Grasping her mistress’ hem, Adela dabs herself dry, she’s still naked underneath, unashamed, lets down the gown over her pocket graying and only then, revealed, takes in the shock of the assemblage. Jesus son of Joseph’s God, mutter of Mary, two hundred, three, a round rallied thousand they seem FEMDOMs, Development Security personnel, and Maintenance staff, their hats off, their heads lowered, as if suffering the Pledge of Allegiance to a flag nowhere to be found, as a prerequisite to what crisis of citizenship…Adela searching their stare in the direction of unidentified alien workers hauling the guts of the Israelien household out and into twelve trucks unmarked and who remembers licenseplates, some idling linedup to the driveway, others with their ramps pulled back to the curb. Adela vaults over the other curb, which is the asphalt hedge of the street dividing properties, responsibilities, lives, to tumble into the Israelien frontyard unmown if snowed, rises, pushing through more of this squat and maskmouthed labor, steps up the slated path neatly and respectful around the lawn furniture, too, packed in a protective wrap of glistening plastic, the comics and classifieds of newspapers with nothing left to disclose to anyone still literate and living, taking the seven step stoop in one reckless lunge then shimmying into the slit left open in the frontdoor with a book propped as a stop, who knows which and who cares. In the vestibule, she sidles past two workers carrying out the washingmachine or dryer, she doesn’t have time its cord tailing between legs and dragging behind them like the forked limb of an electrified demon; taking along with it dust from the floor, tangling with the rails of lain track, which hosts the motion of wheeled pallets to move what the workers aren’t able to lift, what they aren’t insured to attempt, whether it be too valuable or heavy, that out the front and rear of the house then onto the ramps and up them of still other trucks, their tires destroying unto the furthest loll of the brutebladed lawn. In the hall, another worker swivels down the same rusted length of track on a filmdolly, a camera rolling, getting footage of the entire groundfloor, door, hall, room after room, closeup on the doorknobs, then cut to the tile over which Adela heels, further into the fray to observe every foursquare invaded, with what to her paranoia look like government types, lookalikes, suspiciously suited don’t I know you from wheres; some of them taking photographs, with old, surely obsolete photographic equipment, flashbulb glare and smoke infusing the air, others with their superannuated for radio microphones wandering around shushing, apparently recording rare silence, themselves, laboratory-coated goys in brilliant white hazmat hats, booties, and gloves leading their similarly uniformed German shepherds through the hallways opening into rooms, rooms into floors, collecting what would seem to anyone else, Adela, smells evanescent, elusive; as maids insourced of uniformly idealized proportions go feathering in areas recordingwise finished with, finalized, at the flight of risen dust, rarefied specks, sampling it into sacs labeled with relevant locations: DESK #2/DRAWER #3, SOFA#3/UNDER PILLOW #1, WINDOWSILL #12—such an assemblage an affront to Adela, this duty done by dereliction, martyrdom by mote…
O Wanda, Wanda, why hast thou Floridaforsaken me, Wanda?
You’re here to dust, no? a matron asks as she straightens out the starch of her whites over fishnets, you’re late and not in uniform. She flips with the disdain managed only by the utmost professional through papers, a clipboarded stack, blueprints, a roll.
Take the upstairs, she says, beginning with the Master Bedroom, working down the hall to His; get moving, we’ve got two hours, three at the most.
An Assistant Site Supervisor, at least that’s what it says over her name, she clucks over, her head a uselessly nippleless breast tufted wildly with blond from the bottle, tucks a duster molting its feathers under her arm and so introducing the rest of her tag: Mary, that’s it, they’re all named Mary, to us; hands Adela from the pocket of her uniform a tweezers, and a sheaf of glassine sacs already labeled. Tweezer the mold from the grout of the Master Bathroom, she’s repeating its ilk already for the tenth time this morning, placing all in the appropriate sacs, one for each wall of the shower, north, south and, you get me, ceiling and floor, the toilet stalls, then from around the sinks, the whirlpool tub — being as careful as possible to preserve the integrity of the sample; then proceed, down the hall to each bathroom on the floor; don’t worry, it’s all already been imaged; but, she flicks a wrist up to expose a pink watch — you’ve only got ten minutes until they disassemble the Master Bedroom; God, you’d better hurry — you were supposed to’ve been here at dawn…
