IN THE BASEMENT, keeping in mind Shane’s advice to skip a true reckoning in favor of efficiency, Liz shoved Christmas lights into a file cabinet and a badminton set into an old suitcase with a broken zipper. She vowed as she worked to immediately recycle the magazines she’d let accumulate in her apartment the minute she returned to New York, as well as to sort through her closet and donate to Goodwill everything she hadn’t worn in the last year.
She’d been in the basement for close to two hours and had encountered what she suspected was an extended family of spiders—energetic youngsters, weary parents, deceased great-aunts—when she heard someone descending the steps. Lydia appeared, carrying a bottle of coconut water that Liz imagined, until Lydia took a long swig from it, was for her. “I can’t believe you talked Dad into this,” Lydia said. “You’re being really selfish.”
“It isn’t my decision, Lydia. Do you have any idea how much it costs to maintain a house this size?”
“It isn’t like there’s a mortgage.”
Rather than correcting her sister, Liz said, “How much do you think property taxes are?”
Lydia shrugged.
“They’re more than twenty thousand a year. Let’s say the boiler goes out—how much would you guess it costs to buy a new one?”
Lydia closed her eyes and made a snoring noise.
“I know you don’t believe it, but getting a job and a place of your own will be the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” Liz said. “You’ll feel so grown-up and independent.”
“You sound like a tampon commercial. Anyway, I’m moving in with Ham.”
“And not chipping in on rent?”
“He owns his place.”
“Do you really want to rely on a man to support you?”
“Spare me your feminist propaganda, Liz. You know, you should get Ham to help you down here. He’s the most organized person I’ve ever met. He only uses one kind of hanger, and they all have to hang the same way.”
“Great,” Liz said. “Send him over.”
Lydia took another sip of coconut water. “Kitty and Mary are talking about becoming roommates. Wouldn’t that be hilarious?”
“It’s not a bad idea.”
“I’d never live with Mary. She’s so annoying.”
“You do live with Mary,” Liz said.
Lydia laughed. A certain preemptive aura of departure indicated that she was about to go back upstairs—what must it be like, Liz wondered, to observe another person in the midst of a major task that was no more her obligation than yours and to feel not the slightest compulsion to assist?—and Liz said, “Do you even have a résumé?”
Lydia grinned. “Some of us are able to get by on our looks.”