The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Ten LIV

Chapter Ten

L IV

I’ve outdone myself; everything here feels perfect. The hardwood’s gleaming, the surfaces sparkle, and the staging is on-point. This place looks like it stepped straight out of Pinterest.

When I landed this listing two months ago, the owners wanted to put the home up for sale as is. They’d seen how hot the market had been and assumed the ride hadn’t ended. Had it been circa 2020 to 2022, they’d have been right to list without the tweaks—people were so desperate to leave the city that they were willing to put in the sweat equity themselves for a taste of the suburbs.

At the height of the pandemic, people snapped up homes sight unseen, with bidding wars that went many thousands of dollars over asking price. You could have set a cardboard box on a weed-choked lot and people would have lined up with their printed-out Zillow listings to tour it. But that was before interest rates went up. Unfortunately, people aren’t buying as much now, because they’re not anxious to sell and lose their 3 percent rate. So the market has stagnated and upgrades and staging are now essential.

I knew that if these owners let me guide them, we could get this house up to speed and list at a far higher asking price. I convinced them to refinish the floors, paint over their mauve walls in a color that honors the home’s history, and update the brass fixtures. It’s made all the difference. Persuading them to put their vintage collectibles in storage was the coup de grace. Now the place feels fresh and modern instead of like the haunted doll museum it was.

There were a lot of dolls.

Like, a lot .

I’m such a sucker for a Craftsman-style home. If I’m out and I see a Craftsman I love, I will literally go to the door and try to talk to the homeowner. Armed with an extensive knowledge of neighborhood comps and true enthusiasm, you’d be surprised at how many people will talk to you. Half my listings are this style.

I love the simplicity of this gracious abode. There’s something approachable and friendly about its low-pitched triangular roof. Inside, the exposed beams and rafters give everything a warm and inviting feel, and the large windows flood the home with light. (I’m practically writing the MLS listing again!) But this is a home where kids and dogs would happily roam, stylish yet functional and comfortable. The covered front porch is welcoming, with rocking chairs and hanging ferns. I just want to sit out there with a glass of lemonade and chat up all the neighbors. This seems like the kind of neighborhood where the block party would be lit, and no one would try to sneak relish into the egg salad.

I’m hosting an open house, which is not the most effective use of my time, but the sellers wanted it and I couldn’t say no. Trevor wasn’t wrong about the kind of clientele who frequent these. My serious buyers will make appointments to see the listing when they can take their time and tour the space in private. The majority of the people who show up on Sundays are just looking for snacks after church and they don’t have a Costco membership. If I’m very lucky, I get some nosy neighbors. I love when they show up—I can give them my card and see if they have any friends looking to move into the neighborhood. And sometimes when they see how much I’m listing Bobby and Suzy’s house for, they want in on the action! But largely, the Open House sign adorned with all the balloons is like a homing signal for the bored, hungry, and weird.

Ever since the robbery, I’ve been worrying more about my safety when I’m at these things alone. I have pepper spray and emergency settings on my phone activated. I hope that’s enough, at least until I get better at all the self-defense moves Zeus promises to teach us.

I pull a beautiful cheese platter from the fridge. It’s displayed on a marble cutting board and adorned with all the fixings—seeded crackers, a briny olive assortment, sweet fig jam, and salty Marcona almonds. I place it next to the bottles of water with my picture and contact info on them. You’d be surprised how much business I’ve gotten because of these, and they cost less than sixty cents apiece! They’re the best marketing dollars I’ve ever spent. I arrange for my waters to be handed out where people are hot and thirsty, like at the finish line of a 5K, at the lakefront, and in dog parks. (I learned this from my real estate TikTok idol, Glennda Baker.) One lady held on to a bottle for almost a year because she knew she wanted me to help her sell when she was ready. She’d gone running and forgotten her CamelBak and said my water felt like a lifesaver.

I arrange the MLS printouts next to a guest book and the cheese on the kitchen island. I fan out napkins and my business cards, then carefully realign a hanging picture by the front door, which suddenly flies open. In rushes a haggard-looking family, the parents in matching Mountain Dew tank tops and four children in various stages of disrepair, all with dirty hands. A mangy dog trails behind them on a rope leash. It snarls at me as it passes.

“Hi, welcome, I’m Liv, thanks for coming!” As jumpy as I’ve been since the attempted robbery, I’m prepared for this kind of chaos. It’s as inevitable as the tides. I’ll still do my song and dance because I never want to make assumptions based on appearances. I mean, Balenciaga had a runway look made from trash bags last year; you just never know.

The mother barely even glances at me as she breezes past, saying, “Chet, I’m gonna see if there’s a medicine cabinet here.” The children swarm the cheese platter, and the father pulls a Busch Light from the pocket of his cargo shorts.

Okay, sometimes you know.

Chet, the dad, sidles up to me. I tell him, “So glad you’re here. This place is a gem, freshly updated, so I’d love for you to see—”

The father leers at my chest. “I already like what I see.”

I put one hand on my pepper spray and wrap my blazer more tightly around me. I give him an anxious smile, pretending to be oblivious. Sometimes perverts need two-car garages too. And he’s arrived with a minivan full of children.

“The school district here is one of the top ranked in the state. I bet a dad like you—”

He snorts and moves closer. The smell of cigarettes and regret wafts my way. “They ain’t mine.”

