Against the sidewalk her soles click with a confident rhythm. Her jacket and uniform shudder softly with each step. The up tempo pace is right on schedule—she is not late, in fact she is early. I’m a step ahead she sings to herself. A thin firm smile appears. Her eyes glimmer. She straightens her back and raises her chest.
Two blocks from the bus stop to her building. It takes 15 minutes. The winter had made the walk down right miserable at times, but spring now bathed the old brick facades in soft pink. The air is crisp. She feels the chill of winter being shaken off. There is an electricity in the air too. Trees and plants are budding. Birds chatter.
The key slides into the lock and the bolt moves with a pleasant weight. Inside the small vestibule the dust hangs in the air. The pink of the morning frames diagonals in the lazy dust particles. Her shoes make a different sound. They’re tinny. Their echo in the vestibule pulls the dark chipping wood closer.
She pauses for a moment beside the door. Looking up the steps she pictures her two daughters clutching blankets and stuffed animals. Their mouths relaxed and open inhaling and exhaling deeply. Sunlight seeping into their room from behind the baby blanket hung in front of their window. She thinks of her son. His eyes looking back at her then looking at the ground. His jaw loose pulling the skin down from his soft cheeks. His thick hair a black mop on his head. She wishes he would do something with it.
Her sister she knows is crumpled on the couch. Her butt will be lodged high into the back of the middle cushion. Likewise knees driven down. One arm tucked in her chest and the other dangling over the edge with finger tips near a fashion magazine. She chuckles at the thought of her sister with a crook in her neck, hair in her face, clutching a mug of coffee. She is excited to tell her the news.
She takes the first flight of stairs quickly. Here in the stairwell the building is darker. The glass ceiling above the fifth floor is caked with dirt that diffuses the sun and casts a brown shade on the walls. She rounds the second flight of steps slowing on the third flight. The dark wood is well worn and dull. Here the air is stale. By the fourth flight of steps she is using the hand rail. Three steps from her landing she is startled by him. Mr. Alvarez I think she says to herself.
He stares down at her. His entire body is set in a rigid hunch. The dull rumpled clothes are cartoonish. He appears as a caricature to her. He opens his dry mouth and rolls his jaw slowly. He says nothing.
“Good morning Mr. Alvarez.”
A low dismissive grunt.
“Spring is most definitely here.” She pauses. “The bus driver said the city gardens are bursting; the tulips are gorgeous!”
Nothing.
“Well if you will excuse me. I am going to head to my door.”
“Your boy. He’s the one with the mess of hair.”
“Yes.” She chuckles. “I’ve been after him to get a haircut.”
“He should mind himself. Tell him to stay off the roof. He’s no business up there.”
“I’m sorry. I…”
“It’s dangerous. He could fall over the ledge.” He huffed. “I hear him running about up there. Don’t know what he’s doing.”
“Mr. Alvarez!” she declares. “I am sure he is quite fine. I will speak with him. Thank you for your concern.” ending brusquely.
“It’s no wonder with his mother out all night…” he mutters.
Red flushes her face as she glares up at his looming figure. A thousand words tumble through her mind. Her lips quiver trying to organize her response. Her grip on the rail presses the blood from her hand. His listless frame seems to fill with black. His face fades away. She feels her eyes drawing back at the edges. They strain. Crashing into her tumbling words she hears other voices. Shouts and accusations. Questions and cursing. She is shrinking. Falling back down the steps. Her head is swimming.
Suddenly she burst out, “What about you old man! What are you doing up there? I hear you dragging around furniture day in and day out. What are you up to? You crazy bat!” She heaves to inhale. “You hide up there all day. Never once have you shown a stitch of kindness! Never once have you asked about us! You think you’re better than us? What are you doing up there dragging around God knows what?” She is now spent. The previous day’s shift followed by the long night shift now catches up to her. She is exhausted. She is fighting back tears. He will not see her cry.
He only half hears her. He is lost, thinking where it might be. Did he look behind the record console? Did he put it in a shoe box… or maybe that envelope? The envelope with his wife’s handwriting—where was the envelope? Why can’t he remember?
He sees her panting. She is looking at his shoes. Is she crying? He remembers his wife’s cry. She gasped and shuddered when she would cry. The woman below him cries into herself. Softly.
She pushes past him and races to her door. Keys fumble in hand. The keyhole refuses to cooperate. Her sister sweeps the door open and she plunges through. The door slams with a dead weight.
He stands still trying to remember the photo. The details fill in, black and white, slightly out of focus at first, then color, then focused. He sees her looking up at him. Smiling. Her eyes squinting in the warm noon sun but they still gleam. She is bent over a planter with trowel in hand. Her gloves are speckled by moist dark earth. He remembers the cool breeze on the rooftop. The white pillows of clouds on the horizon. He clutches the memory, but it begins to fade.
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