Be My Neat-Heart (6 page)

Theresa suddenly locked her attention on me and said, “You're a Christian. What does the Bible say about this?”

A relatively new Christian, she's always asking me what the Bible says about everyday issues.

“There are all sorts of sibling imbroglios in Scripture— Esau and Jacob, Cain and Abel, Joseph and his brothers—but none that addresses anything quite like this.” I tried to imagine anyone quibbling over disarray in the pasture or unfilled parchments lying around in the tent library, and came up short.

“I thought you said the Bible had something to say about everything.”

“Yes, I did say that. And I believe it's true.”

“I'll be waiting to hear what it is.”

Okay, Lord. I know You are relevant for every age and every question. What about this one?

 

“He's going to fire her over something as minor as a messy desk?” Wendy said, shocked. “Why did you say you'd work for him?”

“I didn't say I would work for
him.
And I don't think it's as simple as all that.”

“Then why do you have that?” Wendy pointed at the check lying on her kitchen table. We were drinking chai and eating crackers with cheese from a can after taking my dog for a walk. Imelda pranced by with the mate to the shoe she'd eaten yesterday and had refused to relinquish when we'd left home, and I didn't have the energy to stop her. Soon there were gnawing sounds coming from beneath my chair. Every once in a while she paused to burp.

My mind went to the little shoe cannibal beneath me. It doesn't make sense, I suppose, for someone as meticulous as me to have a dog with a shoe fetish like Imelda's, but I do have to take some responsibility in the matter. My shoes now reside in shoe racks that hang in my closet, off the floor and out of Imelda's reach.

I also remember thinking Imelda was cute the first time she shredded an old slipper, shaking her head and growling at it as if she'd been on safari and it were big game. I'd initially encouraged the problem from which I now suffered. Wasn't it, in part, my doing? I didn't put an end to the behavior when it started to happen. Now I'm living with the fruits of my laziness.

Theresa has a theory about pets and children—if you can't train them, outsmart them. Unless, like Imelda, they outsmart you first. Maybe something like this applied in Jared and Molly's case?

“I'm doing it for his sister's sake,” I said, glancing back at the check in question. “And I'll be working with Molly, not her brother. She agreed without hesitation.”

What I didn't admit to Wendy was that I could feel tiny twinges of Jared's pain. I don't necessarily like the man, nor do I approve of him firing his own sister. I'm not pleased that he is so firm in his decision to do it, but I know how it is to be sucked into the vortex of someone else's mess.

I looked around Wendy's apartment and suppressed a sigh. She'd been creating homemade paper, and the place looked like hordes of mice had chewed the entire place to shreds. Or was it locusts? It's so hard to tell which creepy-crawly critter Wendy imitates best.

“So you didn't get to meet the sister?” Wendy sat cross-legged in front of her fireplace, the one that she hadn't been able to light in nearly a year because she stored unread magazines in it.

“No. Apparently one thing led to another in the coffee shop, and last I heard before I left Hamilton's office was that she'd left her purse on the counter and someone had walked off with it. She was filing a report with the police so I suggested we meet on a better day.”

“What did her brother say to that?”

“That there is no ‘better day.' He said every day is like this with Molly.”

 

“What have I gotten myself into, Zelda?” She perched on the edge of the bathtub watching me remove my makeup. She tilted her head to one side as if considering her answer and the rhinestones in her collar sparkled in the light.

Zelda is a girlie cat. In addition to cashmere and silk, she adores wearing little bejeweled collars and can sit for hours in front of my full-length mirror, turning her head and watching the glints of light reflecting from the fake diamonds. You'd think a hairless cat would feel embarrassed by her lack of the one thing most cats share in common—fur—but not Zelda. She knows it makes her special to be nude and it's her job to maximize on it.

I'd read about hairless cats but never expected to see—or own—one until Ben came to my house one night with a cloth pet carrier, a litter box and a big grin.

“She's perfect for you, Sammi.” He thrust out the carrier for my inspection. “No shedding. Isn't it great?”

Great wasn't exactly what I'd thought as I'd peered into the carrier and a little wrinkled Yodalike face peered back. At the time I couldn't think of a single benefit to having a naked cat in the house, no matter how exotic or unique it might be.

Since then I've changed my mind. Zelda, with her wrinkled little forehead and intelligent eyes, is the best listener I've ever met. She doesn't shed, is meticulous in the litter box and, although I don't admit it to just anyone, a great bed partner. Sleeping with Zelda is like sleeping with a warm football. Imagine pigskin heated up, supple and purring, and you've got Zelda.

I opened my arms and she jumped in. Her hot-to-the-touch
body comforted me. Here I was, in five-year-old pajamas, wearing my retainer, manless and conflicted about my work.

