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By Root 673 0

she’d never seen the overturned sofa in the living room, the dog shit under the grand piano or the moving blanket of roaches that covered all the dishes and pots and pans that were piled in the sink and on the kitchen table. She’d never seen the scrappy old burlap that hung from the walls instead of wallpaper. If Joranne had never come downstairs, she didn’t realize that the stairs themselves were tearing away from the wall and that every time somebody climbed them, they looked like they might come crashing down. I said to Hope,“If Joranne saw the downstairs, what would she do?”

Hope howled. “Oh, she’d absolutely die. It would just kill her. Can you imagine?”

I liked that I hadn’t offended Hope about the house. Somehow the fact that she knew it was kind of gross made it okay that she lived here.

Hope told me that Joranne only left her room to walk into the back bathroom and that nobody else in the house was allowed to use it.

“Really?” What an exclusive, mysterious disease. I wanted it.

Hope began to laugh. When I asked her what was so funny, she laughed harder. Her eyes filled with tears.

“What is it?” I had to know. I loved Hope. Even though she was so old—twenty-eight—she was so much fun. She was the only reason I could stand sitting in Dr. Finch’s waiting room for five hours at a time.

Hope’s laughter wound down and she said,“She eats the sink caulking.”

“The what?” The more I heard, the more incredible this creature became. I liked her very much.

“The sink caulking. You know, that stuff around the sink and between the tiles? She peels it away and then just pops it in her mouth.” Hope broke into laughter again.

All I knew was, I had to see this lady. Now. “Can . . . I mean, is there any way . . .” I wasn’t sure how to ask.

“Would you like to meet her?”

“Yes.” I reached for the box of old croutons and took one out.

“We can try. But she usually doesn’t meet new people.”

A door was slammed. Then Agnes came walking down the creaky stairs. “Oh Joranne, Joranne, Joranne,” she was saying under her breath. She came into the TV room where Hope and I were sitting. “That Joranne is going to drive me insane.”

“What is it now?” Hope said.

“She didn’t like her spoon.”

“What’s the matter with her spoon?”

“She said there was a spot on the spoon I brought her for her soup. I took that spoon and I didn’t see any spot. So I wiped it off on my shirt and handed it back to her and she just closed the door in my face.” She wound her index finger around next to her ear; sign language for crazy.

But I believed Joranne. Unlike her, I’d seen the kitchen. And I was sure that any spoon that came from that mess would have at least one stain. If she only knew. This made me want to meet her even more.

“We’ll go talk to her,” Hope said. She got up from the couch.

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” Agnes warned before walking away. “She’s in rare form tonight. Got every light in the room burning.”

“Never mind that,” Hope said. “Come on, Augusten. Let’s go see her.”

I followed Hope up the stairs but I didn’t like the idea that we were both on the stairs at once. I let her stay three steps ahead.

At the top of the stairs, I stood back in the hallway and Hope knocked on the tall white door.

Nothing.

Hope knocked again.

Nothing.

She glanced over at me like, see? Then she knocked again and said, “Joranne, come on, open up. It’s me, Hope. And I’ve got a friend here I want you to meet. His name is Augusten. He’s twelve and his mother is a poet and you’ll really love him.”

A moment later, the door opened very slowly.

Hope stood up straighter.

A frail old lady peered out into the hall, squinting against the bare lightbulb that was attached to a fixture on the wall. “Who?” she said, sounding exactly like an owl. It came out more like hoooooooo.

“Augusten,” Hope said. Then she turned to me. “Augusten, this is Joranne.”

I moved forward and stuck out my hand for her to shake but she recoiled. So I quickly tucked my hand back at my side and said, “Hi.”

She said “Hello” with great dignity. There was an elegance about her, a certain sophistication.