3
They carried the boxes in without any problems. The straight-backed dining chairs too, and the dinette table. The bookcases. The bed frame. The mattress and the box spring.
It was mild for November, and Tean was sweating, turning to wipe his forehead on his shoulder, trying to keep his glasses clear.
In the backyard, Scipio was conducting a full inspection of the fence, of the lilacs, and of every suspicious tuft of grass.
And then they got to the sofa.
It was too wide for the front door.
“Flip it on its side,” Jem said.
It still wouldn’t fit.
“I mean it’s other side,” Jem informed Tean.
But it wouldn’t fit that way either.
The back was too high. And the feet stuck out too far.
“If these came off,” Jem said.
“They don’t,” Tean said.
“I know,” Jem said, with a hint of waspishness that was distinctly un-Jem.
“That’s why I said if.” He hoisted the sofa, shifting its weight so that he could mop his forehead.
He had nice shoulders, great arms—not like the gym gays, but solid and strong and real, which was so much better. “Let’s try the back.”
So, they made their way around the house, Jem walking backwards with the sofa—when Tean suggested changing his grip so he could face forward, Jem pretended not to hear him.
At the gate, Jem did that casual hoist of the sofa again so that he could fumble the latch, and then a moment later he was shouting, “No, Scipio, no! Get back in the yard!”
“Scipio!” Tean added.
Scipio, for his part, was weaving around and between Jem’s legs, sniffing ferociously, his tail alternately thumping Jem’s thigh and the gate.
With some gentle squishing and nudging, Jem worked the dog backward into the yard.
Then they were moving again, and once they were through the gate, Tean kicked it shut behind him.
Scipio chose that moment to show off for them—sprinting as fast as he could from one side of the yard to the other, over and over again.
“Guess he likes the yard,” Jem said with a grunt.
Tean didn’t answer.
When they got to the back door, Jem said, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
The first drop of sweat had gotten on the inside of Tean’s glasses.
“How can it be smaller?” Jem asked.
“I guess we try the front door again,” Tean said.
“We already tried the front door.”
Tean counted to five before he said, “What do you want to do?”
The air seemed to vibrate for several seconds. And then Jem said, “Let’s take it around front.”
They made it about ten feet before Jem shouted, “Fuck!”
“What? What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. God fucking damn it.”
“What?”
“I stepped in dog shit.”
On the other side of the yard, Scipio was starting to dig.
“I’m sorry, Jem,” Tean said.
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
“I’ll clean your shoes.”
“You don’t have to clean them. God, Tean, it’s not your fault.” But Jem added a moment later, “These are my favorite ROOS.”
They were both stressed. They were both tired.
It had all been a lot: making an offer on the house, figuring out financing, watching Tean’s already small bank account dwindle while additional expenses—packing supplies, the moving truck, the inspection—started to mount.
And that was before the long, grueling process of boxing up everything in Tean’s apartment, years’ worth of accumulated living, and realizing just how much junk he actually had.
And to Jem’s credit, he didn’t say, This is why I wanted to buy a new sofa.
He didn’t say, This is why we should have hired movers.
Both points on which they had disagreed. And disagreements that had veered dangerously close—for the two of them, anyway—to arguments.
When they got to the front door, Jem kicked off his shoes. He wanted to try the sofa on its side again, but after a couple of minutes, he said, “Fuck it. I’m going to see if one of the neighbors has a saw I can borrow; maybe we can shave off a little of the feet.”
They set the sofa down. Tean wiped his glasses—his new glasses, the ones Jem had gotten him. And as he watched Jem pad down the driveway in nothing but his socks, he said, “Jem, no. You’re right. Let’s just leave it out here, and we’ll have someone pick it up. We’ll get a new one.”
Jem hesitated, but he gave a weary shake of his head. “Be right back.”
Tean sat. It was one of those days when the sky was a gray, featureless sheet, and the mountains looked like they’d been snipped off.
And then, not really thinking about it, he gave one of the sofa’s feet an experimental yank.
It turned.
About twelve turns later, it came off.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Tean said to the empty front yard.
Jem was coming down from the porch of the house next to them—apparently, without any success. Tean shouted, “Jem!”
Shoulders slumped, Jem made his way back.
Tean held up the sofa foot he’d removed. And then he smiled.
Jem started to laugh first, and they ended up sitting on the ground next to each other, Jem with an arm around Tean as they leaned against the sofa. After a while, when Jem wasn’t laughing anymore, he kissed the side of Tean’s head.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get this bitch inside.”
Tean nodded. And as they got to their feet, he said, “But maybe don’t say bitch.”