“It’s a shame about this thing,” she said, gesturing to it. “But I think your dad was pretty firm that no one would want it. Also, it’s heavy as a motherfucker. Here, you can take these bits I’ve already taken off of it to the dumpster out back. I printed out the list of stuff we’re keeping, and we’re getting rid of the rest. You mind if I play some music?”

“Not at all,” I said quietly.

She fiddled with her phone, and a few bars of chorused guitar started playing from a Bluetooth speaker on the floor. A woman started singing.

“What’s this?” I said.

“My friend’s band,” she said. “C’mon, let’s get started.”

It took about a week. My dad didn’t appear at all, but sometimes we’d see him when we drove stuff to the showroom outside of town where he was hosting the “estate sale.” He had rented a small space in one corner. Four or five other showings would be happening simultaneously, which explained why we were trashing so much stuff. Every morning at Grandma’s house, Irvine would stand in the doorway to each room, a hand on her hip, checking the printed-out spreadsheet my dad had compiled, and then we would load the van with valuables before throwing everything else out — rugs, curtains, trinkets, books, photo albums, pictures in frames.

My odd grandmother, someone I never really knew, who had been born to a farming family near the Michigan-Ohio border in the 1930s, who had lived to be nearly ninety years old, who bankrolled half this town while she was alive. I imagined her sitting at her usual place at the head of the table, sipping that glass of port, as she watched two queers grunting and sweating while reducing her Edith Wharton house to a collection of walls and windows.

At the end of each workday I was usually physically exhausted and in a mental haze that wouldn’t fade until I had gotten back to the guesthouse and lay down for an hour or so. Irvine, who never lost steam during the workday, was even more energetic, as if hauling heavy objects and boxes of miscellany out of the house had pumped her up. A couple times she’d walk with me on my way home and pepper me with questions.

“So you live with your mom?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s alright.”

She fished the pack of Marlboro reds out of the pocket of her overalls and lit one.

“Just alright?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“If you’d rather I leave, it’s chill,” she said, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke. “But I figured I don’t know anything about you besides that you’re Steve’s son and that you’re sober.”

“You don’t have to leave,” I said. “And, like, what else is there?”