My partner’s 88 year old mother, Duckie, still lives in the New Jersey home she and her husband purchased as newlyweds in 1946. Walking into the home is like walking into a time capsule of the 1940’s because with the exception of the occasional light cleaning, the home is almost exactly as it was 70 years ago.
Duckie lives in a state of almost unimaginable clutter: Every horizontal surface is covered with stuff and piles of more stuff are all over the floor; she has actually carved narrow walking paths between piles of even more stuff. Several years ago I thought she’d be a good candidate for the show “Hoarders” and I sent a couple of pictures in to the producers. They wrote me right back essentially accusing me of staging the house for a photo op. “No one lives like that,” I was told.
Several weeks ago, for reasons unknown, Duckie began a half-hearted attempt to clean and consolidate her stuff, but all she does is move stuff from one pile to another, which raises clouds of dust and, impossibly, makes the house look even more cluttered. Later, when she was complaining about this to my partner on their weekly, obligatory phone call, he went into his “Good Son” mode and impulsively decided to schedule a weekend trip to New Jersey to help her get organized. Personally, I thought that a weekend trip would, at best, organize the medicine chest but I kept that to myself. “Knock yourself out,” is what I told him.
“We leave Friday,” he said, refusing to look me in the eye.
“We?” I said. “I’m certainly not going on this field trip.”
We got to Duckie’s house mid-day Friday and got right to work. This involved me trying to sort through piles of trash while Duckie said things like, “Don’t move that.” And “I’m keeping that.” And “This is not your house, don’t touch my stuff.” Meanwhile she and my partner sat on the sofa and looked at old photographs.
In her prime Duckie was a good amateur photographer and she has always had scores of photo albums in her house and dozens and dozens of framed photographs. Now, as I was making this abortive attempt to clean I realized just how many framed photographs she had, on the walls, on the tables, even in the bathroom. I saw pictures I had never noticed before: Duckie as a bride; my partner and his brother as kids, my partner’s graduation from college. I saw pictures of my mom (she and Duckie were close friends,) and pictures of my two sisters. I saw pictures of all the dogs and cats we’ve adopted over the years. I saw pictures of virtually everyone Duckie knows. Except me.
I stewed over this for a while then, against my better judgment I said, “Why are there no pictures of me anywhere?”
Duckie gulped. “There’s lots of pictures of you,” she said.
“No, there aren’t.” I said. “Not even one.”
“Sure there are,” she said.
I folded my arms. “Where?” I asked.
“Just, look,” said Duckie, waving her arm vaguely. I scowled.
My partner got up to investigate, then he folded his arms too. “Ma?” he said. “You have pictures of everyone. You have a picture of the mailman — So why are there no pictures of Guy here?”
Duckie shifted her weight uncomfortably and would not look at me. “Ron was the best mailman I ever had,” she said defensively. My partner and I did not speak. Duckie cleared her throat. “Well,” she finally said, “if I have company I don’t know how I’d explain who Guy is.”
My mouth fell open that after more than 20 years she was still perplexed at explaining my relationship with her son, but I decided to let my partner handle this; he was having none of it.
“Guy is my partner,” he said levelly, adding, “besides, you haven’t had any company here since 1983. Who do you have to explain anything to?”
She thought for a moment. “Martha,” she finally said . “What would I tell Martha if she came over?”
“Martha? I asked, incredulous. Martha lived across the street; she had been in a wheelchair since 1994 so the chances of her crossing the street to visit were minimal. But beyond that, even I knew that Martha’s son Frank, her caregiver, had been living with Roger, his boyhood friend, in Martha’s basement apartment since 1977.
My partner took over. “What could Martha possibly say? “ he asked. “What about Frank and Roger?”
“They’re just good friends,” said Duckie lamely.
“Ma,” said my partner, “they share a futon!”
“As good friends sometimes do,” said Duckie with dignity, and now my partner and I howled with laughter while Duckie said things like, “I don’t see what’s so funny,” and “Just because you two have dirty minds…..” and “I don’t appreciate being laughed at.”
Eventually we composed ourselves and then my partner found the picture he had sent his mother of the two of us from last Christmas. He removed a picture of Duckie’s favorite cashier at WalMart from its frame, and put our picture in its place. Then he hung the picture back on the wall. Now it was Duckie’s turn to cross her arms and scowl.
“If anyone asks, tell them that Guy is my best friend,” said my partner. “Now, we’re going to go out and get us some lunch. How about Boston Market?”
Duckie smiled; she loves Boston Market.
Once we were safely in the car I had to ask: “How long will that picture stay up?”
“It’s already down,” he said.