Mitchell Gold was the boy who lived in the bubble gum cave. Mitchell Gold was the nine year-old son of the woman who lived and slept with another, unrelated woman in a house they half lovingly, half begrudgingly referred to as “the bubble gum cave.” But the house was theirs. After four years of sharing a small, one-bedroom apartment with very little closet space, the decision to buy a home was made. Mitchell could remember the day the three of them first saw the house they would together call home.
The realtor, a short and chubby blonde named Sheridan, fumbled with the combination on the locked front door. “Sometimes these don’t work right away and I’ve gotta dink around until it gives. There!” She beamed triumphantly at the two tall women, her clients. The small boy between them strained to see what waited behind the door. He’d seen so many of those special locks on the houses up for sale. The anticipation that accompanied each one was wearing on him. He wanted a playroom and a front yard and his own bedroom. He wanted more than a heavy curtain dividing his side of the room from the side where his mother and her girlfriend shared a bed and several dildos. He didn’t want to watch this smiling fat woman waste their time with uncooperative locks.
The house opened into its living room. The wooden front door with its little circle of triangular windows had immediately impressed the two women. Mitchell thought the space behind it more important. It should look very welcoming. His gut reaction upon stepping inside was actually a turning stomach. The walls and carpet were pink.
“This is adorable!” The shriek came from Mari, the girlfriend. Mitchell eyed her suspiciously, knowing that she could easily influence his mother and have them living in a house with paint and carpet the color of healthy tongue. Mari didn’t see his glare as her small dark eyes took in the space. She was seeing the arched doorways and carved banister. “Some paint and new flooring is all it needs.”
Adella, Mitchell’s mother, was studying her print off of the listing. “But what year is it again? 1903? There could be a lot of under the surface work that eats up all our funds. Aesthetics are low on the list when there’s need for a new roof and furnace.” Mitchell watched his mother’s fine red hair glide over her ears as she moved to a spot where the wall was splitting to reveal crumbling plaster. She flicked at the dust with her middle finger. “But it’s definitely cuter than anything else we’ve looked at.”
“And cheaper,” Mari reminded her.
Mitchell and Sheridan waited while Adella and Mari silently calculated. “Well, let’s finish the tour at least. We don’t have to decide right this second.” Adella folded the listing and took Mitchell’s hand. He ran his thumb over the rough skin of her knuckles. Mari’s hands were soft and always warm, but he preferred the cool of Adella’s narrow palms. They were stronger, and held his own small hand with more conviction. Mitchell had no way of verbalizing this feeling. It was just something he had come to understand about the difference between his mother and her lover.
In the end the house sufficed and Sheridan squealed that it was always so wonderful to see people find “the perfect property.” Mitchell knew he wouldn’t be happy until the room to be his was colored anything besides pink.
Thirty days later Adella, Mari and Mitchell began loading boxes into a small U-Haul. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture. One trip with the truck and a full car would probably do it. Mari cried a little before leaving the apartment for the last time. She’d lived there alone for three years before meeting Adella, and it was a big adjustment for her when Mitchell and his mother moved in. But Mari said that her best memories were in that apartment. Once she’d gotten used to two other people in the place, she insisted, having Adella and Mitchell around created the most genuine home she’d ever known.