My self-protective instincts kick in, and I begin to herd him toward the front door. I’d rather be outside in full view of every dog walker and family playing hoops than alone inside while the wife looks for Oxy. ( Of course I have the homeowners stash every valuable, med, or pocket-sized treasure before an open house; it’s not my first rodeo.) “Why don’t we check out the front porch?” I suggest.

I’m pointing out the features of the flowering magnolia tree on the front lawn as an earsplitting whistle stops me cold.

“Kids!” the mother screams. “Time to hit the next buffet.”

The (not) dad winks, takes a card from my hand, and sticks it down the front of his pants. I try not to visibly shudder. The family clatters out the door, causing a framed picture to fall.

I don’t even need to look to know the cheese platter is decimated, save for a single olive.

But the steaming pile of dog turds by the gas fireplace is a new one, I’ll give them that.

“How’d it go?” Deandra asks me. She has a rare afternoon off, so she’s sitting on our front stoop with a Diet Coke, enjoying the sun. Years ago, my dad enclosed the back porches for more storage. Later, my mom paved the backyard for additional parking, so the stoop is the only outdoor area that we’ve got.

“You want the numbers?” I ask. “Six cheese plates, three indecent proposals, two damaged family heirlooms, and one pile of runny dog shit. Also, zero legitimate leads.”

“Yikes, sorry.” In the afternoon sunlight, I can see the webbing beneath Dee’s eyes and fresh threads of gray in her hair. She looks worn out. It doesn’t seem fair that with everything we have in common, her life went so much differently than mine.

The best thing I can do is suffer with her. So I add, “Today was rougher than usual. A couple of senior citizens came in—two older ladies, maybe in their seventies. I knew they were there for the snacks. And I truly didn’t care; they’re probably on fixed incomes and can’t afford little luxuries like nice Gouda, you know? But they come in and go, ‘Does this place use gas or electric?’ And I say, ‘The furnace and stove are gas.’ One of them—the leader—tells me she thinks that I’m wrong and I should probably go to the basement and check. I show them the spec sheet, and the second one gives me the stink eye, really insisting I go to the basement.”

“Did they just want privacy to steal the cheese?”

“What do you think?”

Dee takes a pull on her soda and then offers me a sip. I oblige. It’s warm and flat, exactly the way she likes it. When we were kids, she’d open sodas hours before she planned to drink them, just for this reason.

“I think you probably went to the basement anyway and came back to find they’d wiped you out of forty-seven dollars’ worth of Trader Joe’s cheese.”

I laugh. “It was fifty-six dollars. There were some dried cherries on that platter. You know, some things aren’t worth the fight.” Although maybe I could stand to develop a little more fight. I’ll bring this up with Zeus.

We sit in companionable silence and watch a hipster try to negotiate with his stubborn pug flat-dogging on the sidewalk. Even with the day I’ve had, sitting on our stoop, I can’t help but think of the grassy green lawn of the Craftsman I showed today. The lilacs out front are in bloom and buds are already formed on the peony bushes that line the house. There’s a bluestone paver patio and the cutest wooden pergola that would be darling strung with solar lights. The yard is fenced—which might have been nice for that family’s dog—and the lot is deep in the back. It’s ideal for swing sets and tree forts. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, it’s waiting for love to become real.

“He skipped his alimony payment again this month.”

Her ex, Dusty, is useless. “Shit, Dee, I’m sorry. How can I help?”

“I have to pick up extra shifts. Can you keep an eye on the monsters, and maybe deal with her?” She gestures with her chin to our mom’s apartment.

“What’s the malady of the day?” I ask.

“Zika.”

“Wasn’t Zika like five years ago? And only in the tropics?” I ask. Our mother is getting worse and we both know it. “What are we going to do about her?”

Dee shrugs. “We? We are not doing anything. She charges me $600 a month in rent. I’m going to humor her as much as I can because any other three-bedroom around here would be more like $2,500 and I just can’t. If I could get that promotion to management, I bet I could. But right now, I’ve got to smile and nod and keep on enabling. But you? You don’t have to be here.”

I gesture toward the broken piece of sidewalk in front of our building. “What, and leave all this?”

Dee grips my shoulder. “Liv, I’m serious. I know you worry about me, about us. But you can’t let me hold you back. Trust me, if I could escape this place, I would in a minute, and I would leave your skinny ass in the dust. That you can and you won’t? I don’t get it.”

When we were kids, Dee was a demon on her ten-speed. She could ride fast as the wind. As motherly as she was, as much as she took care of me, when we’d get to a straightaway on the lakefront or on Dad’s quiet Michigan street, she would pedal like she was being chased by the hounds of hell, leaving me in the dust no matter how much I yelled for her to slow down. So, if she says she would extricate herself if she could? I believe her.

I brush away her hand. “Dee, it’s fine, I mean it. I’m not going anywhere.”

Yet for the first time that I can remember, I honestly start to consider: How much better would I feel if I did?

I picture myself living in today’s open house, imagining it to be all mine. I’d decorate it the way I wanted. I wouldn’t have to answer to anyone or be subject to the constant stream of their opinions. I’d have privacy. I’d have my own fat pug ... or two, one black and one fawn, and I’d name them Romeo and Juliet. If someone came in and broke my stuff, it would be a crime and not just an inconvenience.

I suspect I would feel pretty damn good.