If You Were Here

and nine thousand loose paper clips, grouping like items in tight brown paper packages surrounded by cushioning layers of Bubble Wrap. They devoted entire moving boxes to garbage cans stuffed with empty macadamia nut jars, junk mail, and dirty Kleenex. We opened packet after packet of chewed dog bones and rusty bobby pins and wine corks cats had batted under beds.

To be fair, I wouldn’t have expected the team to take stuff out to the Dumpster, but I didn’t anticipate bringing the individually wrapped contents of my recycling bin to my new place, either. Every time we opened one of their boxes, it was like the worst Easter basket ever.

On top of all of that, we had to give the packers an extra-huge tip, because one of the ladies ran across Mac’s box of army flash grenade simulators⁶⁴ and almost had a heart attack.

“We can weed out stuff this way,” I add. Although I’m not actually very good at purging, seeing how I just boxed up every single business card I received back in the nineties, when I sold medical supplies for a living. But hey, maybe Dr. Aparajita Gupta and Dr. Trip Wadsworth enjoy books about teenage Amish zombies in love and they’re waiting for my calls, which I can’t place without having their numbers, right?

Obviously, we’re packing because. . ta-da! We got the house! After an annoyingly expensive bidding war with another Hughes fan, we were victorious! Hooray, us! Hooray, universe!

The shocking news was how well the place inspected. We an-ticipated being crushed by repair costs, but the patriarch of Angie’s List — recommended Sandhurst and Sons Home Services assured us the house’s problems were minor and primarily cosmetic. Mr. Sandhurst was so cute in his Mr. Magoo glasses and nubby cardigan, too. He kept calling us Mackey and Minnie and pretending we were his grandchildren — he was hilarious! I was surprised he filled out his report by hand, but I figured he’s been doing business this way for fifty years, so why fix what’s not broken?

“Oh, I keep forgetting,” Mac says, grimacing at our collection of every cell phone we’ve owned since we met in 1994, “your grandmother called again. That’s what, three times? Why aren’t you calling her back?”

“Because I’m avoiding her. Duh. All she wants to do is give me decorating advice.”

After my folks divorced, my mother, sister, and grandmother migrated south. They live in Miami Beach now, and together they own Two Polish Ladies Maid Service, the East Coast’s largest residential and commercial cleaning operation.

I know, right?

I couldn’t be prouder of how they built their business from the ground up. Jess and I weren’t the only ones inspired by Hughes’s films. One night Babcia watched Home Alone with me and spent the whole time bitching about the state of the McCallisters’ house.

“They rich — so why house not sparkle?” Babcia groused. She’d parked herself next to me on the old plaid couch with a mason jar of her homemade grain alcohol. Smelling strongly of gasoline and horseradish, Babcia’s mash was so potent I’d get a contact high just being around it. This stuff sparked my lifelong aversion to any liquor not best served with a tiny drink umbrella.

“Babcia,” I explained, “Kevin McCallister is eight years old, and more important, he’s home alone. Things are bound to get messy.”

“No! Is filthy before. Look hardwood! No shine! Look window! Is need clean with newspaper! Look rug! Is terrible crunchy. I make potion, clean whole house. Get lots rich people money.”

“Babcia, you can’t ‘make potion’ and clean this particular house, because it’s a movie,” I argued fecklessly, fully aware that rational thought held no weight. I’d recently made the mistake of watching Field of Dreams and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with her, and for weeks all I heard was, “Why dead men play baseball? Why turtles eat pizza? You find and tell stop.”

Point? Babcia’s threat about cleaning rich people’s houses turned into an obsession, which turned into a business, which eventually turned into an empire.⁶⁵

Since becoming entrepreneurs, Babcia and my mother lost their aversion to aesthetics, and they wouldn’t admit to having owned that shoddy old plaid couch on a bet. Between the two of them, they’ve filled their Ocean Drive penthouse with acres of claw-footed chairs, chandeliers the size of water buffalo, rich tapestries, and gilt- framed paintings. Even with twenty-foot-high south-facing windows, they’ve managed to make their place as dark, foreboding, and gothic as a medieval castle. Jess and I call their style “Eastern Bloc chic,” but Mac says it’s more like “Donald Trump Meets Count Dracula.”

“You have to call her back. I can’t put her off again. Now.You should call her now,” Mac insists, a rising edge of panic in his voice. Mac fought in Desert Storm before he went to college — he saw real combat and experienced all the horrors of war, but the only thing in the world that scares him is my Babcia. He swears the mole above her left eye stares into his soul.

Pfft. He should have seen it before she had the laser hair removal.

Over the years Babcia’s upgraded her Stalin-era babushkas for Hermes scarves and stopped turning her tresses pink with at-home colorings, but she’s still got enough Old World in her that I get why she’d be terrifying to an outsider.

I set down what I’m about to pack — a bunch of empty CD jewel cases — and reluctantly pick up the phone.

“Hello, talk.” There’s something wonderfully imperious about how my grandmother answers the phone.

“Babcia! Hi, it’s Mia.”

“Ah, moja zabko! ”⁶⁶ Her pleasantries don’t even last a second before she launches into me. “Why I call eleventeen times? Why? I tell call Babcia, you call Babcia now! I see, I spank! Bad girl!”

Interesting side note — the family business didn’t really catch on until Jess took over all the customer interaction. Turns out most people don’t enjoy being yelled at — or threatened with a spanking — particularly when paying ninety dollars an hour. Now Mom does the accounting and deals with vendors, Jess is the face of the business, and Babcia commands her army of maids with an iron (curtain) fist.

The only way to beat Babcia is to blithely ignore her threats. “So how’s Miami?”

“Yellow,” which I take to mean “sunny.” At this point, I’m pretty sure her dialect is a ruse employed solely to lend authenticity to her business. I mean, she’s been living in the States for almost sixty years; it’s time to make “the” happen. “Listen, I buy something. You put in house.”

Oh, this can’t be good.

I try to sound gracious. “Thank you, Babcia. May I ask what it is?”

“Is cross. Very big. Tall like man. Much gold.”

“Wow, Babcia, that sounds awesome; I can’t wait to see it!” My tall-like-man gold cross will hold a special place of honor.

In my new garage.

“When move?”

“We close on the house Monday and we head out the day after that. My friend Ann Marie’s coming into town tomorrow so she can see it before we go. Perhaps she can give me some ideas about where to put your beautiful gift.”

Ann Marie and my grandmother have always been kindred spirits, but ever since Ann Marie downed a shot of Babcia’s jet fuel, they’ve had a particular affinity for each other.

“She good girl, not like you. You tell her come work here.”

“I will. I’m sure she’d be delighted to quit practicing law and move her whole family down to Florida to be a maid.”

“YOU DON’T MOUTH-SMART.”

“I’m teasing you, Babcia. Anyway, how’s it all going? What’s Mom up to? And Jess — is she going to start that grad school program?”

“No more talk bye.” Babcia puts the phone down with a bang. She’s not rude so much as deeply efficient. After she delivers her message, she sees no point in hanging around for chitchat. Our phone conversations are like tearing off a bandage — painful and vaguely annoying, but ultimately over quickly.

I return to Mac and his box stack. “Babcia needs to talk with you.” Mac instantly blanches. “Honey, I’m kidding. Why are you so afraid of her? She’s, like, eighty pounds!”⁶⁷

He stares into the distance while he appears to be shaking off a chill. “Evil takes many shapes and