There was no point in finishing the thought. Because there was an ironclad rule of decluttering: You’re only allowed to declutter your own shit. And it didn’t seem like that big a deal when she and Frank were spooned, skin to skin, in bed on a lazy Sunday morning.

She shook out the jumpsuit and held it under her chin in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the bedroom door. It reminded her of her juicier, less mousy self, one she hoped she hadn’t consigned to the rubbish bin on her journey from free spirit to elementary school teacher and on to professional organizer.

She threw the jumpsuit on the bed. Took a picture.

Had it been inevitable that Frank would become a rabid collector? Genetic, even? When they’d helped clean out Frank’s grandfather’s two-bedroom apartment years ago, there’d been piles of newspaper clippings going back to the forties. And what was a man whom she’d never seen dressed up except at their wedding doing with suits and sports jackets hanging double-deep in his closet? Turned out the pockets were an elaborate filing system. Frank had reached confidently into the breast pocket of a sports jacket and brought out a handful of solid silver quarters and dimes. From a pants pocket, a one-dollar bill with a printing error. A penny wrapped in a bit of toilet paper had a double-date stamp. The rest of his grandfather’s treasures included a worthless stash of 1964 New York World’s Fair pot holders and a mountain of hotel soaps and shampoos. Frank probably had all of it saved, only God and Frank knew where.

At their wedding, Frank’s mother had confided to Emily that Frank’s first word had been “Mine.” Back then, Frank’s redeeming features seemed to far outweigh what Emily then thought of as his quirky passion for collecting. He was handsome as hell, with that million-dollar smile. He was smart. He laughed at her jokes. And he didn’t screw around like his law partner, Ryan, who’d recently divorced wife number two and was already cheating on his new girlfriend.

She turned her attention back to the jumpsuit. Ran her hands once again over the soft fabric, imagining that the jumpsuit was Frank himself. Gently she smoothed him. Straightened his shoulders. Unkinked his legs. Keep or toss?

She was considering when she heard a thud. Probably the steel bulkhead door to the basement slamming shut. She looked out the window in time to see Frank climbing into his car. No sooner had he pulled out of the driveway than there was a loud, discordant crash from the bowels of the house. Echoes sent a chill down Emily’s spine. What on earth had he dragged home this time?

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