by Jill Barnett
"I'll bet it has." Conn hunkered down and picked up the bottom of the cabinet.
Ten minutes later the cabinet was against the west wall of the fourth-floor flat. Nellibelle was hovering around it, trying to decide if they needed to move it a little more to the right.
Again.
He watched her purposely ignore him. But he could see her nervousness—the wringing of her hands, the way she darted back and forth like a confused bee, and her stubborn determination not to look at him.
His immediate reaction was to think of things he could do to force her to look at him. Stand in front of her. Walk toward her until he had her backed against a wall. Grab her and kiss her like he had the night he walked her home.
He paused and made a big to-do of eyeing the cabinet, moving to stand in front of her and tapping one finger against his chin. "I think it's too far to the left. You should move it to the right, Nellibelle."
She stiffened and looked at him, her expression all pruny. He could almost hear her teeth grind.
He gave her an innocent look and casually pointed at the cabinet with his thumb. "It's too far to the left."
She turned back around and without looking at the cabinet nodded to the movers. "Move the cabinet more to the left, please."
He laughed to himself. Dealing with her was no different than maneuvering one of his opponents into taking a frustrated swing at him.
The movers picked up the cabinet again and began to lift it. The rope securing the doors closed slipped down, and the mirrored doors swung open.
Conn grabbed her under one arm, swung her off her feet and out of the way. She gave a shriek of protest and squirmed. A second later an iron bed frame unfolded from the cabinet and slammed to the floor.
He set her down while she was still muttering something about an oaf and walked over to the iron frame. He turned back to her. She was swiping back a hank of black hair from her red face. He pointed to the bed. "What the hell kind of bed is this supposed to be?"
She raised her chin. "It's a folding bed."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would anyone want a folding bed?"
"For convenience of course."
"What's convenient about a folding bed? Looks damn inconvenient to me."
"It saves space."
He eyed the bed. "Who cares about space if it's too short to sleep in."
"It's not too short for me."
He let his eyes roam slowly from the top of her stuck-up head to her feet pressed together at the ankles in that annoying prim way she had. "Doesn't look to me as if you'd fit. Unless you sleep with your knees all drawn up."
"How I sleep is none of your concern, Mr. Donoughue."
"You'd never catch me in that bed."
"There is a God."
The movers laughed out loud. He wanted to laugh, too, but he didn't. Instead he stared at her long enough to annoy her. She gave him a smile that held no humor and spun around. He waited until she was halfway across the room. "We could always use my bed." She stopped as if she had run smack dab into a wall.
She turned slowly, her jaw set and her words gritty. "Mis-ter Donoughue—"
Ignoring her, he strolled around some of the trunks and crates that separated them, looking inside. "So what other kind of contraptions do you have around here?"
"I don't recall inviting you in here."
"You didn't." He scanned the room. It was a huge cavernous place. It wasn't dark like his flat. Half the roof was glass. It let sunlight in, but it also leaked whenever it rained. He knew because it had leaked on some wooden boxes, damaging a shipment of leather elbow pads and knee guards.
"I think the movers will be able to handle the rest of my things. Alone." She walked toward him. "I don't want to keep you from whatever it is you do."
"You're not." He turned his back on her and strolled over to an overstuffed chair, sat down, and made himself comfortable, then crossed his hands behind his head and propped his feet on a crate of dishes packed in excelsior.
She watched him from a face that was half offended and half frustrated.
He would have stayed there all morning if Lenny hadn't come running upstairs all in a panic because Beckman's Laundry Wagon had forgotten to deliver last week's load of towels.
A few minutes later Conn was walking down the street toward Beckman's. He stood on the corner, where a uniformed copper on horseback controlled the traffic.
Conn glanced back at the gym. He could see those old glass transoms on the roof. He watched them for a few lost minutes, before he heard the police whistle and turned around just in time to catch the man next to him staring up at him in awe. Conn was used to those looks.
He glanced down at the man who tried to cover his embarrassment by quickly looking away. After a minute he turned back and caught Conn's eye. "Looks like rain," the man said.
"You think so?" Conn glanced up. The sky was turning a dull gray color that could mean rain.
"Yeah, with those clouds it'll be pouring by tonight."
The policeman's whistle blew again, and everyone began to cross the street. Conn was in the crowd but a head above everyone else. The wind picked up and ruffled his hair. He turned around, walking backward across the street, looking back at those leaky glass windows on the slope of the roof.
Grinning, Conn turned back and stepped up on the opposite curb. He shoved his hands in the deep pockets of his pants and strolled down the street—whistling.
* * *
The first raindrop fell on Eleanor's forehead around midnight. Her eyes shot open. The second drop plopped on her nose and dripped down her cheek. After the third drop, she sat up.
Her roof was leaking.
She threw back the covers and got up. The rain outside was coming down harder, pattering a constant beat on the glass and the roof tiles. Drops of water splattered all over the floor and on what little furniture she still owned. She rushed toward the kitchen nook and took out her cast iron pot and a frying pan, then rushed back and placed them under the worst leaks.
