Every inch of the living room was covered in crumpled, smudged paper, and not one single scrap reflected anything I’d ever, in my dullest, tamest dreams, given a second thought to: receipts for washers and extension cords and faucet handles and drill bits and plywood and Sheetrock. Old invoices and canceled checks to electricians, exterminators, the fire department, an ironsmith. Tax assessments, water/sewer bills, battered repair logs, sprinkler inspection reports, fuel oil storage permits. In the few moments that weren’t riddled with panic, anxiety, and confusion, I sometimes felt like I was perusing the unearthed papers of an old friend and discovering clues to the parts of him I didn’t know. Finding an old engineer’s report was like coming across an EKG— I didn’t know Joe had a heart murmur! I didn’t know the bricks of my building’s east wall needed to be repointed! Occasionally, sifting through James’s questionable record- keeping meant learning about the essence of my childhood home.
