At that particular moment, the only thing I was trying to organize was a place to live. I’d been fired from my teaching job and I was out of money, so I called my sister for help.

Lindsay made her living teaching the KonMari method of decluttering: discarding objects that do not spark joy, then folding and filing clothes in a particular manner. She promised it could change lives, even mine.

“You need KonMari, Bernadette. Your life is a mess,” she said. She wanted me to beg. So I did.

“Do you have room? I swear it will be temporary. I’ll find work as quickly as I can. It would really help me. Please?”

She extracted a promise from me: that I would comb through my belongings and throw out anything unnecessary. By the end of the phone call, I was also responsible for cleaning her place.

“It needs dusting and vacuuming every day. No exceptions. You up to that?”

“Sounds like a deal,” I replied.

Honestly, what it sounded like to me was overkill, but I was desperate for a roof and a bed, and I knew we’d get along better in person. Lindsay’s place was a biggish bungalow in our hometown: three bedrooms with a den in the basement. It was big enough for her, some remnants of her childhood, and me. I moved into the now-empty room our parents had used before they died, piling an apartment’s worth of bins and boxes in with the memories.

Lindsay wasted no time, and she did not let me dawdle when it came to downsizing. On day one, we piled my clothes on the floor and went through them item by item. In the end, I owned two shirts, a vest, a skirt, a pair of pants and my underthings. Everything was grey or black. My t-shirt collection was gone, as were the worn-out runners and running medals I’d kept on display at my old place.

My sister is good at her job. She made shedding objects feel great.

From clothes, we moved on to cooking utensils. We tossed the cheap spatula and retained the expensive one. We kept our best kitchen gadgets: blender, mixer, toaster. Dishes were more diﬃcult.

“Hey-Nicole gave me that in grade three. Keep that.”

“Who?”

“My friend with the bionic woman doll?”

“I don’t remember.”

“She gave me that mug.”

Turned out Lindsay had been carrying the cup when she heard she’d been expelled from university. After a short debate and a bright yellow smash, it was gone.

Lindsay called out warmly to the women behind the counter each time we arrived at the charity shop with our discards: unused sheets, old sweaters, the teddy bear collection I’d carried around for 20 years. That was the most diﬃcult moment of tidying: carrying those bears into the shop, doing my best not to look into their betrayed button eyes. Ignoring Lindsay, I kept one bear, a tiny red one with a black ribbon around its neck – the one my Grandpa had given me to start my collection.

Other than that, I was converted.

Lindsay and I had settled into a vigorous routine of tidying by the time Grandpa called to ask if he could move in. He’d run out of money, and neither Lindsay nor I could aﬀord to subsidize his apartment. After a slight hesitation Lindsay said yes, but she was not pleased.

“He has all those collections.” She rolled her eyes.

We decided that he and his collections could live in the basement.

Grandpa started calling several times a day to update Lindsay on his progress and ask for help with packing.

“He wants more boxes and bubble wrap for his tchotchkes,” she said, jabbing their third phone call of the day to an end. She wrinkled her nose and headed out to the box store.

To avoid parking fees at his retirement home, Grandpa had been parking his vintage Mercedes in Lindsay’s driveway for years. She used the vehicle for work, zipping from clients’ houses to Goodwill to the dump. That car was probably the only thing Grandpa ever brought to the house that she liked. She said it had value.

On move-in day, he spent some time brushing leaves oﬀ the roof of the car, humming, before he started unpacking.

“Nice polish job on the car,” he smiled. I was happy he had noticed.

Grandpa set to settling in. Within a day there were not only shelves in his basement room, but also at the end of the upstairs hallway. On day two he laid out his plates, Hummels, porcelain saints, and souvenirs. I helped, doing some preemptive dusting and watching the door nervously for Lindsay’s return.

“Remember these worry dolls you got me, Bear?”

Grandpa was the only person to have ever given me a nickname. I looked at the dolls. Dusting them was going to suck, but our conversation felt great.

“Here’s their box.” He held out a yellow wooden oval to me, pointing at a blurry marker scratch on the lid. “Says: ‘To Granpa.’ Your handwriting has really improved over the last 20 years, eh? And your spelling.”

I nodded.

Lindsay and I called Grandpa “grandpa” to his face. To let oﬀ steam, we called him Jerry. We vented about Jerry while folding laundry. The guy would not KonMari his crap. Lindsay mentioned the idea at every meal. Jerry never reacted, just silently swallowed his dinner and headed downstairs to gaze at his statues. Eventually, I’d go keep him company. Lindsay stayed upstairs, upright on the couch, reading. She never touched his stuﬀ.

Daily dusting of Grandpa’s collections took time and kept me fromlooking for work. With three of us living on Lindsay’s earnings there was no mad money, so Lindsay and I amused ourselves with KonMari, choosing ever-more specific household subcategories to sort and discard. Jerry wandered through our sessions, muttered about waste, then went for his daily walks to Goodwill and the drugstore, capping his afternoons with visits to the still-living friends who inhabited the squat retirement home at the north end of Main Street. He’d return at suppertime, laden with bits and pieces he collected on his rounds. One evening he returned with a jacket pocket stuﬀed with crocheted dishrags.

