Everybody Has Everything

In the car, James looked at Ana, coiled in silence. He wondered how long her absence would last.

Fi

At the north end of the street stood a house that Ana felt certain was a brothel. Its thin, yellow-brown curtains were always shut, even though it was still light at night, and the front yard was dotted with cigarette butts and smeared, discarded plastic bags.

One by one, over their seven years on the street, Ana and James had watched the old Portuguese and Italian couples die off. Sometimes their children moved in, plumbers and contractors who got up before the sun rose, slammed truck doors, and sped off to rebuild houses belonging to people like Ana and James, houses like the rest of the houses on the block. But most of the time, the houses were sold and the Dumpsters arrived. Then came the couples and their children, and the mother eager to meet Ana and James, until the discovery, so soon, that no, they didn’t have kids. Yes, the schools around here were supposed to be good. Yes, it was a big house for two.

The Victorian facades remained, though often painted witty crayon box colors. But inside, walls were coming down.

Ana could see the lack of walls as they drove through the neighborhood. Through large front windows, the uniformity of these renovations revealed itself: the broad loft-like space imposed on the ski

Then there was the brothel, a squatter house than the others, shutterless and plain; the only other detached house on the block besides James and Ana’s.

Last winter, when the city was sunk in snow, she had seen a young woman walk out of the house late at night wearing a gossamer T-shirt and leggings, arms wrapped around her torso, her feet hanging over the heels of her slippers. Her hair was blond and thin, a wild aureole about her head. She had spied Ana, coming home late from work with her attaché case in her hand, the remnants of coffee in a thermos mug in the other. The girl’s eyes were scooped out, set as far back in her head as a blind person’s. She had scowled at Ana and scurried away, out of the streetlight shadow.

This was almost a year ago, in the dead cold, and Ana had seen no other sign of activity from the place.

“We’re home,” said James. “A parking space!”

Ana turned to look at Fi

James did the unstrapping, and when he pulled Fi

Inside, James placed Fi

“Maybe we should sit in the dining room. It seems like he might fall off,” said James.

“But the rug in the—” said Ana, then withdrew. “Whatever you think.”

“Fi

James set him back on the stool, where he wobbled in all directions. Fi

Ana began to unpack the groceries. Animal crackers; organic macaroni and cheese; miniature applesauces. All things she had seen at Sarah’s, empty boxes and sticky half-filled containers for Ana to step around. Where should they go? She pulled open drawers and cupboards, finally stuffing the boxes next to the white balsamic, moving aside the olive oil from a trip last spring to Umbria.

“Finish,” said Fi

She glanced at the hole in the backyard, abandoned again by the workers. The winter before last, old clay pipes had cracked in the depths beneath the back lawn, and the repairs had dragged on and on. Workmen came for a few days and then vanished. Piles of limestone wrapped in cellophane crushed the plants on the perimeter.

“Can you call the guys about the yard?” said Ana.

Fi

“What’s in there?” he asked each time. Ana answered: “Oh, I don’t know. Pots …”

“What’s in there?”

“Umm … pipes, from the sink.” She found it difficult to focus on unpacking the groceries with the noise, each question punctuated by a slammed cupboard.

“What’s in there?”

She didn’t answer, macaroni in hand, trying to unravel the question in her head: Should the macaroni and cheese box go by the oil? Really?

“What’s in there?” asked Fi

Ana turned quickly and snapped: “Just look, Fi

“Ana—” said James, but when he saw her face, flashing fury and then trembling into fear, he didn’t say what he’d been about to. “I think it’s probably his bedtime.”

Ana placed the macaroni in the cupboard and closed her eyes. When she opened them, the clock by the garden door said 8:34.

“Is it? Is this when he goes to bed?”

James shrugged. “Aucune idée,” he said.

James walked Fi

“Ana! Is this too hot?” called James, but she couldn’t hear him over her own scrubbing and the sound of the water. “How hot should it be?” James called downstairs. Still no answer. James turned on the cold.

Fi

“Wait, wait!” The diaper looked like it was barely hanging on, sagging like a smile along his backside. James tore the fasteners and the diaper fell free, relieved, into his hand. It was full of dark shit, round and heavy as a miniature medicine ball. James was embarrassed: Why didn’t I notice? Why did we have him for hours and never think about the diaper?

“Ana!” This time, she appeared, eyes immediately upon the diaper in his hand.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Don’t move!” She could see Fi

Ana raced down the stairs, while James held Fi

“We have a shituation here,” said James, as Ana pulled out wipe after wipe. She managed a small laugh, passing the packet to James. James wiped and cleaned, folding each used cloth into the next, then stuffing the ball into the dirty diaper, expertly. He enjoyed a moment of satisfaction, held back his shoulders at his accomplishment, and then looked at his wife, hovering in the doorframe.