Breakfast with Neruda

by Laura Moe

  “But we’re not Hardins or Essexes.”

  “Free food!”

  I laugh at the idea. “Hell, I could be a Hardin or an Essex for all I know. Why not?”

  Another sign a half-mile up says, “Hardin–Essex Family! Watch for balloons,” and a few moments later, on the left-hand side I see a mailbox decorated with orange and blue balloons. I notice a large open patch already teeming with cars. I park close to the highway in case we get chased out and need to make a quick getaway. My beat-up station wagon makes me look like the white trash distant cousin I hope they think I am.

  “So are we Hardins? Or Essexes?” I ask.

  She thinks. “I will be an Essex, and you’re my boyfriend from college. I am, after all, a graduate student at Ohio State.”

  I laugh. As I get out of the car, I notice others are carrying food with them. “Should we share some of what we bought?”

  “Yeah, probably,” she says. “Not the peaches or tomatoes, though. Or the wine.”

  “The bread, grapes, and cheese?”

  “Sure.” I pick up the Kroger bag. We walk uphill and notice a gathering of several dozen people ranging in age from newborns to old people. I glance at Shelly, and she glances back at me. We smile. “What’s our cover story?”

  “I’ve been away at college at Ohio State and you’re my boyfriend from Columbus. My name is Wanda.”

  “And I’m Jim.”

  There is enough food to feed half of Rooster, and the aromas are overpowering. It looks like there are a hundred or so people here. Who would know if we were meant to be here or not? I wonder if we’re the only interlopers. We brought food, though, so I don’t feel too bad about crashing.

  Shelly and I move toward the food tables, and a chubby woman with iron-colored, spiky hair says, “Breads go over here, hon.” She indicates a long table covered in a checked tablecloth. I notice she wears a badge claiming her as a Hardin. Not everyone is wearing a badge, but many are. Blue for Hardin, orange for Essex.

  “We brought grapes and cheese too,” Shelly says.

  “You can put that next to the meats, and the grapes can go on the salad table,” the woman says. “Grab a plate and help yourselves.” She smiles at us and walks away.

  We lay our parcels in the appropriate spots and search for the plate table. “Man, everything smells so good,” I say. Even though Shelly and I ate only a couple hours ago, this is good food. Baked beans, ham, hamburgers, hot dogs, pickles, chicken casserole, homemade macaroni and cheese, biscuits, fresh vegetables, sliced meats, fried chicken, potato salad, green salad, deviled eggs, fresh noodles, potato chips, fruit, and an endless array of desserts.

  I’d love a beer, but since I’m driving and not really sure where we are, I opt for a Pepsi instead. Shelly drinks a Diet Coke.

  Shelly and I find a spot in the shade and settle on the grass. My plate is overloaded with as much as I could put on it. I notice Shelly has also not held back on her servings. “I know we just ate,” I say, “but, damn, everything looks and smells incredible.” I take a forkful of macaroni and cheese, something I have not eaten in years. It’s pure joy. I make a mental note to get seconds.

  We eat and watch the Hardin–Essex families intermingle. After I vacuum up all my food, I have no room for any more. Neither does Shelly. “Maybe we should walk around a bit and digest.”

  We toss our plates and napkins in the trash bin. There is a recycle bin for the plastic ware, and we place our forks and spoons in it.

  “Let’s go toss horseshoes with a group of kids,” Shelly says.

  “Never done that before,” I say.

  “Neither have I.” She grabs my hand and her fingers feel soft against mine. I let her lead me toward the other kids.

  We spend a couple hours tossing horseshoes and playing corn hole. Enough time to develop appetites to try trashcan dinner.

  “It’s sort of like a giant vat of beef stew,” says a blonde woman wearing an Essex badge. “You take meat, like sausage and beef, and add your vegetables and cook it all day over an open fire.”

  I taste a forkful. “This is one of the best things I have ever eaten.”

  “You must be one of Lee’s people,” the blonde says to me. “You look just like him when he was young, may he rest in peace.”

  I feel a stab inside. I notice her badge says she’s an Essex. Could Lee be my dad? I glance at Shelly, and as if she reads my mind, she asks, “Wasn’t he from Rooster?”

