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She handed Michael a voucher for the airport
Days Inn
.
As far as we were concerned, it could have been the Ritz.
☼ ☼ ☼
The next day, once we finally got back to the island, we hardly knew where to begin.
Although Jane's helpers had already moved our belongings from her garage into the
downstairs level (along with several pieces we'd decided to relocate from upstairs), the
men had done little more than pile the furniture into the newly-refurbished space.
It was a daunting prospect. Plastic-shrouded mattresses lay like beached whales across
dusty consoles and rattan chairs; brooms and mops nestled untidily in the corners; boxes of
every size and shape filled in the blanks.
In short, it was a near-solid wall of chaos.
We began by moving all the boxes out onto the breezeway. There Michael opened
each one in no particular order, sorted their contents, and bagged the guts (usually
environmentally-unfriendly styrofoam peanuts). Then he broke down the boxes and
flattened them for the garbage men.
Back inside, in the ninety-plus degree heat, I began my task by carving out a provisional
passageway from the main door straight through to the garden door on the opposite wall.
After all, nothing could be accomplished until we were able to move back and forth more
freely through the space. Then I began edging each piece of furniture towards its ultimate
destination.
It was like dancing with elephants.
By early afternoon Michael had unpacked all the boxes and stowed their con-
tents—everything from shower curtain to blender—towards the front of the main room,
where the dining table and chairs would eventually be placed.
In the meantime, I had managed to scoot, coax and finesse the larger items into their in-
tended rooms, with occasional help from Michael for the heavier pieces. By mid-afternoon
the beds in both bedrooms had been assembled (twins in the back, queen-size in the front)
and made up. We had even taken the time to hang a few pictures.
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