The Levitation of Debris
We spent that day in bed. We watched TV, listened to music, conversed about inconsequential topics. At some point around midafternoon, she fell asleep, and I began to clean up. The disarray in Erica’s apartment could be divided into three categories: clothes, papers, and food-related items. The clothes were strewn across the apartment in random clusters, much like the result of throwing a hundred pennies in the air. I was not entirely sure which clothes were clean and which were not, and I had no intention of embarking on further investigation. Without congregating the clothes, I decided to simply fold and stack them at their designated clusters.
The papers presented a far more delicate challenge. Although I was neat with paperwork, I knew enough about the work habits of professionals—that there was often method and organization to what might appear to the untrained eye as sloppiness. But the papers and documents in Erica’s apartment abounded. No random clusters here. Instead, the papers splayed out in various directions. At times, the trails connected for yards, and then suddenly, a break would appear. There would be no attachment, but then, the trail would pick up three feet later. Was this a new trail or the unintended severance of a continuous trail caused by a sleepy scuffling on an early morning dash to the bathroom? I couldn’t chance the disruption in what might in fact be some odd form of organization. So, I limited myself to cautiously pushing the papers together into neat piles, without changing their order or relocating them.
The easiest task was throwing out all of Erica’s food-related items, which included food itself, as well as containers and bags and empty pizza boxes. While I tidied, I noticed that the windows and floors and cabinet doors were strangely clean. It seemed that Erica had somehow levitated all the debris off the floor, swept and mopped, and then lowered the mess back to its original position. As I pondered these issues, Erica woke up. She was not oblivious to the change to her apartment, and I think that she quickly recognized that any expression of irritability would have been pointless. But she was irked. I suspected that she resented not so much the intrusion but the resulting tidiness. I had thought it would be an intimate and kindly gesture to straighten out her apartment, but seeing her expression then, I suddenly panicked, wondering whether she thought I had patronized her, as if I had lent a hand to some enfeebled slob.
“Is this something you do a lot?” she asked. “Cleaning up after others?” She stared at me without warmth.
“I’m on a learning curve,” I said. “But I can fix things.” I picked up a few papers I had piled and gently threw them at her. As the sheets drifted down to her feet, I saw the tension in her lips as she forced herself not to smile. She then picked up the thrown sheets and placed them neatly back on the pile.
“So can I,” she said.
The next few weeks were wonderful, although I found it increasingly difficult to focus on work. I spent most of my free time with Erica, mostly at her apartment, occasionally at mine. I lived in a prewar brownstone walk-up on the Upper West Side, but Erica was unhappy there, less likely to have spontaneous bursts of laughter to break up what appeared to be a passionate but dour disposition.
Our conversation was conventional during this time. Intelligent, insightful, covering the standard topics of politics, arts, family, friends. I liked these exchanges a great deal. Erica was smart, inventive with language, unpredictable in her viewpoints. And she listened well. I was beginning to feel more comfortable with the thought of her meeting my parents. Maybe I was wrong in my initial assessment. She would pass my father’s 80/20 test easily, a test which posited that in any group setting, at least 80 percent of one’s time should be devoted to listening, not speaking. She had a gift for “tuning in,” for considering and responding to comments, with only occasional forays into alternative commentary.
We remained cocooned during these initial weeks, and why not? I had no desire to rush the introduction of Erica to my friends and family. We could remain private, showcased anonymously in our outings in the Village or in Flatiron District restaurants but with Erica’s views shielded from scrutiny.
Her talk of magical healing receded. Perhaps her attachment to spirituality substituted for the absence of a close connection to another person. I would be her savior.