  “No, hon. I don’t think he ever went there,” the blonde says. “He pretty much stayed in Cincinnati.”

  Someone in the background calls the woman’s name. “Be right there!” she yells. She turns back to me. “Well, it was nice talking to you,” she says. “Enjoy!”

  “You, too,” I say. When the woman is out of earshot, I ask Shelly, “Wouldn’t that be wild if I really was an Essex?”

  Shelly glances at her phone. “It’s only two o’clock,” she says. “We could head back into town and look up Lee Essex from Cincinnati on one of the library computers.”

  On the drive back toward Rooster she hands me a peach. I drive one-handed, savoring the crisp sweetness of the peach. “There is nothing like summer fruit,” I say. “Too bad it’s not always summer.”

  “It is in Hawaii.”

  “Maybe I’ll move there someday,” I say, knowing the odds of my leaving Rooster are about a million to one.

  As I drive I try not to get too excited, but I can’t help thinking I may have found a new clue to my identity.

  “Can you call your mom and ask her if she knows someone named Lee Essex?”

  “No,” I say. “She gets mad every time I bring up the subject of my father.” I notice a sign for a hiking trail. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a walk. Work off some of this food.”

  “That sounds good.”

  I pull up next to a couple parked cars. “I can’t lock the car, so take your bag with you.”

  She stows the peaches and tomatoes under her seat. “Precious objects.”

  The trail is short, only a mile each way, but any movement will help. We climb out of the car and I look at Shelly's flip-flops. “You can’t hike in those.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m a runner,” I say. “You can’t take your feet for granted.”

  She sighs. “How about if we just do a half-mile then turn back?”

  The trail is paved and shady. What I really want to do is take off and run, get lost in these woods. Too many times I have discovered false clues to my identity. Why should today be any different? But you never know. Shelly might be the good luck charm I need.

  “Hey Wanda,” I say, after we finish our mile. “Thanks for being with me today.”

  “No problem, Jim.”

  No one bothered my car while we walked. It’s too nice out to commit crimes. Or maybe the car looks too crappy to bother with.

  • • •

  Shelly logs in to the library computer with her library card and types Lee Essex AND Cincinnati. There are multiple listings. “How old would he be?” she asks.

  “Probably around forty or so,” I say.

  She Googles Lee Essex AND Cincinnati. We find a Lee Essex who looks to be around seventy, a black guy with the same name, and a blond guy younger than me. She checks Facebook, LinkedIn, and 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 reality.”

  They introduce the hoarder, a woman in San Francisco named Connie, and her daughter Pam, who is trying to convince her mother to clean her house so the health department doesn’t force her from her home.

  I feel chills run through me as I watch Pam try to convince her mother to throw something out. “No, I can still wear that,” Connie whines.

  “When is the last time you actually wore it?” Pam says. She holds the blouse up. “And look. It’s all stained.”

  Connie grabs the blouse from her daughter and mumbles she’s keeping it.

  Pam gestures to the mess in the room. “Mom, you can’t keep all this stuff. It’s ruining your life.”

  Shit. This could me or Annie or Jeff having this very same argument with our mom.

  The camera cuts away to the kitchen, and the daughter talks directly to the camera. “There is not one clean surface in this house,” Pam says. “Mom was always a little messy, but after Dad died, she buried herself with stuff.”

  In the living room the only place to sit is the couch, which Connie uses as her bed. The camera pans to Connie’s bedroom. “There’s a bed buried under there somewhere,” Pam says. “I think it’s been three years since she slept in it.”

  The next scene shows another family; the voiceover says, “This is a Category Five hoard, the worst kind. The cleaning crew must sort through nearly 5,000 pounds of junk. The smell of rotting food permeates the house, which is infested with fleas and roaches.” A gloved cleaning crew member holds up what was once a cat. “Two fossilized bodies of cats were found in the rubble,” the announcer says, “along with countless roaches and rats.”

  “Oh, man,” I say.

  “Yeah, it can get pretty gross.”

  A teenaged kid named Todd tells the camera, “When my mom buys pop and puts it in the fridge, it quickly tastes like rotting food,” he says. “Everything we eat or drink tastes rotten.”

