making do. I don’t have much, but it’s probably enough. I’ve saved myself from drowning and now I’m just riding the waves. That’s what storms do—suck you out to sea without a life jacket, and the people who could’ve rescued you aren’t there anymore.

My tiny apartment is nearly empty. During the pandemic, I Marie Kondo’ed the fuck out of my life, and now there’s not a whole lot left. Between work, Tuesday night solo karaoke, and teaching a soy candle-making class at the rec center every other Saturday, my new life approximates fullness. It doesn’t make sense paying twenty dollars to learn how to make your own candle when you can buy the same one at any drugstore for five bucks, but people continue to dribble into my class, as if from a faucet with a slow leak.

I'm heading home from the rec center and another mildly successful afternoon keeping idle hands busy when construction on my usual route forces me to take a different path. A sewer main burst and an entire intersection is cordoned off. Wearing yellow safety vests, city workers swarm the site wading through sludge-gargling gutters. Avoiding that fluorescent hornet’s nest of activity, I cut through the park and turn left. I don’t usually go this way. If I stay on the main street, it’s a straight shot from the rec center to my place—a beeline that has been overtaken by hard hat-wearing wasps.

On the corner of the next block sits a mallard green Victorian barricaded by rose bushes. It’s grandiose, this house. Almost obscene. A historic, 1898 Cape Cod mansion, the kind listed on a national trust with a brass plaque out front, it was once the refuge of robber barons and steel industry magnates. Three stories tall and festooned with gingerbread trim, a round cupola perches cherry-like on top. Standing upright and gleaming like the teeth of a Beverly Hills cosmetic dentist, a white picket fence encircles the wide lawns and carriage house, itself a mini-mansion.

On the curb in front of this glorious monstrosity sits a lamp with a little note: FREE. It’s a nice lamp. Clean, no frays in its cords. Blue Chinoiserie with a fringed silk shade. I pick it up. Even if it doesn’t work, it’ll look nice on the stool that serves as my end table. Maybe I could put a candle in it? A tealight, obviously. Anything bigger than a votive would burn it down. No one else on the street seems to notice or care that a beautiful blue antique lamp has been left out like a cake in the rain. It comes home with me. The lamp adds a certain je ne sais quoi to my humble abode. A touch of class, as they say. That night, I go to bed smiling. The lamp works and gives off a warm, mellow light.

Heading home from candle-making class two weeks later, the busted water main has been repaired. Feeling adventurous, I decide to detour past the green house. As it comes into view, I feel a stir of excitement. What someone more literary would describe as a frisson. A lovely Mission-style rocking chair sits on the curb where I found the lamp. My frisson boils over. My mouth practically waters as I approach the chair, run my hands over the smooth, chestnut-colored wood and the richness of its velveteen cushion, and remove its little FREE sign. It’s too heavy for me to lift, so I offer some kid $20 to stop practicing his shitty skateboarding tricks and help me carry it the remaining four blocks to my home. Skateboard kid asks me if I have anything to drink so I offer him a La Croix. He scoffs, “Lady, I don’t want that hipster water! It taste the way white noise sounds.” He tucks his skateboard under his arm and departs in a huff. It doesn’t matter. I have the chair and it’s mine, all mine.

Together, the chair and the lamp make me feel like I could invite someone over. A Tinder hookup, maybe. No, these elegant artifacts are worthy of a Bumble or Hinge date. Instantly, I’m aware that the lamp and the chair have upgraded my whole life. It’s not like I felt my life needed upgrading, but it’s nice when it happens on its own—effortlessly.

Two weeks later, after the newness of the chair has faded, the green house gifts me an ornate Turkish kilim rolled up and wrapped in a sheet of canvas to keep it clean. How thoughtful, I think, dragging the rug home. I continue to impress myself with my knowledge about home furnishings and interior design. I hadn’t thought I needed a rug, but it fits perfectly in my living room underneath the rocking chair.

