As Long As It's Perfect

by Lisa Tognola

  “I’m fine,” I said, and I thanked him for his help. Then I pulled away in my minivan, past the leafless trees—naked and exposed—my wallet empty.

  We were broke. I’d used my emergency twenty that I kept in the side compartment of my wallet that morning to pay for my daughter’s field trip to Liberty Science Center. Never in my life had I not had access to cash. Never in my life had I wondered how I would pay for the backpack my son needed for school, the leotard my daughter had requested for gymnastics, or the suits Wim had asked me to pick up at the cleaners.

  “We’re not penniless,” Wim said when I told him about the bank.

  My spirits rose. “We’re not?”

  “No. We just have no cash.” He was slumped against the couch, his head resting on an extra pillow, a glass of Coke in his hand. Normally, I’d have reminded him not to drink caffeine at this hour, but lately he’d been staying up so late each night as it was, reviewing house plans, looking over invoices, and following financial updates in the news, that it didn’t seem to matter.

  Wim’s eyes were fixed on the evening news, the light from the TV casting a strange glow over his face that mimicked the mottled look of the grasscloth wallpaper behind him.

  “The National Association of Realtors announced that 2007 had the largest drop in existing home sales in twenty-five years, and the first price decline in many, many years, possibly going back to the Great Depression,” a newscaster intoned to the camera.

  “What does that mean, we have no cash?” I moved from my perch on the ottoman to the leopard chair next to Wim and gripped the rolled arms.

  “It means we’ve spent it all building this house.” He looked directly at me, then down at his glass.

  Spent it all? He must be exaggerating. He couldn’t possibly mean all. I knew we had other money. “But this morning I was filing banking statements for our IRAs and CDs—”

  “Those are long-term investments, Janie,” he said, his jaw becoming a little tight. “We need cash. Yesterday, Brodie asked me when he could expect to get paid for the invoice he sent last month.” He started reminding me of all the upgrades I’d asked for.

  “You’re the one who wanted to upgrade the molding,” I said. It wasn’t only me who had gotten carried away with spending.

  “You’re missing the point. I’m saying we’ve already used up the pot we set aside for construction. We’re cashless until my bonus comes in March. Hopefully, that will cover the bills until our house sells and covers the rest.”

  Hopefully? What if it doesn’t?

  Mrs. Quigley’s floodlights illuminated the yard next door, followed by Daisy’s high-pitched yaps, and I knew it was ten o’clock. Soon, our own yard would light up as Wim let Copper outside one last time. Then the house would settle into quietness. Everything would be calm and peaceful again.

  Except it wouldn’t. Not tonight, and probably not ever.

  “But I don’t understand,” I pressed. “We couldn’t have blown through all of our savings. Can’t we cash out on some long-term investments?” I felt so ignorant; I didn’t even know if I’d phrased my question correctly.

  Wim started talking about penalties and percentage points, and my eyes started to glaze over. How could you let this happen? I almost blurted, as if it were his fault and not at all mine.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen. We had scrimped and saved precisely so we would never find ourselves in this predicament. How naive was I? Who would ever think that on the same day that I was selecting textured chenille for my family room sofa, I’d be shaking coins from my daughter’s ceramic piggy bank, searching for cash to pay for tonight’s pizza?

  Ever since I’d become a stay-at-home mom twelve years earlier, I’d been so absorbed with raising kids that I’d become oblivious to life outside my nucleus. My world had been reduced to Girl Scout meetings, Goodnight Moon, and grocery lists. Still, Wim was right. I should have paid more attention. Ever since the banking industry had begun to falter, I’d avoided the news, as if ignoring it meant it wasn’t happening. I’d turned a blind eye for so long, avoidance had become my modus operandi. I hadn’t realized that I could avoid facing my fears for only so long before time ran out.

  I thought about how Wim had hoped for early retirement. Now, he’d be lucky if he ever retired. Only now did I stop to think about what that really meant—the continued exhausting commute, long hours, stressful job, and burden of four dependents, all his to bear.

