Mrs. Esposito Says Hello

Mrs. Esposito Says Hello 

Could I please, the realtor’s voicemail urged, have the house presentable and smelling good by Saturday? The Esposito children want it sold lickety-split. No need to knock; the home is unoccupied – just push the front door open and start clearing up the junk. The children don’t want any of it. 

The realtor’s message made me sad, but I am a cleaning professional, and arrived at the house double masked with a trunkful of cleaning supplies. I’d cleaned enough hoarders’ homes to understand how the job always begins with an olfactory assault. Accordingly, I had enough bleach in my car to sanitize an Olympic swimming pool. 

When I pushed through the familiar front door, I expected a pungent hit of death itself (or at least strong mildew), but to my surprise, I smelled nothing. I pulled my mask down and sniffed again. Odd, I thought. Wait, there was something. Was that a whiff of homemade marinara? The memory brought a tear to my eye. 

I had known the Espositos my whole life. Their daughter, Gina, and I were best friends in elementary school. She and her older brother, Tony, would always tease the elder Espositos about their saving habits – and I don’t mean cash savings. You name it, Mr. and Mrs. “E” saved it: paper clips, grocery bags, glass jars, rubber bands, pencil stubs, ribbons, magazines, all the tools that came packaged with DIY furniture – because “you never know” if something will prove useful again. 

Growing up, their waste-not, want-not mentality resonated with me; I had a single mom who thought very much the same way. Why buy expensive toys, she reasoned, when kids can have fun with a big cardboard box, or a jar of buttons, or some pots and a wooden spoon? “All you need to add is your imagination,” my frugal mother would say. 

As a kid, I would sometimes be invited to play over at Gina’s house. That was a treat, especially if it was a rainy day, because Mrs. E would line the kitchen table with newspaper and put out an assortment of old magazines, fabric scraps, cotton balls, pipe cleaners, craft scissors and a pot of rubber cement. Gina and I spent many hours absorbed in creating “art” for Mrs. E’s fridge. 

While she supervised our creative endeavors, Mrs. E would also put the family dinner together, which often included fresh marinara. I can still smell the fragrant basil that she would pop into the pot at the last minute. (“Never,” she would caution, “kill the basil.”) To this day, I associate many happy childhood memories with the homely aromas of red sauce and craft glue. 

Unfortunately, Mr. E got some aggressive form of cancer and passed soon after Gina and Tony had moved out of the house. Something shifted for Mrs. E then. The habits that had created harmless, organized clutter over the years acquired an edge and morphed into disastrous, hard-core hoarding. I remember running into Gina at the grocery store and hearing about her mother’s disorder. 

“There are so many piles everywhere,” Gina had relayed tearfully. “You can’t turn around without tripping over something. And it smells bad – there are probably mice and insects making nests in all those piles of stuff! The worst part is, she won’t even admit there’s a problem.” 

I’d said that I would be happy to clean the house for free, if her mother would let me. Gina thanked me, but never followed up on the offer. Before too long, Mrs. E had passed and a For Sale sign had been erected unceremoniously in the front yard. 

I was glad that I had tried to reach out to Mrs. E on my own. I’d gone to the house to say hello, but the person who answered the door didn’t look like the woman I remembered. She was wary and disheveled, opening the door only a crack. When I lightly offered to help tidy up the interior, she became agitated and quickly ended the conversation. “Goodbye,” she’d said firmly, not using my name. 

Flash forward to today. Mrs. E is gone, Gina and Tony are living in different states, and now there’s just this old house that no one in the family wants. It used to have so much love in it, but now it sat lonely and neglected. With a heavy heart, I opened a contractor-grade trash bag and started to load it. 

Except there was that aroma again. I whipped out my cell phone and dialed the realtor, who answered on the first ring. 

“Hey Julie,” I said. “Was anyone recently cooking at the Esposito house?” 

Julie gave an amazed laugh. “You must not have made it to the kitchen yet,” she said. “It would be impossible to cook on that stove. It’s covered with trash.” 

“OK,” I said. “It must be someone’s take-out. Are Gina and Tony in town?” 

“No,” replied Julie. “They want to do this sale remotely.” 

“So, who would...?” 

“No idea!” said Julie. “Sorry, hon, I gotta run – call me if you have any problems, OK?” 

I went back to mechanically bagging trash, lost in childhood recollections and imagining what it would be like to clean the house for myself, instead of for some anonymous buyer. After the family room was sorted, I made my way to the kitchen. Yes, it was a mess, but there was still no detectable odor, and I felt oddly cheerful giving the place a good clean-out. I heard strains of Skylar Grey’s cover of “Coming Home” and was soulfully singing along, when I thought, wait, what? Where was the music coming from? 

As soon as I had that thought, the music stopped. Had I imagined it? Or, worse, was someone else in the house? 

“Hello?” I said, sounding stupid to my own ears. 

No one answered, of course, but a kitchen drawer slowly slid open, as though pulled by an invisible hand. I walked over to it and saw that it was stuffed with old “refrigerator art.” The construction paper had faded over the years, and some pipe cleaners and cotton balls had gone missing, but otherwise it was still pretty cute. Gina and I had signed our names at the bottom of each sheet with nine-year-old artistic flourish. 

It was then that I noticed a packet of real estate flyers that Julie must have placed on one of the only clean spots in the kitchen. Curious, I looked one over, and did a double take when I saw the list price. Julie had broken down the monthly payment for a 30-year mortgage, including taxes, insurance, utilities, etc. To my surprise, I could not only manage a twenty percent down payment, but also the monthly nut was less than what I was paying for a crappy apartment across town!  

I’d back-burnered the idea of buying a house, assuming it would be years before I could afford one, but now a slow smile spread across my face. “I could buy this house,” I said out loud. Right on cue, I heard the strains of “Coming Home” in my head again and could smell the marinara at full bubble. 

With shaking fingers, I redialed Julie. 

“Sorry I rushed you off earlier,” answered Julie. “Are you gagging on the smell over there?” 

“I’m not,” I said. “Actually, I don’t smell a thing.” 

“Weird,” said Julie. “That place reeks. You don’t have Covid, do you?” 

“Oh no, I’m fine!” I replied. “It’s just that, I have a very strong urge to buy this house.” 

“What, really?” said Julie. “You understand it’s being sold as is?” 

“I understand,” I said. “I think I can handle it. Can you please let Gina and Tony know that I’m interested?” 

“Absolutely!”  

Within minutes, Julie called me back with good news. “The kids are thrilled you want the house!” she enthused. “They’re so happy it’s going to a friend. It’s already priced to sell, but they’re throwing in an extra ten percent discount, since they assume you’ll be fixing the place yourself.” 

“They assume correctly!” I laughed, feeling very pleased. “That’s so nice.”   

“I’m going to cancel the Open House, so I guess you can stop cleaning,” said Julie. “Or continue. It’s up to you; it will be your house soon!” 

My heart swelled as the kitchen's faded chintz curtains fluttered in agreement.