the apartment

In May my brother's wife asked him to leave. So, he packed his bags and moved out of their two story pseudo-colonial house. The one on the cul-de-sac, with the trees and the terrace and the french doors. The one with the kitchen re-done and the large train-set in the basement, inherited from our grandfather. That one, that house. He bought himself another house, with cash and moved into an overpriced hotel.

Mother told me about the drama on a Sunday as we talked on the phone. "I already know, Amanda told me."  There wasn't much to say, what can you say? So instead, we talked real-estate, mother and I. The house he bought was a complete gut job. He showed it to his wife. She hated it. She thought it was stupid for him to spend their money and she was incensed. She wanted him to move back.

She had told me (that is, his wife) her side of the story. He has told me his. They have both talked to me because he is living at my apartment. The place he was staying was costing him too much every month. Mother told me this also. When she mentioned it I told her that was silly. "He should move into my place, no one is living there, it's empty, sparsely furnished." And so she told him and he finished up his week at the over-priced Extended Stay, then moved in.

(Lawrence)

Stewart, pensive.

There were dreams for this apartment and I was shopping for couches the week there was a company meeting and we were told about the loss of a multi-million dollar contract. Three weeks later, there was another company meeting, we were told that two offices would be closing (Phoenix and Philadelphia), three hundred people out of work after the New Year. A month later, another company meeting, our office would be laying off and..well. With the first announcement I stopped shopping for couches. Still, there were couches I saw that would have been wonderful in this place. Couches and two rugs, one for the living area and one for the dining area. Rugs that would have tied the room together. But no.
So now, while I live in an RV in Memphis, Art lives in my apartment. His kids visit sometimes and I hate to admit it, but it is lovely. It is nice to return to a place where there are children and happenings and life! Walking through the back door I'll often enter into what is a "mess", which means only that a few toys have been left scattered around the apartment or there are a few dishes in the sink, undone, or golf clubs of varying sizes and styles are laying on the floor, in the bags, stacked against the wall.
Of course, it would be wonderful for them to have their marriage back and it would have been better to not have the circumstance where he needed a place, temporarily, to stay. Of course. But life has a way of unexpectedly throwing a curve.