  As we sat in stillness, the only movement in the room the flickering TV screen, my gaze shifted to the built-in cherry credenza, which had been blemished with blue ink shortly after we’d renovated our home office. I’d been upset when it happened, knowing that the mark would remain there forever. I’d tried to hide it by placing a small potted plant on top of it, but I knew it was there.

  I stared wistfully at the silk ivy cascading over the side of the cabinet. A leaky pen seemed a minor mishap compared to the mess we were in now.

  CHAPTER 33: SUBURBAN PEEPSHOW

  Raymond Ave, Rye – February 2008

  On February 7, our realtor, Betsy, brought a mallet and hammered a FOR SALE sign down on our front lawn.

  Ours was a colonial-style home, its cigar-box shape altered only slightly five years earlier when we had added on our office lean-to. The house was simple but pleasant, with plenty of curb appeal, so other than minor touch-up painting, there hadn’t been much we could do to enhance the exterior. I hung a spring wreath on the door and focused all my energy on freshening up the interior. I spent a month getting our house in order, working myself into a feather-dusting frenzy, although, according to Betsy, my efforts were unnecessary.

  You’re your worst critic, Janie, she’d emailed. Please don’t get overwhelmed. Your house is in tiptop shape, in as perfect order as any can be.

  I couldn’t be saved from myself. I wore my anxiety like a second skin under normal circumstances; simultaneously building a new house and selling an old house had wound me extra tight. If ever I’d needed a spirit animal, it was now.

  Bent on making my home as clean as heaven itself, I turned to a bald white man with electric blue eyes, bulging muscles, and a penchant for tidiness: Mr. Clean. Armed with rubber gloves, a spray bottle, and lashings of tough-guy spirit, I eradicated shower mold, tackled dust bunnies under the bed, and scraped burnt blobs until my oven sparkled. I scrubbed on my hands and knees the mucky grout lines that had grayed over the years until they were restored to their natural cream color. Or had it been white?

  “How did Mommy get the bathroom so clean?” my kids asked.

  “Why do my toothbrushes keep disappearing?” Wim wondered aloud.

  I became my own drill sergeant. My inner voice commanded me to scrub those floors and shine those faucets until I could see my reflection in them, and I listened—all the while telling myself, We have to sell this house. We have to sell this house. What started off as touch-up painting turned into a complete repainting overhaul; no wall was left untouched. I arranged some forsythia branches, pruned from the plant in our backyard, in a vase to bring a burst of yellow cheer indoors, and I regularly replaced them before they even began to wilt. I artfully displayed the few knickknacks we owned and otherwise freed our house of clutter. I had gotten us into this mess, and now I would do whatever I could to get us out.

  The day of the realtor open house, I put out the new welcome mat my mother-in-law had given us, fluffed the pillows, placed a jar of vanilla potpourri on the kitchen counter, and prayed to the real estate gods.

  “It was one of the most successful caravans I’ve ever seen,” Betsy said. “Seventy-seven agents showed up, and they all went nuts over your house!”

  Even Wim, whose praise was rare, emailed me that afternoon: Janie, you did a GREAT JOB in getting the house together!

  Word of our house buzzed through the real estate network and, true to form, we had a flood of showings over the following days. While I was sitting at my computer one day, wondering what more I could do,
I received an email from Betsy. Is the Seller Disclosure completed? Have you selected a real estate attorney? she wrote, raising my hopes for a quick sale. Her optimism fueled our own enthusiasm, and I imagined the thrilling conversation we would have in the coming days:

  “You have three offers!” she’d say.

  “They’re all so good, how do we choose?” I’d ask.

  “Well, there will be a bidding war and we’ll see how things play out,” she’d say.

  The reality was that days passed without a single offer being made on our house. Days turned into weeks. The bidding war never happened. Instead, the bottom dropped out on the economy, the housing market burst, and our hope vanished.