“Maybe I'm too fussy, Zelda,” I murmured. She kneaded my arm with her claws and nudged her nose under my chin, her way of telling me it was time to go to bed and that I'd feel better about everything in the morning.

As I fell into a restless sleep and was haunted all night with nightmares, I dreamed that everyone in my life, both male and female—including Jared Hamilton and Ethan Carver and especially Jared's sister, Molly—had grown fur and were sitting on my couch shedding as Wendy fed them peanuts and encouraged them to drop the shells on my newly vacuumed floor.

T
his is how I use the second law of thermodynamics (Energy flows from being concentrated in a single place to becoming diffused, dispersed and spread out. Or, anything left to itself tends toward disorganization.) in my work: Contained materials or objects will always spread out once they are no longer contained. They will, however,
never
pick themselves up and put themselves away. Imagine picking up a basket full of dirty clothes and turning it over. The clothes will fall to the floor and cover the carpet. They will not, however, leap off the floor and back into the basket. Once a snowball starts rolling down a mountainside and picking up more snow, left to its own devices, it will likely cause an avalanche.

It's the same with possessions, papers and the like. If you don't keep your stuff contained in files, containers or drawers, it's going to spread out all over your place and, once the spreading begins, it's really hard to get it all contained again. Think about that snowball, that hill and that impending avalanche—or the fact that no matter how hard you try, you cannot teach laundry to get into a basket by itself.

Granted, although our stuff is just itching to get loose and
act on its tendency to disperse, we can prevent it from happening. And that's where I come in. I'm the one standing between my clients and chaos because I've got the tips and tools for impeding that clutter spread.

This might not satisfy a scientist, but it's good enough for me.

 

Feeling a little cocky that I even know what the second law of thermodynamics is, I made my way to Molly Hamilton's house on Friday with an attitude just waiting to be humbled.

Her brother had to be exaggerating about her inability to keep things in order. We could probably settle this in a few sessions and I would be the one responsible for reuniting sister and brother and healing the rift between them. The idea appealed to the good Samaritan in me. Then I could get on with the job of spending the healthy check Hamilton had given me.

Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

I was already mentally purchasing Jimmy Choos and a new file cabinet in cherry-red when I rang the doorbell of the attractive town house located in a very trendy part of the city. Whatever Molly was doing wrong, she must also be doing something right. One can't afford to live in this part of town if they are a continual goof-up.

Or so I thought.

“Who is it?” A woman's timid voice came from behind the door.

“Samantha Smith with Clutter Busters.”

The door flew open and I was jerked inside so quickly that I nearly left my shoes on the front porch. The door slammed shut behind me. I was greeted by an attractive woman in a business suit. She wore a smile of relief on her face.

“Sorry about dragging you in like that, but I'm not keen on opening my door for the neighbors to peek in. They're retired
and have designated me as their live entertainment when there's nothing on television.” Molly looked a little shamed. “If my foyer looked better, I wouldn't mind, but as it is…”

Then I looked past her and into her home.

“I see what you mean.”

There was a canoe leaning against one wall, a bicycle against the other, tennis rackets spouting out of an umbrella stand, umbrellas hanging from the upper door jamb like icicles after a storm, athletic clothes and the duffel bags they should have been in, tennis shoes, unread newspapers, a guitar and seven boxes of Girl Scout cookies filling what might once have been a very pretty area. The canoe took up most of the space and blocked the main portion of the living area from view but I could still see slippery mountains of magazines, baskets of unfolded laundry and teetering stacks of CDs and tapes beyond.

“My brother used to say I needed a bomb-sniffing dog to get around in here,” Molly admitted cheerfully. “But now he's changed his mind. He's afraid a dog loose in here would never find its way out again.” She stopped talking to stare at me. “Jared is right—you
are
pretty!”

That took me aback for a moment but once it sunk in, I felt a ripple of pleasure flow through me. Though I don't even like Molly's infuriating brother, I couldn't help being flattered.

Before I could open my mouth, however, Molly continued. “He's terribly angry with me right now. I've disappointed him. It's just that it's impossible for me to be meticulous like him. Totally impossible.”

“A self-fulfilling prophecy?” I murmured to myself.

Molly heard me. “Right. You want me to
think
this place into order?”

My mind raced as I studied her. She was slender and pretty in a soft, delicate way. Her light brown hair framed her face
in loose curls and her cheeks and lips were naturally rosy. Likeable. That's the best word that I could use to describe Molly. There was something about her that made her easily and instantaneously likeable. She had none of the sharp edges or disapproving expressions that her brother had. If Jared was a rabid bat, Molly was a fluffy baby bunny.

