PART 1

I woke up married and by five in the morning my mother-in-law was ripping my blanket off. Margaret did not knock. She never knocked in the three months since Arthur and I tied the knot and moved into the small suburban duplex we bought with my savings. She stood at the foot of the bed with her arms crossed, her face set in that permanent disapproval I was learning to live with.

Get up, she snapped, rattling a plastic bucket against the doorframe. The sun is up and the water heater has been running too long.

I pulled the sheet back over my shoulders, blinking against the sudden gray light of dawn. Margaret, what are you doing?

I am saving this household from ruin, she said, marching over to the corner of our kitchen area.

That was when I heard the scraping sound.

Arthur was already standing by the front door, looking tired and rubbing the back of his neck. He avoided my eyes. When I hurried out of bed in my nightshirt and rushed into the utility nook, my brand new, front-loading washing machine was sitting on a hand truck by the open door. Two strange men in dusty jackets were strapping it down.

My machine, I said, staring at the men. Arthur, what is going on here?

Margaret brushed past me, clutching a crisp two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar cash bundle in her fist.

It is gone, she announced, as if she had just performed a public service. That machine uses too much electricity and spoils you. A real wife washes by hand in a basin, like women did for generations. I found a buyer on my morning walk. Two hundred fifty dollars cash, and he hauled it away himself.

I looked at Arthur. He finally looked back, offering that weak, pleading smile he always used when he wanted me to keep the peace.

Mom is just trying to help us budget, Clara, Arthur said softly, stepping closer. People used to live without machines for centuries. You are getting upset over nothing. It is just an appliance.

It was not just an appliance. It was the appliance I had bought with my own hard-earned money from my dental receptionist job three weeks before our wedding, specifically because my wrists ache when I wring out heavy cottons.

Margaret dropped the plastic bucket right at my feet, along with a stiff, gray bar of lye soap and a pile of Arthur is work shirts that still smelled like the garage where he fixed transmissions.

There is the wash water, Margaret said, nodding toward the bathroom. Fill the tub. Get to work. I am going down to the diner for pancakes with my sister, and when I get back, I expect those shirts hanging on the line.

They left together, Margaret leading the way with her purse tucked firmly under her arm, and Arthur following her like a schoolboy. The front door clicked shut. The apartment went dead silent except for the hum of the refrigerator.

I stood there in the empty utility nook looking at the wet scuff marks on the linoleum where my washing machine had been. My wrists began to throb just looking at the bucket.

I walked into the bedroom, pulled on my jeans and a heavy wool sweater, and sat down at the small kitchen table.

I did not cry. Crying stopped being useful about a month after Margaret moved into our spare room uninvited. Instead, a strange, very cold clarity settled over me. Arthur wanted to live like the old days. He thought his mother was right about tradition and hard labor and a woman knowing her place.

I smiled to myself, staring at the empty space by the wall. Then I picked up my phone and opened my contacts.

If we were going to live like the old days, I decided, we were going to do it right.

PART 2

By ten o’clock that morning, I had made three phone calls.

The first was to a local second-hand furniture dealer who specialized in quick cash pickups for people moving out of state. The second was to an appliance liquidator three towns over. The third was to a college student with a pickup truck who posted ads on the community board for heavy lifting.

By eleven o’clock, the college student and his friend were standing in my living room with hand trucks and furniture pads.

Are you sure about this, ma’am? the young man asked, looking around nervously at the sofa and the television console. Your husband is going to flip.

My husband wants us to embrace minimalism and the old ways, I told him, counting out two hundred dollars from my private purse and handing it to him. Load the refrigerator first. Then the stove. Leave the folding chair by the door. I need that to sit on.

They worked fast. They had to. We did not have much time before Margaret and Arthur finished their pancakes and drove back from the diner.

Piece by piece, the modern world vanished from our apartment. The stainless-steel refrigerator went first, its heavy hum dying as they unplugged it from the wall. The flat-screen television that Arthur loved to watch football on came down off the wall next. Then our queen-sized mattress, followed by the living room sofa, the microwave, the coffee maker, and even the small floor-standing air conditioning unit I had bought last summer when the heat waves hit.

By one in the afternoon, the apartment was completely hollow. The white walls echoed. The floors smelled faintly of dust and old polish. The kitchen looked like an abandoned warehouse.

I sat in the middle of the empty room on a gray metal folding chair, a steaming mug of black coffee in my hand, looking out the front window. My wrists did not hurt at all.

At two-fifteen, Margaret’s sedan pulled into the shared gravel driveway.

I heard them talking before they reached the front door. Margaret was complaining about the price of maple syrup at the diner, and Arthur was laughing that high, nervous laugh of his.

The front door swung open.

Margaret dropped her plastic pastry bag. It hit the floor with a soft thud, a blueberry muffin rolling out across the bare wooden floorboards toward my folding chair.