An empty box never feels empty. It feels full of possibility. Unwritten stories, future treasures. An empty box is full of potential. My life had been an empty box until the green house started to put things into it. But three things rattling around in an empty box … now I notice the blank spaces more than the occupied ones. My frisson evaporates, leaving behind a stain of dissatisfaction.

This goes on for months. I always find something on the curb after my class. I bring all of these items home—a like-new set of vintage Fiestaware, a working Black Forest cuckoo clock, a carton full of hardbound books written by and for smart people. One weekend I have the flu and have to cancel my class. I wrestle with the idea of walking four blocks to the green house to see what my mysterious benefactor has discarded, but when I stand up, I get dizzy and fall over, knocking my head on the corner of the blond mid-century six-drawer dresser I acquired last month. Greed and curiosity propel me to my feet. A high fever kicks them out from under me. Although I try not to dwell and instead force myself to envision another lucky person finding the green house’s offering, worry about what I may have missed eats me up inside. Is there a FOMO for home furnishings?

When I recover, I resume teaching. The rec center director tells me I was missed. I refrain from rolling my eyes. That would be Unkind. My class that day is the same group of seniors that I taught my first day. Some of them have completely forgotten that they’ve already done this, and so I try to make it new for them even though it doesn’t matter. My life is starting to feel repetitious. I recognize that I am restless. That maybe my aloneness has transubstantiated itself into loneliness with a capital L.

That afternoon, I find a cat on the curb. It doesn’t have a sign, but it sits there like it’s waiting for me. The nights have been chilly, so I rub its soft, striped head, pick it up, and take it home. I name the cat Kat. I’m obligated to purchase a litter box, bed, and scratching post for it, but since I’ve saved so much money on furniture, this feels like rational expenditure. Kat and I get along great. It’s nice to come home to her, to have someone to talk to. We’re a good pair, Kat and I.

But then Dawg moves in. (How could I leave him there, shivering on the curb, his doleful brown eyes begging for love?) Dawg smells a little, which surprises me. This is the first time my findings haven’t been pristine. But after a bath, I don’t mind him rolling around on the Turkish kilim. Dawg and Kat get along famously. It’s almost as if they know each other.

The following Tuesday, Kat gives birth to a litter of kittens inside the dark rectangle of my bedroom closet, and I’m forced to miss karaoke. I notice that she’s chosen to squirt out her offspring on top of the paisley cashmere pashmina I got from the green house a couple of months ago, but since I never wear it (too fussy), I decide not to care. Six kittens is a lot, though. Suddenly, there are nine heartbeats in a home intended for one. “The more the merrier,” I tell Dawg, who regards me miserably with drooping, doleful eyes.

Snow arrives a few weeks later. The first of the season, light and flyaway. It won’t stick, but it’s pretty and makes me crave a PSL. A person stands on the curb in front of the green house, and my heart quickens at the thought of another scooping me. Nothing lasts forever, I tell myself. All good things must come to an end. But still—will I have to fight him for my prize?

“Hey,” I say.

He says, “Hey.”

Covertly, I scan the area. Nothing. No furniture, rugs, lamps, books, clothes, vinyl LPs or record players—all things that I have acquired on this very spot. His hands are empty. Maybe he’s waiting for a Lyft? He’s just an unclaimed dude, like a forlorn single suitcase, circling around a baggage claim conveyor belt. Is it possible? We stare at each other in the same way that Kat and Dawg do. Communicating with our animal minds.

He’s a basic model, this guy. Clean-shaven. A no-frills, generic American male. If he were sitting on a grocery store shelf like a can of peas, it would be solidly mid-level. Not on the bottom with the cheap store brands but not top shelf, imported organic stuff either. He’s wearing khakis (wrinkled), a lemon-colored polo shirt and a tan Members Only jacket. His loafers are lightly scuffed, and his curly hair is short and neat. I note that he and Dawg have the same eyes.