  As the weeks went by and the bills poured in, we experienced what it was like to worry about not having enough money to pay the electric bill, to not have extras like going out to dinner or my buying a new pair of shoes just because I liked them. I begged our credit card company to let us postpone payment. When they asked when they could expect payment, I didn’t know what to tell them. “Soon, I hope,” I said.

  The FOR SALE sign I’d yearned to see on my front lawn—the message to the world that we were moving on—had become an anxious reminder that we were stuck, held captive by two houses, one that we might never sell and another that we might never finish building. We had overextended ourselves and had only each other to talk to about it. We had kept it a secret from everyone, even our parents, because we were both too ashamed to admit the risk we’d taken.

  Yet, despite our challenging circumstances, I’d recently sensed a connection forming between us—a sort of “us against the world” kind of bond—as we tried to find our way out of this mess together.

  “Just two years ago, houses were selling the day they went on the market. Now ours has been sitting for … how long has it been?” Wim asked me one March morning.

  “A month,” I said sourly.

  Wim groaned. I could see all the stress that had built up inside him, muting the deep hazel of his eyes so all that was left in them was the last several months’ mortgage payments, the landscape proposal that had come in twice as high as we’d expected, and the news that this year’s bonus would be next to nothing.

  Wim’s bonus was the reason we lived comfortably. Wim’s bonus was the reason we could move up. But regardless of Wim’s bonus and whether or not we could count on it this year, Luke, Brodie, and the bank still had to get paid, making the house sale all the more urgent.

  “I don’t understand it. I know the market has softened, but this is a nice house.” Wim sighed, sweeping a hand at the cosmetic improvements we’d made—an updated home office sheathed in trendy grasscloth wallpaper and a wall of cherry built-ins that housed a plasma TV. “Why can’t we find a buyer? It doesn’t make sense.”

  I felt like we were playing a game of hangman. Each week of no sale meant us moving one body part closer to the noose. I was convinced that by the eleventh week my hangman would appear and I would lose—on the word “foreclosure.” Frustration replaced optimism, and I found myself unable to fall asleep at night, thinking repeatedly about selling the house and examining it from various angles, never making any progress. I wondered if this was where my dream died.

  One afternoon, while each of us watered our side yards, I said as much to Bonnie Schreiber.

  “You could always sell your new house,” she offered.

  I choked out a chuckle, not sure if she was serious. That night, I lay awake contemplating her suggestion.

  “Maybe we should change our plan and turn the new house into a spec home, crank it out as cheaply as possible, and sell it,” I said to Wim the next morning.

  “It’s too late,” he said. “We’ve already poured too much money into customizing it. In this market, we’d lose even more on the new house than we will on this one.”

  Our situation reminded me of driving over the pointed retractable tire punctures at car-rental agencies. Once you passed, there was no turning back.

  “We just have to wait for the right buyer,” Wim said.

  Every time the phone rang I held my breath, eagerly anticipating word from Betsy. But invariably it would be a solicitor trying to sell us something. I was tired of being hounded. The moment we’d bought the Lexington Avenue house and applied for a refinance mortgage, we’d started receiving an endless string of phone solicitations. One evening, after I’d spent the morning readying our house for show and not a single person had come, a landscaper had called. “Good evening Mrs. Margolis, congratulations on your new house! We are offering a special promotion at this time and are wondering if you would be interested in having us fertilize your lawn for only fifty-four dollars…”

  I can’t even afford the house, let alone landscaping services! I wanted to scream. Instead, I simply hung up the phone, wondering how we would finance the remainder of our home construction. I felt helpless, as if there was nothing I could do to influence the outcome.

  As I stood in the kitchen, my eyes fell on the wall of plates and rested on the apple. The plate, which had been askew for months, suddenly seemed likely to fall.

  I set to work on the living room window seat. It was the only thing in my house that, being Copper’s guard post, was battered and scratched. I planned to brush White Dove paint over every last flaw. I strategically timed my repair work for midweek, when fewer prospective buyers were looking.