Her china cups caught smaller leaks, and along with her few soup bowls, they were scattered haphazardly over the plank floor like croquet wickets. She rummaged through trunks and wooden boxes searching for vases and goblets, anything that could hold water.
By the time she found one new container, the smaller dishes were overflowing and rainwater was spreading over the floor and under the boxes of things she hadn't yet unpacked. She moved back and forth, trying not to panic. She would tuck a vase under one arm, and race across the floor to catch a cup or bowl or pan before it overflowed. She'd shoved the vase under the leak, and run back to the old porcelain sink drain or the narrow water closet and dump out the bowl of water, only to rush back and find five containers overflowing.
The rain came down so hard it hit the roof like buckshot. The leaks began to pour instead of drip. Still she raced back and forth. Water pooled all over the floor, and she tried to mop it up with towels and extra blankets, linens, anything that could soak it up.
Panicking, she spun around and started running. Too fast. She slipped, lost her balance, and her ankle gave out. She went down, sliding across the wet floor like a duck on ice.
She hit a patch of dry wood and skidded to a stop, gripping her ankle. She groaned in pain, while her body curled like a comma. For a pain-filled moment, all she could do was lie there while the rain fell all over her.
I'm okay ... I'm okay ... I'm okay, she chanted in her head as her leg throbbed.
But she wasn't okay. Her ankle hurt like the devil, and an aching pain shot up her leg and felt as if someone had tried to twist her foot off. Part of her wanted to cry, but she wouldn't let herself. She shifted into a sitting position, then rolled onto her knees and pushed herself up. Very carefully she put weight on her injured foot.
It wasn't too bad. She began to walk slowly across the wet floor. She was okay. It was sore, but she could walk almost normally.
Rain dribbled onto her
hair and down her back from the roof. Not that it mattered since her nightgown was soaked on one side and damp on the other. She stared up at the glass. She could see the cracks. She stared at them for a few minutes, then began to gather pieces of clothing from her trunks, anything she could use to stuff the leaks.
She gathered up an armful of undergarments, since they were the thinnest fabrics, then she hobbled over and picked up the broom. Within moments she was atop the bureau, using the broom handle to stuff stockings, hankies, a thin corset cover, even bloomers, anything that would plug up the cracks between the glass panels.
Eleanor moved from piece to piece of high furniture—her grandmother's armoire, the old cherry wood buffet, and the round oak table—until she had stuffed the biggest leaks. The cracks on the arch of the roof were too high, but luckily they were over areas where there was no furniture. She put her largest pots and other containers under those.
An hour later she had all the leaks plugged.
Then a new one started right over her bed.
She limped over to the bed, crawled up, and stood on the mattress. She tossed the last two stockings and her broom on top of the oak cabinet, then pulled herself up, scrabbling until she was kneeling on it.
Slowly she stood, then stuck a stocking on the end of the broom handle and stretched up as high as she could. She was just an inch or two short. With her weight mostly on her good foot, she rose on her tiptoes, teetering just a little. She straightened her back for balance. Every time she thought she had the crack plugged, the stocking would slip and fall.
By the fifth time she had learned to catch it with the broom handle so she wouldn't have to keep crawling down to pick it up. This was one of those times when you wished you had too many stockings. It took thirteen tries before she had stuffed the stocking in the narrow leak.
One more leak started. She sighed. When would it stop?
She put her last stocking on the broom handle, stood on tiptoe again and stuffed it into the leak on the first try.
Slowly she pulled back the broom. Please stay…. Please stay… She turned slightly and braced her back flush against the wall and waited. The stocking stayed there. She'd done it!
A second later the other soaked stocking slipped from its crack and slapped her smack in the face. The broom slipped from her hand.
She fell. Face forward.
She screamed. Her body hit the mattress so hard the bedsprings screamed with her. The bed frame bounced upward toward its cabinet and sent her with it, her face pressed to the mattress, which pinned her inside.
She saw stars for a minute.
It took her a moment to realize what had happened. She tried to move and couldn't. Oh, God…. She was stuck inside the mattress cabinet! Don’t panic!
She took deep breaths of mattress and a small desperate sound came from her throat. When she calmed down, she realized she could wiggle her hips a small bit. She only needed a little more room to be able to force the bed frame back down. She butted the back of the cabinet with her backside.
The cabinet rocked back. There was a loud bang. A small click of metal catch. The cabinet doors!
Oh my God. . . They closed!
She was stuck inside the bed cabinet.
Chapter 4
Conn woke up when small pieces of ceiling plaster fell on him.
"What the hell?" He sat up, shaking the plaster off his head. Sleep-startled and half wondering where he was, he scanned the dark room, frowning, letting his eyes adjust.
It was dark out. Still night. A storm had broken; he could hear the rain against the windows. He thought he heard a familiar shriek and scowled up at the ceiling.
Plaster sprinkled down. What was she doing now? He looked down at the dusty bedding. Cracking the plaster, that's what she was doing.
He threw back the covers and chalky bits of the ceiling bounced like craps dice on the wooden floor. When he took a step, chips of plaster jabbed his bare feet and crumbled like sand as he walked on them. Muttering, he dusted off his feet and staggered over to the next room.
