Bono

The stench, which was now overpowering, was emanating from the partially opened door in front of her. A cacophony of banging and clattering was coming from inside. The apartment—our apartment—was occupied by an incontinent poltergeist.

“Hellooo?” I called in the tentative tone my aunt used when dropping in on unsuspecting relatives.

There was a brief silence, followed by shuffling and a morose sigh. My instinct was to shove Lydia forward to find out what was going on. Even ancient warlords knew confrontations tend to unfold with less tension when initiated by a fresh-faced page.

But pleasantries would take time. I was desperate to get my boots off and lay down somewhere—no matter how smelly. Besides, whoever was in there needed to know we’d paid a month’s rent in advance.

I stepped tentatively over the threshold to face a postapocalyptic scene. Floorboards were littered with discarded food wrappers, polystyrene cartons, plastic bags, and empty water bottles. Next to the fireplace, a trash can lay on its side vomiting a tangle of half-eaten noodles. Under the window, an unmade bed spilled an eruption of sheets and blankets onto the floor.

The apartment was unrecognizable from the stylish photos we’d seen online. The only items that looked familiar were the purple curtains and a glass-topped coffee table. A black vinyl bench (“comfortable sofa bed”) was buried under what appeared to be a pile of tattered and well-worn undergarments.

Away from the window at the other end of the room, and bent over a kitchen sink was the most worn-out, unhappiest African American woman I’d ever seen. When I approached and asked what was going on, she rolled her eyes and said, “Some people are just plain animals.”

Well, it was a pet-friendly apartment—actually, going by the dimensions it was more of a room. Whoever had taken the photos we’d seen online must’ve been using the biggest fish eye since Moby Dick. I checked for evidence of cats and dogs, but this was a mess only feral humans could make. I’m not fussy, and I’ve seen some wild student apartments in my time, but this was a cesspool worthy of a medieval village. Forcing the window open, I tried to imagine how our predecessors had spent their time holed up in here for a month—sex, drugs, junk food, repeat.

The cleaning woman said she’d been working since 6 a.m. and was desperate to get back to her family to cook them an Easter Sunday meal. My annoyance melted to sympathy. I started to feel responsible for the previous tenants who’d left the place a garbage dump on the assumption someone who had no choice would clean up after them.

Lydia and I nudged our bags against a wall and unbuttoned our coats. I grabbed a broom and swished it around. Lydia gathered up a couple of bulging garbage bags and carried them to bins downstairs.

“What were they doing in here?” I said, approaching the rank-smelling bed. At a minimum, the sheets would have to be stripped off and taken to a laundry.

“Don’t touch that!” the cleaning person shouted across the room.

“Really?” I said, lifting a corner of the quilt.

“No!” she said. “You don’t want to look in there. Believe me.”

Grateful as she seemed for our help, the cleaning person said she’d get through the job faster on her own. She told us to go for a walk for a couple of hours. We needed to buy bath towels and a blanket for Lydia, anyway. The sofa bed was equipped with sheets only. I was tempted to pick up fresh linen for us both, but the woman said not to bother. She’d make our beds up with clean sheets.

I negotiated her bucket and peered through the bathroom door. It was tiny, with fittings circa 1970, but serviceable. The hem of the shower curtain was caked in green mold.

Feeling useless and relieved not to be needed at the same time, I pulled on my coat and ski cap, gave the cleaning person what I hoped was a generous tip, and scampered downstairs with Lydia.

“That place is the perfect size—for a cat,” I said, tugging my ski cap over my ears and trudging in what I imagined was the direction of Bloomingdale’s.

I waited for Lydia to tell me that she’d come around to thinking the cat fostering idea was stupid. She’d suggest I call Michaela and Vida in the morning to explain the situation. They would understand, and cancel our appointment with the animal shelter. But she galloped ahead down the street.

“Hurry!” she called over her shoulder. “There’s a Holi festival!”

“A what?”

“It’s a Hindu thing,” she shouted. “They’re celebrating the triumph of good over evil.”

In most relationships, there’s a grown-up and a child. With Lydia and me, the chronological roles are reversed. She thinks before she says anything, whereas I blurt out opinions to regret later at leisure. When we’re together, I rely on her to rein in my more outlandish behavior. If her eyes glaze and she becomes quieter than usual, it’s a sign I’ve pushed the boundaries too far. Partly because of this dynamic, I hadn’t witnessed her letting herself go since she was about three years old.