IN ALMOST TWENTY YEARS, I have forgotten that Helen is a terrible housekeeper. Her apartment is small, made smaller by the clutter scattered throughout the place. Almost every surface is covered with papers, books, and clothes, clean and dirty. I have no desire to go into the kitchen; I remember what a disaster it always was.
“Try to find yourself a seat,” Helen says when she lets me in. “I haven’t had time to clean.”
“In the past year?” I say. She turns and gives me a look. “Sorry,” I say with a grin.
“Hmm. You want something to drink? I have water and . . . maybe just water.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
I pick up a stack of folders from a chair. Holding it in my hands, I look at Helen.
“Just put it anywhere,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I’m going to change into something more comfor