The clock said it was three in the morning.
Frustrated, he leaned one shoulder against the wall and stared at the floor. He needed some sleep. Just a few consecutive hours. She was going to make his life miserable, living above him like this. He could see his future, the writing on the wall. No, the plaster on the floor, he thought.
There was a loud banging against the walls from upstairs. Even the dead couldn't sleep through that. Behind him he could hear the patter of plaster on his bedroom floor. His hands itched with the need to wring her damn neck. Conn took a deep breath, then stood there for a moment, rubbing a hand over his eyes.
The noise continued. Muffled, but it continued. The gaslight in the room shimmied and rattled. That was it!
He pulled on his pants, buttoning them as he moved toward the door. Once in the hall, he ran up the stairs, glared at her door, and then pounded it with his fist.
He waited, rocking on his feet in anticipation.
But there was nothing. He hammered the door again and waited. All he got for his effort was some more noise. He pounded on the door so hard, they could've heard it in the Bronx. "Open this damn door!"
Nothing.
He knew she was in there. An eternal minute passed. Maybe he was scaring her, which was not a smart move. He leaned toward the door. "Nellibelle?"
Nothing.
He drummed his fingers against the doorjamb. He took a deep breath for patience. "Miss Austen?" He paused, then called out. "Eleanor?" He pressed his ear against the door and listened.
For just a second he thought he heard her. It sounded like she was shouting from miles away. Something cold and wet pooled under his bare feet. He looked down, instinctively stepping back.
Water seeped out from under the door. He tried the doorknob but it was locked. He rattled the handle, then, without another thought, he stepped back and rammed his shoulder against the door.
It flew open with a loud crack.
A good inch of water flooded the hall. The floor inside the flat was soaked. He walked in and looked up. From all over the roof panes hung soggy women's clothing.
Not clothing, exactly, but underwear. Water dripped onto the floor from drenched black cotton stockings. More water poured from a couple of those thin corset cover things women wore that always took forever for his big hands to unbutton.
Staring up, he moved to the center of the room. A pair of white lacy bloomers dropped on the floor in front of him like a sodden flag of surrender.
"Nellibelle?"
A muffled call for help came from deeper inside the apartment. He looked around, then crossed room. "Where the hell are you?" He looked around the corner, but then heard something behind him and spun around.
That oak cabinet with the stupid and useless bed shuddered like it was alive. A voice came from deep inside it. "Help! Help!"
Swearing, he crossed the room and jerked open the doors. The bed fell forward so fast he had to jump backward so it didn't hit him.
It banged against the watery floor with a loud crashing splat. Nellibelle bounced up off the mattress with a shriek. Her tangled mass of wet hair flew outward; it looked like floating black spaghetti.
Momentum made the front legs of the bed frame collapse.
Before he could move, she hit the slumping bed again and rolled down the mattress, landing on the wooden floor with a hard wet thud that made him wince.
He moved to her side and hunkered down. "Are you all right?" He reached out tentatively and touched her shoulder.
She shifted slightly.
He heard a choking sound. "Nell? Uh . . . Eleanor? Are you crying?"
"Yeeeeeessssssss!" she wailed all curled up in a pitiful wet ball.
He scooped her into his arms, and water dripped down to his hands and onto the soaked floor. He held her tightly against his chest, and she turned into him as if she were trying to hide, sobbing the whole time.
He patted her b
ack a little tentatively. "Don't cry. Okay?"
She cried harder, then slid her damp arms around his neck. She buried her head against him.
He could feel her, every soft feminine inch of her. He had to remind himself just who he was holding in his arms. He looked down at her and saw nothing but a small woman with a mass of hair that hung past her butt. Her bare feet poked out of the hem of her nightgown. They were pink and narrow and looked as soft as she felt. He studied the back of her head, then spoke to it because he couldn't see her face. "Tell me where it hurts."
"All over." Her words were muffled against his shoulder and neck.
He rubbed her back with one hand, making soothing circles to stop her pitiful crying. "If I'm going to help you, then I need you to be more specific."
"Okay." It was barely a whisper. She said nothing more, just hiccuped against him as she tried to catch her breath.
"Please. Tell me, sweetheart. What hurts the most?"
The silence dragged on. Finally he felt her take a deep quivering breath, then she muttered, "My pride." She tightened her arms around him and began to cry all over again.
* * *
Eleanor's pride was still smarting a few hours later. She was wearing a huge flannel nightshirt with sleeves that came to her knees and sitting on the most dangerous place she could think of—Conn Donoughue's bed.
Bed. The word was enough to make her want to crawl in a hole and never come out. The bed was what go her into this mess. Trapped in a bed cabinet. She wanted to bury her head in her hands in horror. She was so foolish, especially around him. What a goose! All that silly crying. Whenever she was around him, she was not herself. The trouble with love was it made you different; it made you act in the most irrational ways.
Love was a lot like the winter weather. It came at the worst time and made your life as difficult as possible. Like the way snow and ice always fell, then melted. There was no reason why, it just did. Love just smacked you right in the face for no logical reason at all. You could ask yourself why forever, but that didn't change the fact that you loved the person you were destined to love.