Looking around the room before me and then remembering Jared's pristine environment made me wonder if there were any similarities whatsoever between the two.

“Would you like to come into what my brother calls ‘Tornado Alley'?” She stepped over one of the canoe's oars and into the living room.

With efficiency born of much practice, Molly tossed throw pillows, afghans, workout clothing, books and pizza boxes off the couch onto the floor and offered me a seat.

“I had a cleaning lady for a while,” she said cheerfully, “but she fired me. She said it was the first time she'd ever had to do that. But she told me that if I ever got the place under control, she'd consider coming back. Wasn't that nice of her?”

I couldn't help but stare at this personable, pretty young woman who, by all accounts, could create chaos faster than anyone—even a professional—could clean up.

“You're rather upbeat about it.”

Unexpectedly, her hazel-colored eyes clouded with tears. “I detest it, Ms. Smith.”

“Call me Sammi.”

“Sammi, I loathe the fact that I'm isolating myself. I can't have my friends into my house because they'd be shocked. I despise it that none of my family wants to come here to visit. And I can't stand it that my only brother thinks I'm somehow doing this to spite him and my parents!”

She sat down on the corner of a chair housing a pair of eight-pound weights, a fishing tackle box, a wad of towels and
a stack of unopened mail. “And I am so disgusted with myself for not being able to figure out what to do about it! What's wrong with me?”

“Nothing is ‘wrong' with
you.
God created you. Your habits need a little work, that's all. This is doable. We'll figure something out.”

I saw relief spread across her features like sunlight over shade.

“And my brother won't hate me anymore?”

“‘Hate' is a strong word.”

“You're right. Jared couldn't hate me even though he has every reason to do so. He wouldn't even know how. Besides, he's a Christian. That's what makes him so patient with me, I'm sure of it.”

I pondered her convoluted statement. “I can't imagine anyone not succumbing to your charm,” I assured her.

She looked at me with an odd, evaluating expression. “Then you don't understand what's been going on between me and my brother lately.”

I didn't, but that overheard conversation in my office had sent up a few red flags.

I left Molly Hamilton's house with a vague sense of foreboding.

What am I getting myself into? I wondered as I slipped into the front seat of my car. I leaned wearily against the headrest. I had to think. There were dynamics here I didn't understand. Molly needed me and had agreed to work with me but her brother Jared was the one footing the bill. Who was the client here, really? That, I knew, would have to be very clear before I cashed his check.

 

I returned to my office to find Wendy sitting at Theresa's desk helping her put printed labels on an advertising flyer and laughing heartily at something. When I walked in, Wendy
straightened to attention and I had a sense that if she'd dared, she would have saluted.

“At ease, Wendy.”

She grinned. “Sorry. So how did the skirmish go?”

“I'm not captain of the Sanitation Army, you know.”

“How quickly I forget.”

If Wendy isn't good for anything else, she's great at pricking my ego and deflating it to size.

I dropped into the chair across from her. “Jared Hamilton is right. His sister needs me.”

“So what's the problem, then?”

“I'd rather that she'd called me herself, I suppose. Even though she seems excited, even enthusiastic about this, I'm not crazy about having a middleman to answer to.”

“So don't answer,” Wendy said cheerily. “You make everything too hard, Sammi. That's why Theresa and I did some work for you. We're helping you out.”

Wendy and Theresa collaborating in my behalf gives me a cold chill. That was like “helping” an Eskimo build an igloo by offering to hold a hair dryer on his work.

Before I could say anything, Theresa thrust a piece of paper in front of me. “Here. We worked out a quiz for you to give your clients. If they answer ‘yes' to three or more questions, they need to hire you.”

 

Clutter Busters Suitability Quiz—If Your Life Isn't Cluttered, You Don't Need Busting!

1. Do you say to yourself “If I can't make it all perfect then what's the use of doing it at all?”
   
2. Do you have luggage, boxes, furniture or your birdcage stored in your bathtub or shower?
   
3. Do you have magazines that are at least three years old somewhere in your house, waiting to be read?
   
4. Do you sleep on top of your bedspread rather than crawling between the sheets because you'll just have to make it again in the morning anyway?
   
5. Have you given up folding your laundry because you'll just be using the clothes again tomorrow?
   
6. Do your friends insist on
   not
   coming to your home?
   
7. Have you had to look in the refrigerator to find your nail polish, shoes, hairspray or parakeet?
   
8. Do you have good intentions and absolutely no follow-through?
   
9. Is there always something late, lost, overdue, misplaced, outdated, moldy or unidentifiable in your home?
   

“You've got to admit. It will make them think.”

It certainly made
me
think. I realized that Molly Hamilton could answer yes to every single question.