  One morning, I started painting as soon as the kids had left for school, even before I straightened up the house or changed out of my pajamas. Halfway through, an agent called and asked if he could show the house in half an hour. I barely had time to finish the casing and run to my car, where I sat in my pajamas, cold and paint-streaked, until they were gone.

  As I waited, I imagined potential buyers entering the house and poking through our freshly organized closets and bathroom drawers. It always felt strange to come home after a showing: a light would be turned off or a bedroom closet left ajar. These little invasions reminded me of the time burglars broke into my childhood home one summer afternoon and in broad daylight stole my mother’s jewelry—her gold bracelets and cocktail rings, even her favorite pearl necklace. I remember lying still with the covers pulled up to my chin that night, my body twitching at every little sound around me—every drip of the bathroom faucet, every hiss of the air conditioner. I’d always felt safe in our house; that day, for the first time, it had occurred to me that you’re never completely safe, that things can be taken away from you in a flash.

  Now, my home and my family were both on display, a veritable real estate peep show. I pictured a witnessing of what brand of deodorant and toothpaste we used. I couldn’t even hide the fact that I used dandruff shampoo. Anyone with an agent was free to peer into our cupboards and judge our grocery selections, criticize our snack choices. “Spray cheese! I hear that’s worse for you than cocaine!” I imagined some self-righteous new mother saying.

  The intruder’s probing eyes would observe the intimate family portraits resting on my dresser, even my wedding photos from sixteen years ago that some of my closest friends in New York still had not seen. Betsy had suggested removing family photos from view to make it easier for the buyer to picture living in the home, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I wanted to be private, but not invisible.

  Showing our house was the ideal breeding ground for every one of my insecurities. How did I appear to the community? Did the silk living room curtains with tassel trim convey elegance or pretention? Did the trompe l’oeil mural of a window I’d had painted in our windowless powder room say clever or kitschy? I knew I was being paranoid. I knew they weren’t coming to judge. But how could they not? How many houses had I walked through and criticized the architecture, even the décor, saying things I would never say if the homeowner were present? “How do you like those colors, Wim?” I remember saying as I rolled my eyes about some red and yellow stripes that lined one homeowner’s family room walls like a circus tent. I knew prospective buyers would do th
e same thing in our home.

  I also worried that they’d identify architectural features that would be deal breakers. I imagined a prospect peeking into our cramped master bathroom and saying to her realtor, “This is the master? I’ve seen bigger bathrooms on an airplane.”

  Then, one day, my fears became reality. I’d never been in the house when a buyer came to visit, but Betsy told me she’d been hearing through the grapevine that our lack of a garage (the previous owners had converted the garage into an eat-in kitchen) had turned off some buyers.

  “We manage without a garage,” I said. “We park in the driveway. Why can’t they?”

  “Not in this market,” Betsy said.

  Was it possible that our house might never sell?

  I became so hell-bent on selling the house that my to-do list grew and grew, as if it were a kind of penance. I tried to do more and more, compensating for the lack of control I was feeling with manic perfectionism. We have to sell this house. We have to sell this house. Armed with a bottle of Febreze, I freshened the living daylights out of anything carpeted or upholstered, as if spraying more scent would help cover up not only dog odor and smelly boots but also the mistake I’d made in burying my head in the sand for so long.

  I took a certain pride in the routine I’d established before showings: an hour before an agent brought a client to see my house, I made the beds, washed the dishes, wiped down counter-tops until they gleamed, and made sure all the toilets were flushed. I inspected each room before leaving the house to make sure each pillow was fluffed and every lamp was on so that each room took on a welcoming glow. I artfully arranged fresh fruit so the deeply purple grapes on a plate cascaded like a Monet still life. I simmered cinnamon sticks in a pot of water on the stove until a mouthwatering apple pie smell permeated every corner of the house. Then, collapsing in exhaustion but feeling high with anticipated victory, I waited. Often I sat in my minivan, parked down the street, Copper in the passenger seat, still holding on to the belief that my heroic cleaning efforts could sell our house.