I look him over. No sign. “Are you FREE?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“What’s your name?”

He says, “Chester.”

As in Chester the molester? No way.

“Well, then,” I say decisively. “You belong to me now, and I’m going to call you Kenneth.”

Kenneth shrugs and shivers. I glance at the green house, smug in its magnificence. Sometimes I wonder if someone inside is watching to see what becomes of their cast-offs, but then again, I don’t watch the garbage men haul my trash away, do I?

“Let’s get you home, then.” I take Kenneth’s hand—neatly manicured, almost hairless.

“Cool,” he says.

We need to work on your vocabulary, I think. But beggars can’t be choosers, and so Kenneth and I walk the four blocks to my increasingly crowded apartment, shivering a little and saying nothing. I make him a grilled cheese sandwich, and after he takes a hot shower and puts on a pair of my flannel pajamas, we sit together on the recliner sofa—the only piece of furniture I actually bought. Dawg settles on his lap, and we eat popcorn and watch a documentary about candle making. Kenneth blends right in with Dawg, Kat, the kittens, and all of the furniture. I feel a shudder of discomfort, that old frisson acting up again like a broken bone when rain’s coming, but I decide to ignore it.

When the documentary ends, I tell Kenneth, “You can sleep in my bed if you behave yourself.”

Kenneth raises his eyebrows and his right hand. “Scouts honor.” I decide not to mention a recent Scouts sex abuse scandal. I guess Kenneth doesn’t read the news, and that’s alright with me.

We sleep well together. It’s nice to have another body in my bed. Kenneth doesn’t mind being the big spoon or the little spoon. As I drift off to sleep, I realize with a start that my Loneliness had become bold font italicized.

Kenneth is good to have around the house. He makes scrambled eggs just the way I like them with a little milk, salt, and plenty of cheese. Frankly, if I was going to find a life partner on the street I would’ve preferred a woman, but I’ve never seen anyone throw away a whole woman before. I wonder why people say it’s hard to get a man when it’s not. There are loose dudes standing around on every street corner in this city, searching for a purpose. I surmise that they have been put out for recycling, just like Kenneth.

We hold a kitten adoption event on Tuesday night, and I miss karaoke again. I skip it more and more often lately. There’s always something going on at home. No one shows up to fall in love with a kitten so the ten of us go to bed, tired and a little cranky. Soon, I have to tell the rec center that I don’t have room in my schedule to teach candle making anymore. It’s been a year after all. I’ve taught the same group of seniors at least five times. Sure, for some of them each time is the first time, but for me, the novelty’s worn thin.

Various holidays parade by and suddenly it’s spring again. I teach my last class at the rec center and say goodbye to the seniors who ask what kind of candle we’re making next week.

On the walk home, I waffle over taking the fruitful detour that has brought me so much already. I feel like it’s time to let someone else have a turn, for the smug green house to find a new beneficiary. I plan to beeline it home—to Kenneth, Dawg, Kat and the six kittens—but a gum-snapping woman with a clipboard plants herself in front of me saying, “Sugar, you gotta go another way. This street’s closed for filming.”

For the first time, I notice the vans, lights, and crowded intersection. Maybe the sewer main broke again and spilled all these people onto the street, but no, it’s just a film crew doing its job. So I’m forced to walk past the green house again. When I see a little girl, maybe six or seven years old, sitting on the curb talking to herself and drawing with chalk, my heart sinks. Surely not.

But when I reach her, I see that the chalk marks spell out FREE. The white petals of dogwood blossoms drift through the spring air like snow. She looks up at me with mischievous eyes that remind me of Kat.

“Oh boy,” I sigh. “Come on.” I hold out my hand, and she gets up and takes it in her own grubby, chubby one.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Home, obviously.” My temper frays. Suddenly all of my freebies feel like an enormous burden. “What’s your name?”

The little girl shrugs. “Sweetie?”

“That’ll do,” I say.