Arthur walked in right behind her, carrying his jacket over his arm. He took three steps into the living room, stopped dead, and stared at the empty space where the television and sofa used to be. He looked toward the kitchen. The refrigerator was gone. The stove was gone. Even the cabinets looked bare because I had packed away all our dishes and cookware into cardboard boxes in the trunk of my car an hour earlier.

What, Arthur whispered, his voice cracking slightly. What happened? Where is everything?

Margaret found her voice first, her face turning a dark, mottled red. Clara! Have you been robbed? Did someone break in? Call the police right now!

I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the heat warm my mouth, and looked straight at my husband.

Nobody broke in, I said, my voice entirely steady. I adapted our living space to your values, Arthur.

Arthur stared at me, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. He looked at the empty walls, then down at the floor where his mother’s muffin lay beside a smudge of dust.

What are you talking about? he shouted, taking a step toward me. Where is the TV? Where is the bed?

I sold them, I said simply. Just like Margaret sold my washing machine this morning. Two hundred fifty dollars for the fridge, four hundred for the couch, three hundred for the TV, and fifty for the air conditioner. It turns out second-hand appliances fetch a decent price if you do not mind hauling them out immediately.

Arthur’s face drained of color. He looked like he had been struck across the cheek. You sold our furniture? You sold our home? Are you insane?

Margaret pushed past him, her finger shaking as she pointed it directly at my face. You ungrateful, disrespectful little—this is Arthur’s apartment! You had no right!

Actually, I said, standing up from the folding chair and setting my coffee mug down on the bare floor, my name is the only one on the lease because I signed it two months before we got married, and my savings paid the security deposit. So legally, and financially, this is my apartment.

Arthur grabbed his hair with both hands, turning in a slow circle as the reality of the empty rooms finally sank into his brain. Clara, please. Tell me you are joking. Where are we going to sleep? What are we going to eat?

We are going to live like the old days, Arthur, I said, walking over to the bucket of dirty clothes Margaret had left by the door. I picked up one of his greasy work shirts, dropped it into the plastic basin, and tossed the lye soap in beside it. You wanted simplicity. You wanted manual labor. Here is your basin. The cold water tap still works, at least until tomorrow morning.

Just then, a heavy knock sounded at the front door.

PART 3

Arthur jumped at the sound, spinning around as if he expected the police or a landlord to evict us on the spot.

Open it, I told him, nodding toward the door. That will be the man who bought the washing machine back. He forgot his receipt book on my kitchen counter, and I told him he could pick it up here.

Arthur stood frozen for three seconds, then reached out with a trembling hand and turned the doorknob.

A burly man in a flannel shirt stepped into the doorway, holding a small paper notebook in his hand. Afternoon, he said, nodding around the empty room with a slightly bewildered expression. Wow, you guys really are doing some heavy remodeling, huh? Stripped right down to the studs.

No remodeling, I said, walking over to the counter space where I had left the receipt book and handing it to him. Just a lifestyle adjustment.

The man took the book, gave Arthur and Margaret a very strange look, and backed out the door without another word.

The silence inside the duplex was heavier than before.

Margaret sank down heavily onto the bare floor, her legs apparently giving out beneath her. She looked smaller than she had that morning, stripped of her righteous fury and left with only the cold draft coming through the uninsulated front door.

You cannot live like this, Arthur whispered, his voice finally dropping all its defensive anger, leaving only a pathetic, hollow pleading. Clara, please. This is madness. Call the buyers back. Buy our things back.

I cannot do that, Arthur, I said, pulling my car keys out of my pocket and jingling them softly in my palm. The money is already deposited into my separate bank account to pay for my upcoming trip to visit my sister in Florida for two weeks.

You are leaving? Margaret rasped from the floor, her eyes snapping up to mine with genuine shock. You are leaving us here in this empty shell?

I am giving you the authentic historical experience you wanted for us, I said, walking toward the door. You have a bucket. You have a bar of soap. And Arthur has his work shirts. I suggest you get started before the sun goes down, because without a refrigerator, that takeout you were planning to order is not going to keep very long anyway.

I stepped out onto the porch, pulling the door half shut behind me.

Arthur lunged for the threshold, catching the edge of the door with his fingers. Clara, wait! We can talk about this! We can buy a new washing machine! We can go to a hotel tonight!

You can do whatever you like, Arthur, I said, gently pulling his fingers off the wood one by one. But you are going to do it without my appliances, without my money, and without me telling you how to live.

I walked down the gravel driveway, got into my car, and turned the ignition. The modern engine purred to life instantly, filling the cabin with warmth and music.

ENDING

I looked back through the rearview mirror one last time.

Arthur was standing alone on the front porch with his hands in his pockets, staring down at the empty gravel driveway while the cold autumn wind whipped his jacket around his knees. Margaret was nowhere in sight, presumably already sitting inside the dark, empty living room with her plastic bucket.

I put the car in drive, pulled out onto the main road, and rolled the window down just an inch to let the fresh air in.