A Happy, Happy Agent

A Happy, Happy Agent

“Hi! You must be Kathy! And you,” the chipper real estate agent points at my name tag, “you must be Scott!” I laugh along and nod, but with a quick glance at Kath, no one’s called her Kathy since Pre-K, I can tell she’s about ready to tap out of this tour. 

“I am,” Kath says through gritted teeth, she extended her hand to Lisa, our frizzy haired, red-headed agent. It is typical to have a personal agent for houses, but apartment complexes typically came with one, as shown by our guide standing in the doorway ahead of us. Lisa shakes her hand vigorously. Kath looks at me, and in an attempt to divert attention from herself she says, “and Bingo! You’re right again, this is Scott.”

You might’ve thought it was Christmas morning with the way that Lisa’s face lights up. Not only did she get one name correct, she got both! I put aside the fact that all three of our name tags are largely and proudly displaying our names. 

Lisa gestures for us to come inside the building. I assume she got tired of holding the heavy glass door. I don’t mind at all, as it is a crisp November morning, and our walk over here consisted of trading back and forth the one jacket we have. As soon as we stepped inside, we’re met with a warm blast of air that makes Kath shed our coat. I reach for it to help her out and ask Lisa where the coat rack was. She nodded behind me, and as I turn, I’m finally able to see this future apartment building I might call home. 

It is new, it is safe, and most importantly, it is cheap. Two months ago, we might have been looking for a new house with a private, brunette, neat looking agent, but a lot can change in two months. In two months, your only son can rob you and your esteemed wife of everything less of your reputation. 

Regardless, the building is safe, and safe could keep us away from Nigel, my “son,” as loosely as the word comes. A few cameras pointed towards the clear door. I would just have to inform the security guards of the issues involving my son. A mix of modern gray and white seats surrounded a glass gas fireplace, with a very chic and shiny bar just a few feet away. Nigel would have raided the place in 10 minutes flat, leaving only broken bottles in his wake, as he did with our last house. Despite my opinion, my wife has been very firm on not pressing charges on him. She feels for him. I also feel for him, a lot more hatred than she does.

The complex is much more upper-class hotel than an affordable apartment complex, but I trust the listing and Lisa and follow her on to the elevator. 

The elevators, of course, had glass doors and a multitude of buttons. Lisa presses 12. “This was built just three years ago, yeah! So, the unit I’m showing you today is a two bedroom, maybe one for a nursery,” Lisa pretends to ponder. Kath scoffs. I reach for her hand, but she holds it firm in her stiff skirt pocket, not about to let me take it. 

“I’m sorry, did I offend you?” Lisa asks, looking at me, not my very offended wife.

“No, of course not,” I say just as Kath rolls her eyes, so I say a little firmer, “Kathy just has a tickle in her throat.” 

“I’m sure I could make you a tea in your new apartment, how else to make it feel like home?” Lisa swoons. 

“I think I’ll be alright,” Kath clarifies. 

The elevator dings and through the glass door I see a kitchen. No, I should clarify. A marble countertop, with a bottle of champagne already next to two glasses in the center. The doors make a gentle ding as Lisa unlocks the door and we exit. She is excited to show us the double farmers sink, or the washer dryer, or something else. The only thing I notice, though, is the soft white carpet that my work shoe sinks into. I like it. It muffled the noise of the ginger yakking away, no matter how wholeheartedly. Kath, I know, doesn’t care about a washer dryer, she just wants the assurance that her own son won’t stab her in the back again. 

We had come home that night, two months ago, after a nice dinner with a family friend. We had just dropped off Nigel, our miracle baby, at Yale for his first year, and were celebrating with our life long friends. As art collectors, we tried to keep Nigel as out of the public as possible. I never wanted him to get anything for free because of the status of his parents, and likewise, I didn’t want any harm to come to him. We came home, slightly tipsy after a night of slow sipping fine wines and rums, to our door completely busted open, glass shattered everywhere. Every step deeper into my own house I took, I saw more and more glass and nothing else. There was no art on the walls, no center pieces on the tables. We looked at the cameras and it was Nigel. Neither of us could really believe this, but the cameras didn’t lie. He has been trying to get in contact with us since, but seeing as we have been living in a completely barren, broken mansion the past two months, we haven’t gotten to that part in the forgiveness process yet. 

Kath was more hurt about this than myself. She is apprehensive about moving to a place that Nigel won’t find, though I’m not convinced he won’t. 

Lisa clears her happy little throat, “So, shall we move into the bedrooms? I would love to show you the amount of space the walk-in has, and I know this is only a rental, but maybe soon it’ll be permanent!”

“Yeah, maybe,” Kath said shortly. I know she wants to be home again, whatever our home was. We move into a hallway decorated with cliché quotes and pictures of families that I don’t know. The walls are white, unnervingly white, in a way that hurts my eyes. I squint. Kathy looks at me with an odd look, so I shake my head at her, letting her know that I’m A-okay. 

Before she gets to the door to the bedroom, Lisa stands with her back facing us. She is holding onto the ornate copper doorknob. “May I say something Miss Kath?” She asks, spitting out the nickname that I have only heard sung like a prayer. 

“Excuse me?” My daring wife isn’t caught off guard in the slightest bit, and stands up a little taller. 

“I’ve been nothing but sweet to you all afternoon and you spit out rude comments after dismissive ones. It's no wonder that Nigel-“ Kath has taken a few slow steps towards her. Each step Lisa got quieter and quieter until they were nose to nose and “Nigel” whispered out. 

“What do you have to say about my son? Who are you? How do you know him?” Each word that came out was defined and emphasized that got the message across: Leave. Lisa’s confidence evaporates under my wife’s crystal blue eyed stare. 

“Just, go in, I’m sorry,” the redhead chokes out. Kath doesn’t say another word to her, she couldn’t be bothered to waste her breath. Lisa twisted the doorknob and sent herself falling in, while Kath elegantly stepped over to see what was sitting on the gray quilted king size bed. 

“N…n…Nigel?” Kath sputtered. 

“I don’t even know what to say, son, who’s this? Why are you here? How did you find us?” I’m most worried about the poor girl who has gotten herself tied up with my hooligan son. 

“Mom. Dad. Let me explain,” Nigel said calmly. Too calmly.