“My friends make these to kill time in the afternoons. Passed them along for you. Who doesn’t need dish rags?” He tossed them on the kitchen counter.

“In fact,” he crowed, “and you won’t believe this, those ladies want to teach me to crochet. Imagine that.”

He walked away humming. Lindsay and I rolled our eyes at each other.

Not long after, Lindsay arrived home from an afternoon KonMari consultation, livid.

“People are too attached to their stuﬀ. They fired me for tossing too much,” she said. “And our yard is full of trash.”

She gave me a stare.

Knowing better than to delay, I grabbed a bag and my coat and got to work. Her bad mood must have colored her vision because when I got out into the yard, there was almost no garbage. I retrieved a coﬀee cup, a Popsicle stick, and a chip bag from the lawn, and walked the trash to the garbage cans out back. Five minutes later, I was standing in the kitchen alongside my sullen sister. Grandpa was in the den.

As money got tighter, Lindsay became convinced that KonMari was the answer, if she could just explain to people how it could help them. And not just at home. She arranged meetings with town council about beautifying the downtown core. In the end, the mayor’s wife hired Lindsay to help her declutter their family home, but there was no change on Main Street.

My sister’s compulsion was contagious. She was right about KonMari. My life might have fallen apart, but tidying up gave me a real sense of control.

Lindsay was all smiles with her few clients, but at home she was a grouch.

Each night, when Jerry headed downstairs, Lindsay rushed to gather anything he hadn’t taken with him.

“Tonight’s category: things left around the house on the evening of February 28th,” she’d say, tossing half-read magazines, a paper cup, and slippers into a garbage bag.

“I wish we could clear out this town,” she said, staring over her tea. She pushed the stack of new dishcloths around the counter with her index finger.

“We don’t need more of these,” she said. I had to agree. My sister is assertive.

“Hey girls, where are my boots?” Jerry’s timing was impeccable. “In the garage,” said Lindsay, glaring at the dishcloths.

“Quit moving my things around. I never know if they’re even around anymore. There’s room in the entryway. I love those boots.” He marched through the kitchen on his way out somewhere. He left the door slightly ajar and cold air snaked in and brushed my neck.

Lindsay narrowed her eyes and waited until the outer screen door had bounced to a standstill.

“I’m serious. We should clear out this goddamn town.”

“What?”

I didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Sort it out. You know, tidy it up.” She picked up the crocheted dishrags. Her eyes lit up. “How about this? Tonight’s category is buildings.”

“What?”

“’What’, ‘What’,” she said. “What’s wrong with you? You know what I mean. Sort it out. Tidy it up.”

She picked up a crocheted dishrag and waved it at me. “Do we still have lighter fluid?”

She had a glow in her eye; I felt a little spark of excitement and smiled.

“Yes,” I said.

My sister has the best ideas.

We settled on what had been a gym in the early 80s and was now an insurance agency ripping oﬀ everyone in town. Shoulder to shoulder on Main Street we squirted lighter fluid on the dishrags and stuﬀed them against a window frame. Lindsay smoked now and then, so she had a lighter in her purse.

To my surprise, the initial burst of flame actually caught on some insulation protruding at the edge of the window.

“Fire retardant, my ass,” I said. But Lindsay wasn’t listening, she was watching as the flames grew.

We were too nervous to stick around so we headed home; we were in front of the TV with chips when we finally heard the fire truck. Jerry tracked in ashes when he got home.

We had a mission: our town would be our own private, pleasant, organized place. It was nice to get along for a change.

Three months after the insurance agency fire, the insurance agent was working out of the car dealership, and no one had bought the lot. No one had paid to clear it, either. What was happening was a lot of discussion at the old folks home about who even owned the property. No one could quite remember, and the deed for that parcel was a mess. I didn’t care. The burned cinderblocks, beams, and partly melted oﬃce chair were pleasing to me: organized, but burnt to a crisp. I got

a rush every time I saw it. Lindsay was pissed.

“No one takes care of anything,” she muttered whenever she caught a glimpse of the lot.

My sister is intense.

With instruction from the ladies at the old folks home, Grandpa made stacks of dishrags. His big hands manipulated the crochet hook like a shovel.

Lindsey pursed her lips, and he ignored her.

Lindsay learned some new folding methods. As she showed me how to fold old-man underpants into envelope-sized rectangles, we talked about Jerry. We talked about what we would do when he was gone. By the end of the conversation, Lindsay had folded the shorts down to almost nothing. My sister is remarkable.

We needed more money. I reduced my dusting to look for work. KonMari workshops were not a repeat proposition. The power got cut oﬀ until we made a payment. In mid-February, a shed down the lane burned down. I started keeping the small teddy bear with me.

Grandpa was slowing down. He started easing himself down the stairs at the end of the hall after our suppers.

