The Cohabitants 8

Until that moment when Moon bounded out of the car at the man’s place on the hill, it had not occurred to her how much her dog missed their former rural life. She thought he had settled into Portland after a couple years in their apartment, using an elevator, walking cement sidewalks, playing in dog parks. She hadn’t given a thought to his desire for sprinting after prey, nose to the ground, inhaling the marks of deer, the fox den beneath the blackberry bushes, the coyote poo, feral cat musk. He was in his glory in this new place. Seeing how much he missed the farm made her feel like crying. She missed the farm, too. 

So, she was already in a vulnerable state of mind when she entered the man’s house and got her first look at his living space, a tableau of random low budget materialism with a fine patina of I-don’t-give-a-fuck. There was no five-thousand-dollar Italian leather couch. No coffee table. Just a ratty armchair and a grungy futon couch on beige carpeting blotched with stains. She averted her eyes and sat down on a wooden chair at his kitchen table, reflexively aligning the salt and pepper shakers in front of her and adjusting her placemat to be evenly spaced from the edge.

Scanning his home made her dizzy. She had heard of man caves, but she had not been in one, not long enough to contemplate the arrangement of things, the presentation of utility as status, the middle finger to decor. His living room was strewn with the artifacts of his existence—a tangle of clothes like kelp stranded on the beach, curious knots of plastic and AA batteries, framed snapshots and dusty pinecones, electronic remotes like slugs creeping toward the gaping armchair, habits animated by merchandising and a bleeding wallet, unmarried condiments, an overbearing microwave, breadcrumbs and a smear of butter on the counter, coffee mugs and plates stacked precariously in a dry sink without a sponge. Her eyes groped for a sponge. 

He obviously hadn’t bothered to clean his house for her. Was he making a statement with this mess? Disorder could be rebellion. Was this his way of communicating with her? Disorder could be rejection. Was being tidy elitist? He could be making a not-so-subtle comment on social class. Was he passive aggressive? Maybe he was testing her. Did he need chaos the way she needed order? Was there an insult buried in his obvious lack of preparation for her arrival? Or maybe he’s just been alone too long. 

She was a control freak triggered by issues of cleaning and neatness, symmetry and the physical coherence of process and purpose. Chaos gave her anxiety. Cleaning gave her comfort. Her relationship zombies rose from their graves and waltzed to the melody of her foolishness while her hands were drawn to the sink as a vampire is drawn uncontrollably to warm blood. She could feel the pull in her chest. Her arms were lifted by a desire for sudsy water and dish soap. Her fingers squeezed at the empty air where a wet sponge would fulfill her craving for order. 

She wanted to say, “Could you please wait outside for a couple hours while I clean this place? I really need to clean. Come back this afternoon and we’ll pick up where we left off a month ago when you hugged me. But right now, I need to wipe down your stove and put your spices in alphabetical order.”

Seeing her sit at the table, he appeared to take it as a sign that she was hungry and offered her a beverage. Did she want a drink? 

Hell, yes, she thought. I’ll have the entire bottle. Don’t bother with a glass. 

He had Gatorade. 

“Water would be nice.” 

She couldn’t believe she quit drinking for this. The only thing that could compensate for this room was a bottle with her name on it. She stood up and asked for the bathroom. It was on the right at the end of the hall beside the washer and dryer. The mention of him doing laundry gave her a brief glimmer of hope. But across from the bathroom was the bedroom where his unmade bed was a mangle of brown sheets with the mattress exposed. Brown sheets. By the time she finished all thoughts of romance were mortified. This was an apocalypse.

She sat at the table again, her fingers played with the placemat while she sipped her glass of water, watching him take plastic bags out of the refrigerator to make her a burrito for lunch. Frozen chicken chunks and grated cheese rolled up in a tortilla and heated in the microwave. Voila! Lunch was served with a paper napkin on a paper plate. It was the worst burrito she had ever eaten. But chewing gave her time to think. 

He was living like a hermit. There was a package of paper napkins on his kitchen table right beside a twenty-pound bag of birdseed. Sunflower seeds sprinkled out of the bag onto the floor where she saw what she thought was squirrel shit trailing from the open kitchen door outside to the deck. 

The deck. She stood up and went outside onto a platform set six feet above the sloping lawn, large enough for a hot tub and a table and chairs. Three different types of birdfeeders dangled from a pole. He came out to join her and watched as she appreciated the view, a thirty mile expanse of emerald valley with the Coastal Range to the west and the beginnings of the Cascade Mountains to the east. It was a king’s view. Finally, she understood. “This view is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” 

“But you’re up here all alone.”

He nodded.

She thought about how their first meeting was a walk in the forest. She had not seen him in anything more formal than a t-shirt. He was obviously a wash and wear guy. Stains seemed to be theme. Holding up a living fish by the gills for a commemorative photograph was his idea of success. This hill was his paradise. Of course it was. The property was magnificent. Finally the puzzle became a picture. 

“So, you’ve been looking for a woman who would like to live up here.” She watched his face for a reaction.

He matched her gaze. “For some people, the view isn’t enough. The isolation is scary.”

He was right. They were alone in the forest with the big house empty and no neighbors in sight. She could feel the wild all around them. Living in his cabin on this hill was one step above camping. For seven years, she had lived alone on a dead end gravel road at the edge of a forest. He knew that. Now she suspected getting her up on this hill had been his plan all along. She was his mail-order bride. Without saying the words, he was asking her if she could live here