The point of that anecdote, when I’d originally included it, was that Fredricka was a ludicrous hypocrite. She takes me to task for hanging my swimsuit to dry: that is thoughtless; that is an imposition. Then, not a week later, she dumps a heap of diseased kittens into the shower, letting them writhe on the porcelain in a dying pile, pissing and shitting all over themselves. The little pellets of their pestilential feces collected in the drain, clogging its silver colander; rather than cleaning it in advance of the posted hours, Fredricka simply swept the feces to one corner of the shower floor, creating a mound of waste. She would clear the kittens out, but I would still have to tiptoe around this disgusting dunghill while I bathed, its runoff muddying the suds at my feet. Whenever relating this anecdote, I’d let my voice grow loud with outrage here, hammering home how absurd the situation was.

With Ira, however, I didn’t get a chance to make this point. The moment I mentioned Fredricka’s note on the door, he interjected: ‘Well, that was nice of her.’ He meant, taking in dying kittens. Caring for animals. He thought that this was her nicer side and that that was the whole point of the anecdote: that it was a counter-characterization, a humanizing exemplum, meant to deepen Fredricka or complicate my caricature of her. And since I didn’t contradict him—I cut the episode short at the door note—that is in effect what it became.

Five minutes later, when I got to Fredricka’s next Post-it—the one offering dishwashing lessons—Michelle patted my thigh again. ‘Tell him about the note on the refrigerator.’ Her voice was casual, but I could tell that she was driving at something. Ira glanced between us inquisitively.

‘Which note?’ I asked.

‘You know. The one… “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed—”’

It had been years since I had thought of this note. As with the kitten incident, I had eliminated it from the monologue for reasons that were themselves now difficult to remember. I even found Michelle’s freakish recall of the original version unnerving, under the circumstances. What happened was that, about a week before I decided to move, Fredricka left a Post-it on the refrigerator door, apologizing for her recent behavior. That was all. She never discussed it with us or posted a follow-up clarification. If she seemed grouchy or crotchety, the note read, she was sorry—she was experiencing a tough time and had to work through something.

Ira stopped me. ‘Wait wait wait. What does that mean? “Work through something”? What, was she dying?’

I didn’t know what it meant, and I told him so. I did know that I didn’t like the tone in his voice one bit: that affected softness, its spittly lilt. Michelle had correctly identified it as Ira’s sympathy voice, and I worried that the story was getting away from me. If I wasn’t careful, Fredricka would emerge as too human a character—the kitten caretaker, the cancer victim—and I would look all the more monstrous for rocking the bookcase. Glossing over Ira’s questions altogether, I skipped straight to the brokenplate scene. Her worst moment, for my money.