The bulb flickers and then feebly remains on, an effigy of light that creaks down the stairs. The rest is exposed beams, vents, and junk. Thirty-three years of art supplies, camping equipment, winter boots, air conditioning units. Other basements don’t look like this.
Upstairs, the smell of dog hair, and he watches the news and reads a book with his feet kicked up on the sofa.
“We should rent a dumpster,” I say.
He nods.
“Do you want to keep anything?”
He shakes his head and mouths, “no.” I know that he will do the work, his arms strong enough to carry one-half of a dead horse.
I find a phone book underneath the dark oak piece of furniture, where wine glasses and flowered plates wait to be set out for next-year’s Thanksgiving. I search for “Dumpsters,” pass through a section on demolition, and wonder if it might be easier to send in a bulldozer to wipe the land clean, and push the entire place somewhere else, like up the road to the school’s parking lot, or into Mrs. Simms’ flowerbed.
I sit down next to his feet and stare at the television. The dog drudges over and pushes its grey and brown head into my lap.
“I don’t want to do this today,” I tell him. “Maybe tomorrow.”
He says, “I think the dog needs to be walked. He wouldn’t leave me alone.”
The leash hangs on a hook in the coat closet, along with jackets, hats and gloves. All of it will need to be thrown away.