Tumblr. We cross-reference Lee Hardin, but come up empty. Shelly also checks his name with cities and towns surrounding Cincinnati and Rooster.
“This is a shot in the dark,” I say. “The woman said this Lee guy never came around here. As far as I know my mom’s never been to Cincinnati.”
We continue searching until we hear, “The library will be closing in fifteen minutes,” from the loudspeaker.
It’s after five by the time I pull up to Shelly’s house. “Shit,” she says. “I totally forgot to call or text my parents.” She pulls her phone out of her bag and texts.
-Sorry. Forgot. Home Now. See you in a couple.
She starts to bundle up her stuff.
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?”
“For being my friend.”
I’m a block away from her house when my phone rings. It’s Shelly. “Did you forget something?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, “but that’s not why I called. My mom invited you to have dinner with us.”
“You’re not sick of me?”
“I
am
, but I know how much you like a free meal.”
I laugh. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Shelly meets me in the driveway, and we enter the house through the garage, which leads to the kitchen. Her mom is slim and blond, wearing shorts and flips-flops. She’s about the same size as Shelly and could pass for her older, blonde sister.
“Hi.” She extends her hand. “I’m Claire.”
“Michael,” I say.
“I understand you’re a friend from school.”
“Yes ma’am.” I don’t think Shelly has shared that I’m a fellow criminal element, and I don’t volunteer the information.
“I’m glad to meet you. You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner. We’re just doing salads and chicken on the grill.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“Do you need to call your folks and let them know?”
“No. My mom is working. She won’t care.”
Shelly grabs my arm and tells her mother, “We’ll be in the family room.”
We go downstairs to a vast, finished basement. The furniture in most basements I’ve been in has been castoffs from old living rooms, but everything in here looks brand new. The giant TV covers half the wall, and there’s a pool table, gym equipment, and a game table.
“We also have a sauna and a guest suite down here,” she says. “I know; it’s all pretty bourgeois.”
I look around. “This is nice.”
She shrugs. “Want to take a swim before dinner?”
“You have a pool down here too?”
She laughs. “No, that’s outside.” We plunk down on the massive black leather couch. Shelly picks up a remote. “Let’s see what’s on TV.”
I have not watched television for almost a year. Between work and living, TV is the last thing on my mind. Shelly flips through the channels and squeals as a program starts. “Oh!
The Big Hoard!
I love this show.”
I feel waves of nausea crash into me. Is she shitting me? How much does Shelly know about me? “There’s a show about hoarding?” The word
hoarding
catches on my tongue, as if saying it takes me one step closer to telling Shelly about my home life.
“Yeah,” she says, “I watch it all the time, and it always freaks me out.”
“What’s the point of the show?” I say.
“They find people who hoard stuff, and their friends and family try to convince them to clean up their houses,” Shelly says. “They bring in a psychologist and a cleaning crew.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes,” Shelly says.
“What happens when it doesn’t?” I ask.
Shelly shrugs. “The people get evicted by the health department or the fire marshal makes them move.”
I focus on the screen as the camera pans to a room that could be inside my mother’s house. A banner comes across the screen, and warns, “This program contains material not suitable for young children.” The voiceover says, “Hoarders are people whose lives are consumed with possessions. Their excessive acquiring of things creates massive amounts of clutter and causes impairment of their sense of
“This is a shot in the dark,” I say. “The woman said this Lee guy never came around here. As far as I know my mom’s never been to Cincinnati.”
We continue searching until we hear, “The library will be closing in fifteen minutes,” from the loudspeaker.
It’s after five by the time I pull up to Shelly’s house. “Shit,” she says. “I totally forgot to call or text my parents.” She pulls her phone out of her bag and texts.
-Sorry. Forgot. Home Now. See you in a couple.
She starts to bundle up her stuff.
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?”
“For being my friend.”
I’m a block away from her house when my phone rings. It’s Shelly. “Did you forget something?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, “but that’s not why I called. My mom invited you to have dinner with us.”
“You’re not sick of me?”
“I
am
, but I know how much you like a free meal.”
I laugh. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Shelly meets me in the driveway, and we enter the house through the garage, which leads to the kitchen. Her mom is slim and blond, wearing shorts and flips-flops. She’s about the same size as Shelly and could pass for her older, blonde sister.
“Hi.” She extends her hand. “I’m Claire.”
“Michael,” I say.
“I understand you’re a friend from school.”
“Yes ma’am.” I don’t think Shelly has shared that I’m a fellow criminal element, and I don’t volunteer the information.
“I’m glad to meet you. You’re more than welcome to stay for dinner. We’re just doing salads and chicken on the grill.”
“Thank you, I will.”
“Do you need to call your folks and let them know?”
“No. My mom is working. She won’t care.”
Shelly grabs my arm and tells her mother, “We’ll be in the family room.”
We go downstairs to a vast, finished basement. The furniture in most basements I’ve been in has been castoffs from old living rooms, but everything in here looks brand new. The giant TV covers half the wall, and there’s a pool table, gym equipment, and a game table.
“We also have a sauna and a guest suite down here,” she says. “I know; it’s all pretty bourgeois.”
I look around. “This is nice.”
She shrugs. “Want to take a swim before dinner?”
“You have a pool down here too?”
She laughs. “No, that’s outside.” We plunk down on the massive black leather couch. Shelly picks up a remote. “Let’s see what’s on TV.”
I have not watched television for almost a year. Between work and living, TV is the last thing on my mind. Shelly flips through the channels and squeals as a program starts. “Oh!
The Big Hoard!
I love this show.”
I feel waves of nausea crash into me. Is she shitting me? How much does Shelly know about me? “There’s a show about hoarding?” The word
hoarding
catches on my tongue, as if saying it takes me one step closer to telling Shelly about my home life.
“Yeah,” she says, “I watch it all the time, and it always freaks me out.”
“What’s the point of the show?” I say.
“They find people who hoard stuff, and their friends and family try to convince them to clean up their houses,” Shelly says. “They bring in a psychologist and a cleaning crew.”
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes,” Shelly says.
“What happens when it doesn’t?” I ask.
Shelly shrugs. “The people get evicted by the health department or the fire marshal makes them move.”
I focus on the screen as the camera pans to a room that could be inside my mother’s house. A banner comes across the screen, and warns, “This program contains material not suitable for young children.” The voiceover says, “Hoarders are people whose lives are consumed with possessions. Their excessive acquiring of things creates massive amounts of clutter and causes impairment of their sense of
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