“It’s getting harder for him to get around, eh Lindsay?” Lindsay was glaring at his crumb-dusted placemat. She wasn’t listening. “You know what messes this place up?”

She mimed crocheting.

I had to agree. It had been a long time since Grandpa had done much but move his stuﬀ around and complain.

“This spring I’m changing things,” she said, snatching up his plate and heading for the kitchen.

Grandpa came down with a terrible case of eczema. His GP recommended a visit to a city dermatologist.

“The bus isn’t running, but we can use your car. The appointment is Wednesday. That’s tomorrow,” Lindsay shouted at Grandpa.

“I’m not deaf,” said Grandpa. He scratched the rash on his arm. “Do you have to go?” I was suddenly worried.

Lindsay stared at me like I should zip it.

“We might have to stay a few days, okay, Grandpa?” Lindsay turned to me. “You can hold down the fort here.”

I nodded.

“Okay, I’ll pack a few things,” Grandpa pushed up from the table. “Where’s my suitcase?”

“Your suitcase is gone. There’s a cloth bag in the closet by the door.

We can leave tomorrow morning,” said Lindsay, sharply. Lindsay’s mood brightened as she detailed the car.

“Your sister might be getting into automobiles, Bear,” said Grandpa, nudging my arm. I nodded, but I was worried.

Lindsay was in the driver’s seat at seven a.m. Grandpa tossed his bag in the trunk. I had tucked my bear in there for luck. He might need it.

I saw Lindsay wince as Grandpa wedged his wrinkled, itchy, flaky self into the passenger seat.

Lindsay hadn’t told me exactly, but I figured she was going to drop him oﬀ in the woods somewhere along the way. It was a guess though. While folding his undies, we had joked that at his age, a cold night should be enough.

Whatever was about to happen, I couldn’t stop her. I wasn’t pleased, but I was looking forward to rearranging the den.

Jerry had been nervous about going to the city doctor.

“At my age, there’s no good news,” he’d repeated the line to the folks at the Goodwill, the drugstore, the old folks home. The joke got a great reception every time. No one expected him back for at least a week. It was a long way to the city, no need to rush back to town.

I rehearsed my lines, and they were true: Lindsay was taking Grandpa to the doctor.

It had all seemed funny over the laundry basket.

“We can get started on the basement,” she’d said. “You draft a list of categories.”

Happy to be talking with my sister, I had made some up: statues, eczema creams, slippers.

It all seemed too simple. She couldn’t really be doing this. My sister is hateful.

Grandpa leaned his head out the window of the car toward me. “Bye,” he winked. My chin trembled.

“Bye.”

The car lurched out of the driveway.

I decided to stop cleaning. The first evening, I hung out downstairs, adjusting figurines. By the end of the second day, there were crumbs on the counters. I left books on the floor and stuﬀed unfolded clothes into the dresser. I stopped dusting. I got lonely.

A week later, when the glassware dulled, I started to worry. Maybe Lindsay and Grandpa had taken oﬀ without me. Jerry could be convincing, and Lindsay would be glad to reduce her obligations. I surveyed the house and its contents. Where was Lindsay? I remembered my lines: taking Jerry to the doctor. I started panicking. Where was she?

Each morning, I made a pilgrimage past the burned out insurance agency on my way to the employment oﬃce.

When my phone rang, I thought maybe it was a job. It was Jerry. “I’m calling from the gas station.” He always liked to fill up before getting home. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I sat on the sofa picking at the upholstery until I heard the car pull up, and the click of the front door.

I lugged myself to the entryway. Bright flecks of dust glowed against the floor in the afternoon light. This wouldn’t do if Lindsay were here.

Grandpa’s cardigan was stretched out at the elbows. He smelled of coﬀee, sweat, dust, and exhaustion. The car was parked in its usual spot. It was filthy.

His eyes swept the living room as he stepped in past me, stomping down the hallway to the bathroom. There was mud on his pant cuﬀs. I needed to clear up this place before Lindsay got back.

The toilet flushed.

“Where’s the extra razor? I lost my bag.”

“I’ll get you one. Run yourself a bath and I’ll be back.”

He grunted assent. I slid a handful of loonies and toonies from a pile of change on the counter and headed for the drugstore, where I grabbed some of those strangely sturdy-looking blue-handled disposable razors, a discounted bath pouf for Grandpa, and a scented candle for myself. I paid up and headed home.

“Hi,” I called from outside the bathroom door. “Here are your things.”

Grandpa reached around the bathroom door to take the bag. His lips were pressed together, and he was lathering his cheeks with soap.

“Have you cleared out the den yet?” He pulled the door open. “No, I like that stuﬀ.”

“Your sister didn’t.”

“No, not really,” I paused. “Where is she?”

“It was time to let her go.”

He looked at me, then reached a soapy hand into his pocket and handed me my bear.

—

KonMari Your Family was first published in The Carolina Quarterly, issue 66.3, Spring/Summer 2017 and was selected for honorable mention in the Glimmer Train Stories Short Story Award for New Writers.