Kenneth is delighted by this new turn of events. He’s gotten a part-time gig as assistant manager at Best Buy, part of some new job share scheme. He wears the khakis I found him in to work.

“It’s perfect,” he enthuses. “I can pick her up from school after my shift and we’ll have time to visit the park and make dinner before you get home.” Sweetie and Kenneth beam at one another. I begin to suspect that the green house has a sinister agenda.

But together, we go to the seaside. We take a picnic and watch summer movies on the lawn at the rec center. (We Uber there and back. I’m not taking any more chances.) Sweetie wins the junior division spelling bee with schadenfreude, beating a fourth grader to the prize—a $10 gift certificate to Mc Donald’s. She loses her first tooth, and Kenneth is beside himself. He’s happy to play tooth fairy while I search YouTube for karaoke versions of Ariana Grande’s “Thank U, Next.”

Fourth of July fireworks panic the animals. The six kittens climb up the curtains and slide down, tearing long slashes in the fabric. Dawg stares at me as he vomits onto the Turkish kilim and maintains direct, unflinching eye contact while he eats it.

“Christ,” I groan.

Kat scoots across the kitchen tiles on her butt, leaving a streak behind.

The fire alarm’s battery alert trills incessantly.

Sweetie starts to cry. She’s lost another tooth. Spit dribbles down her chin.

Set off by the explosions in the sky, car alarms pop off in the street. A pot of puttanesca sauce boils over on the stovetop and drips to the floor, blood from a fresh wound. Kenneth is losing his shit. This may be why his original owner gave him away. “You better watch yourself,” I say, “or you’ll end up on the curb again.”

Autumn shuffles slowly toward us like a reanimated corpse. The leaves turn orange, red, and yellow. Sweetie and Kenneth Google “family Halloween costumes” while I phone the rec center to see if they need any candle-making instructors. “I could teach karaoke,” I tell the unfamiliar teenage girl who is now the programs manager. I’m pretty sure she snickers before hanging up.

One day, I realize that I’m tired of my full, noisy household and my busy, adult life. I long for the steady simplicity of gazing into an empty box. I look at my secondhand family. Kenneth and Sweetie are making Christmas cookies, and the house smells of vanilla, butter, and cinnamon.

“Look, babe.” Kenneth smiles, pointing at Sweetie, who has red and green sprinkles stuck to her cheeks. “Freckles!”

“Mom!” Sweetie yells. “See my freckles?” Who would’ve guessed that such a small child could have such a piercing voice?

I grumble, “Do you two even know my name?”

Kenneth grimaces and Sweetie stops smiling. Sprinkles flake off her cheeks onto the floor, where Dawg is waiting to lick them up.

“Of course I do.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “It’s Babe. Like the pig.”

“OH MY GOD,” I say.

Sweetie adds, “No silly, mom’s name isn’t babe. It’s Mom!”

I put my head in my hands and sigh. “Would you like some hot cocoa?” Disaster averted, they nod. “OK, I’ll swing by the store and buy some.” They grin like buffoons and resume their cookie decorating.

I put on my coat and pick up my purse (a vintage Birkin bag, courtesy of the green house). “See you soon!” I wave. Striped cats litter every surface in our home. Dawg stares at me balefully and thumps his tail. “You stay here,” I tell him, and his whole body appears to slump over and fold in on itself.

Holiday music floats out from behind the doors of the neighboring apartments. Scents of roasting meats and caramelized onions, tamales, corn pudding, and baked apples fill my nose. It is warm, cheery, and perfect. I walk four blocks away and stop.

The mallard green house is dark and cold. The roses are dead, their shrubs skeletal and brown. A holly wreath hangs on the front door, but there are no other decorations. Am I sad standing there alone on the curb? No. It’s quiet here. Peaceful. An empty box, full of possibilities. I realize that negative space can also be positive space at the same time. Snow falls on the sidewalk, as silent as white dogwood petals. I button up my coat, tuck my purse under my arm, and wait to be found.