  I run to the bathroom. I am shaking, trying to process this. That kid on the screen could be me. My dirtiest secret is out there on a TV show. Millions know what my siblings and I live with.

  As I walk back from the bathroom, I hear someone onscreen say, “Hoarding goes beyond getting emotionally attached to items. Hoarders just can’t let go. They get overwhelmed, not about the clutter itself, but with the decision of what to do with the clutter.”

  I slouch next to Shelly on the sofa. “I didn’t take you for being squeamish,” she says, laughing.

  “I’m okay,” I lie. “I just needed to pee.” I don’t want to watch this show anymore, but I need to watch it. It’s a living train wreck.

  After the commercial break, I am riveted as Todd’s sister tells the camera, “We’re kind of used to living like this, but we get doorbell dread.” The girl sighs. “Usually if someone comes to the door, I crack it just enough to say my mom is asleep or something.”

  “We never bring friends over,” Todd says. Man, I have been there. My life is unfolding on Shelly’s TV screen.

  “If Madeline does not clean up the junk within two weeks,” the psychologist, who is a hoarding specialist, tells the camera, “she will lose her children to Children’s Services.” That’s been one of Annie’s and my biggest fears, and that’s why we haven’t told anyone about Mom.

  I watch as the cleaning crew tosses bags of garbage into an industrial-sized trash bin. “So far Madeline has been cooperative,” the psychologist says, “but we never know what will make a hoarder reverse his or her decision to let go of something.”

  The camera cuts back to the first hoarder, Connie. The daughter is standing in the messy living room and throws her hands up. “I’m done here, Mom. If you won’t let anything go, I can’t stand here and be part of it.”

  The daughter drives away in her blue pickup truck as the psychologist tries to convince Connie to get rid of a box of blank cassette tapes. “No, those are still good,” Connie says. “Someone can use them.”

  “Then why don’t we put those in the donation pile?” the psychologist says.

  “You won’t throw them out?” Connie says.

  “No, we will donate them somewhere, and someone who has space can use them.”

  Connie agrees.

  “Progress has been made,” the announcer says.

  The screen cuts to two weeks later. “While there is still a long way to go,” the announcer says, “Connie has made tremendous progress in reducing her hoard.” Boxes of stuff still line the walls, but the living room looks almost livable
. “The kitchen has clean counters, and the sink is fixed.”

  The camera moves to the bedroom. “Connie is still working on making the rest of her room livable, but as you can see, she has made tremendous strides.”

  After another commercial, the focus is back on the family with doorbell dread. The psychologist says, “The morning began well, but Madeline got upset when the cleanup crew tried to throw away a broken chair.” On the screen Madeline is ordering the crew to take everything out of the trash and put it back in the house. “Hoarders believe everything is useful,” the psychologist says.

  That’s my mother up there on the television. I think of the day she screeched at me for tossing out an empty potato chip bag. “I was going to use that!” she said.

  “For what?” I yelled.

  “To store something in.”

  “It’s trash, Mom.”

  “Everything has a use.”

  Madeline also refuses to let go of the garbage in the kitchen. “It’s not that bad,” Madeline says, as she walks out of the room. The psychologist says this is typical of clutter blindness. “She doesn’t see the clutter. She sees wonderful things that give her pleasure.”

  Todd, her son, says he is scared. He wipes tears from his eyes. “If Mom won’t clean this up, Sara and I will end up in foster care.”

  The psychologist adds, “There is a huge potential for fatality in these situations. Inhabitants of houses like Madeline’s can get diseases from vermin, mold, and food poisoning. And if a fire breaks out, the family either can’t get out, or the rescuers can’t reach them.”

  In the end, Madeline loses custody of her children, and the house is condemned.

  “This show always makes me feel dirty,” Shelly says, “like I need a shower.” She dusts herself off as if wiping away imaginary filth, and I know in that moment, I can never, ever tell Shelly the truth about my mother.

  Shelly shuts off the TV and pops up. “Let’s go for a swim.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Okay, but I’d have to skinny dip.”

  “Yeah, my parents might frown on that,” she says. “Let’s go see if Josh left a suit behind.”

  Upstairs Shelly rummages through her brother’s closet and dresser. “He doesn’t care when you go through his stuff?” I ask.