Cassie Greenberg
A pang of guilt shot through me over how much I’d fudged some of the important details.
For one thing, I’d just told this complete stranger that I was an art teacher. Technically, that was the truth. It’s what I’d studied to be in college, and it isn’t that I didn’t want to teach. But in my junior year of college I fell in love with applied arts and design beyond all hope of reason, and then in my senior year I took a course where we studied Robert Rauschenberg and his method of combining paintings with sculpture work. And that was it for me. Immediately after graduation I threw myself into an MFA in applied arts and design.
I loved every second of it.
Until, of course, I graduated. That’s when I learned, in a hurry, that my artistic vision and my skill set were too niche to appeal to most school districts hiring art teachers. University art departments were more open-minded, but getting anything more stable than a temporary adjunct position at a university was like winning the lottery. I sometimes made extra cash at art shows when someone who, like me, saw a kind of ironic beauty in rusted-out Coke cans worked into seaside landscapes and bought one of my pieces. But that didn’t happen often. So yes: while technically I was an art teacher, most of my income since getting my MFA had come from low-paying, part-time jobs like this one.
None of this made me sound like an appealing potential tenant. Neither did the fact that my references weren’t former landlords—none of whom would have good things to say about me—but just Sam, Scott, and my mom. Even if I was a disappointment to my parents, they wouldn’t want their only child to become homeless.
After a few moments of angsting about it, I decided it didn’t matter if I’d told a few white lies. I closed my eyes and hit send. What was the worst that could happen? This person—a perfect stranger—would find out I’d stretched the truth and wouldn’t let me move in?
I wasn’t sure I wanted the apartment anyway.
I had less than ten minutes to worry about it before I got a reply.
From: Frederick J. Fitzwilliam [[email protected]]
To: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
Subject: Your apartment listing
Dear Miss Greenberg,
Thank you for your kind message expressing interest in my extra room. As mentioned in the advertisement the room is appointed in a modern but tasteful style. I believe, and have been told by others, that it is also quite spacious insofar as spare rooms are concerned. To answer your unasked question: the room remains entirely available, should you remain interested in it. Do let me know at your earliest convenience whether you would like to move in and I will have the necessary paperwork drawn up for your signature.
Yours in good health,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
I stared at that name at the end of the email.
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam?
What kind of name was that?
I read the email again, trying to make sense of it as Marcie pulled out her phone for her daily Facebook scrolling.
So, the person listing the apartment was a guy. Or, at least, someone with a traditionally male name. That didn’t faze me. If I moved in with him, Frederick wouldn’t be the first guy I’d lived with since moving out of my parents’ house.
What did faze me, though, was . . . everything else. The email was so strangely worded and so formal, I had to wonder exactly how old this person was. And then there was the weird assumption that I might be willing to move in sight unseen.
I tried to ignore these misgivings, reminding myself that all I really cared about was that the apartment was in decent shape and that he wasn’t an axe murderer.
I needed to see the place, and meet Frederick J. Fitzwilliam in person, before making up my mind.
From: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
To: Frederick J. Fitzwilliam [[email protected]]
Subject: Your apartment listing
Hi Frederick,
I’m super glad it’s still available. The description sounds great and I’d like to come see it. I’m free tomorrow around noon if that works for you. Also, could you send me a few pictures? There weren’t any with the Craigslist ad, and I’d like to see some before stopping by. Thanks!—Cassie
Once again, I had to wait only a few minutes before receiving a reply.
From: Frederick J. Fitzwilliam [[email protected]]
To: Cassie Greenberg [[email protected]]
Subject: Your apartment listing
Hello again, Miss Greenberg,
You are welcome to visit the apartment. It makes perfect sense that you would wish to see it before making your decision. I am afraid I will be indisposed tomorrow during the noon hour. Might you be free sometime after sundown? I am typically at my best during the evening hours.
Per your request, I have attached photographs of two rooms that you would likely use with frequency should you move in. The first is of my spare bedroom as it is currently decorated. (You may, of course, change the decor however you wish should you decide to live here.) The second photograph is of the kitchen. (I thought I had included both photographs when I placed the advertisement on Craigslist. Perhaps I did it incorrectly?)
Yours in good health,
Frederick J. Fitzwilliam
After reading through Frederick’s email I clicked on the pictures he sent me, and . . .
Whoa.
Whoa.
Okay.
I didn’t know what this dude’s deal was, but he clearly did not live in the same socioeconomic sphere as me. It was also possible we didn’t live in the same century.
This kitchen wasn’t just different from every other kitchen in every other place I’d ever lived.
It looked like it belonged to an entirely different era.
Nothing in it looked like it had been made within the last fifty years. The fridge was oddly shaped, sort of oval at the top and much smaller than most fridges I’d ever seen. It wasn’t silver, or black, or cream—the only colors I’d ever associated with fridges—but rather a very unusual shade of powder blue.
It perfectly matched the oven beside it.
I vaguely remembered seeing appliances like these in an old colorized episode of I Love Lucy I saw when I was a kid. I got an odd, disoriented feeling when I tried to reconcile the idea that an ancient kitchen like this existed in a modern apartment.
So, I decided to stop trying and moved on to the picture of the bedroom. It was big, just like the Craigslist ad said. Somehow, it looked even more old-fashioned than the kitchen. The dresser was gorgeous, made of a dark wood I couldn’t identify, with ornate curlicue carvings along the top and on the handles. It looked like something you might find at an antique show. The large, floral, probably homemade quilt covering the bed did, too.