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found out as Ma Aikens shuffled into view. Rail thin, the woman was an animated scarecrow dressed in jeans and a denim jacket, with a pair of terrycloth flip-flops on her feet. A cigarette, consisting mostly of ashes, dangled from her mouth. But it was her face that demanded my attention. This was why hairdressers, makeup artists, and plastic surgeons existed. Her kisser was puckered and lined from too much sun, smoke, and general unhappiness, while a lump of peroxided straw sat like a nest on top of her head.
    “Do me a favor, kiddo,” she said by way of greeting. “Marry my son and get him the hell out of here already, will ya? It’s the only way I’ll ever get this place clean.”
    Ma Aikens snickered at my startled expression.
    “Tell you what. I’ll make you a cup of coffee first. How’s that sound? Come with me into the kitchen.”
    I did so out of sheer curiosity. It was well worth the trip. All the appliances—none of which had seen the wet side of a sponge for nearly forty years—were original, dating back to the 1960s. The hairball followed along. Jumping up, it licked at scraps of hardened food so old they’d become a permanent part of the stovetop. A package of chopped meat, long defrosted, sat waiting to be opened on the counter. I wondered if it was for tonight’s dinner, considering that it was queasy gray in color.
    Ma Aikens threw a teaspoon of freeze-dried coffee, half of which stuck to the spoon, into a stained cup. “It’ll justtake a few minutes for the water to boil. This stove doesn’t work as well as it used to.”
    No problem there. I wasn’t in a rush, since the kettle was blanketed in a layer of cat hair.
    Aikens stuck his head in the doorway. “Hey Sally, stop dawdling and come into my bedroom. I want to show you the setup.”
    Ma Aikens flashed a gap-toothed grin. “That’s my boy. Mitch doesn’t waste a minute once he finds someone he wants.”
    In that case, I was grateful not to be the object of his desire.
    “Go ahead. I’ll bring your coffee in when it’s ready. And don’t worry. I promise to knock first,” she said with a wink.
    Oy veh. Who ever said there’s somebody for everyone? I was tempted to ask where Pa Aikens was, but was afraid she might actually produce him.
    I tiptoed around an obstacle course of junk on the floor, while following Mitch down the hallway.
    He opened a door and we entered what appeared to be the room of no return. Had I not known better, I’d have sworn a bomb had gone off in the place. Clothes were strewn across almost every square inch of space. I stepped over boxes containing old watch crystals that, I imagined, Mitch was trying to sell on eBay.
    My nose twitched at the whiff of a strange odor. It wasn’t Lysol, food, or perspiration, but the stench of mildew tinged with cat urine. I traced the moldy scent to a decrepit computer chair, while the Brillo pad of a cat did his business in a this-has-never-been-emptied litter box. Had I really planned to work for Aikens, I’d have immediately upped my price.
    “Don’t pay any attention to the mess. You’ll be working in an adjoining room.”
    Aikens pretended to cut a path through the morass with a machete as we made our way across the floor.
    “Stay the hell out of here, Snowball!” he yelled at the feline, who tried to slip into the next room with us.
    The cat hissed as Aikens slammed the door in its face.
    I was relieved to find myself standing in a space relatively clean in comparison to the rest of the house. Lights were mounted in a row on one wall. They shone down on dozens of different receptacles, among them Tupperware containers, ice-cream cartons, and disposable paint buckets. Each had a swathe of chiffon netting draped over the top, as if it were a blushing bride hiding beneath a wedding veil.
    “Let me give you a quick blow-by-blow of what’s going on here,” Aikens suggested. “I stick all butterfly eggs in the fridge for about three months at a temperature below