apartment on the
North
Shore
so they could rent their house to a wealthy Westchester family, the Swansons, from June to September.
The’ cats belonged to the Clarkes, but the Westchester family liked the idea of renting the cats as well, so their children could have the experience of pets without the year-long obligation. I was part of the bargain, too. I took care of the cats on weekdays when the Swansons went home (unlike so many of the summer mothers whose husbands worked in the city, Mrs. Swanson would not spend five nights a week out here alone), and I sometimes baby sat for the kids as well on Saturday nights. My parents wouldn’t let me take any money from the Clarkes, since they were friends and apparently struggling to keep the old house in good repair, but the Swansons always drank too much at dinner and paid me twice what I asked when they came home.
The Clarkes and their tenants had one of those odd, long term relationships that seemed more like a custody deal than a summer rental. Although they had no children themselves (they had cats, and the fact that they were willing to rent out their cats as well as their house probably tells you all you need to know about them), the Clarkes had allowed the Swansons to install a basketball hoop over the garage and a small swing set in the side yard. They’d also let the Swansons put an extra refrigerator in the basement and an awning over the patio.
When the Swansons offered to replace all the kitchen appliances and repaint most of the rooms, the Clarkes had complied. They’d also let them buy the wicker furniture for the porch and tear up the fairly new wall-to-wall carpeting and refinish the wood floors. In another summer or two, the Swansons would offer to install an in-ground pool, a real coup for the Clarkes (my parents thought), who got both a boost to their property value and further insurance that their faithful and generous renters would indeed return for many more summers. Later still, long after I’d moved away and in the midst of outlandish interest rates and a depressed real estate market, the Swansons would offer the Clarkes a princely sum for their house—enough for them to buy another on the North Shore as well as a condo in Florida—a cause for much discussion among my parents and the Clarkes, who urged us to talk to a real estate agent ourselves.
But, my parents said, the offer was a fluke, a stroke of tremendous luck for the Clarkes, a purely emotional gesture by the Swansons. Never mind that in another decade the Clarkes’ house would be worth more than ten times what the Swansons had paid them, for a while it seemed that the electrician and the housekeeper from Woodside had trumped the Wall Street guy from Westchester, who, the joke went, had more dollars than sense.
In the kitchen, Daisy and I changed the water and the litter box and put out the three bowls of fresh food for Moe, Larry, and Curly—who circled our legs and purred with their yours for-the-asking love and allegiance. She sat on the floor with them and laughed when they stepped across the skirt of her dress, which she had stretched taut between her two knees, or when Curly rubbed his face on the hard sides of her pink shoes.
“They’re so friendly,” she said, and I told her, “That’s how they get fed.”
As I went around opening the windows for a few minutes (an extra service Mrs. Clarke had asked me to provide), I gave Daisy a tour of the place, which even that early in the season was more Swanson than Clarke, what with the grass-cloth mats on the floors, and the elaborate vases of fading wildflowers on each table, and the children’s rooms. The Swansons had two kids, a boy and a girl (millionaire’s choice, my mother called it), Debbie and Donald, and because of them, the two guest rooms that during the Clarkes’ reign were as plain and serviceable as convent cells—unadorned beige walls, white chenille spreads, single mahogany dressers—were now colorful and
North
Shore
so they could rent their house to a wealthy Westchester family, the Swansons, from June to September.
The’ cats belonged to the Clarkes, but the Westchester family liked the idea of renting the cats as well, so their children could have the experience of pets without the year-long obligation. I was part of the bargain, too. I took care of the cats on weekdays when the Swansons went home (unlike so many of the summer mothers whose husbands worked in the city, Mrs. Swanson would not spend five nights a week out here alone), and I sometimes baby sat for the kids as well on Saturday nights. My parents wouldn’t let me take any money from the Clarkes, since they were friends and apparently struggling to keep the old house in good repair, but the Swansons always drank too much at dinner and paid me twice what I asked when they came home.
The Clarkes and their tenants had one of those odd, long term relationships that seemed more like a custody deal than a summer rental. Although they had no children themselves (they had cats, and the fact that they were willing to rent out their cats as well as their house probably tells you all you need to know about them), the Clarkes had allowed the Swansons to install a basketball hoop over the garage and a small swing set in the side yard. They’d also let the Swansons put an extra refrigerator in the basement and an awning over the patio.
When the Swansons offered to replace all the kitchen appliances and repaint most of the rooms, the Clarkes had complied. They’d also let them buy the wicker furniture for the porch and tear up the fairly new wall-to-wall carpeting and refinish the wood floors. In another summer or two, the Swansons would offer to install an in-ground pool, a real coup for the Clarkes (my parents thought), who got both a boost to their property value and further insurance that their faithful and generous renters would indeed return for many more summers. Later still, long after I’d moved away and in the midst of outlandish interest rates and a depressed real estate market, the Swansons would offer the Clarkes a princely sum for their house—enough for them to buy another on the North Shore as well as a condo in Florida—a cause for much discussion among my parents and the Clarkes, who urged us to talk to a real estate agent ourselves.
But, my parents said, the offer was a fluke, a stroke of tremendous luck for the Clarkes, a purely emotional gesture by the Swansons. Never mind that in another decade the Clarkes’ house would be worth more than ten times what the Swansons had paid them, for a while it seemed that the electrician and the housekeeper from Woodside had trumped the Wall Street guy from Westchester, who, the joke went, had more dollars than sense.
In the kitchen, Daisy and I changed the water and the litter box and put out the three bowls of fresh food for Moe, Larry, and Curly—who circled our legs and purred with their yours for-the-asking love and allegiance. She sat on the floor with them and laughed when they stepped across the skirt of her dress, which she had stretched taut between her two knees, or when Curly rubbed his face on the hard sides of her pink shoes.
“They’re so friendly,” she said, and I told her, “That’s how they get fed.”
As I went around opening the windows for a few minutes (an extra service Mrs. Clarke had asked me to provide), I gave Daisy a tour of the place, which even that early in the season was more Swanson than Clarke, what with the grass-cloth mats on the floors, and the elaborate vases of fading wildflowers on each table, and the children’s rooms. The Swansons had two kids, a boy and a girl (millionaire’s choice, my mother called it), Debbie and Donald, and because of them, the two guest rooms that during the Clarkes’ reign were as plain and serviceable as convent cells—unadorned beige walls, white chenille spreads, single mahogany dressers—were now colorful and
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