Allison smiled and continued to write.
“You just get to New York.”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” Miss Logan was craning her neck, curious as to the answers on the form. “You’ll be living alone?” she asked.
“Yes,” Allison answered, annoyed at the constant interruption. “With an occasional visitor.”
“I live alone.”
Allison raised her eyes. “How nice,” she remarked.
“I prefer it that way. It gives me more freedom. I can do what I wish, whenever I wish. And solitude is good after dealing with people six days a week, ten hours a day.”
Allison nodded indifferently, then completed the questionnaire and scanned the commission notice. “Where do I sign?” she asked.
Miss Logan leaned over and pointed. Allison scribbled her signature and returned the forms. The woman quickly reviewed them.
“A model,” she declared. “That’s a very interesting profession. All that glamour and excitement. Twenty-six years old. Single. No relatives in the city, but good references.” She smiled reassuringly. “It looks fine. I’m sure the landlord will approve.” She looked at her watch. “Shall we go?”
Allison stood and followed the agent, as the agent walked to the door, and pulled a tweed coat from a rusted nail on the wall.
“Are you sure the staircase is secure?” Allison inquired, half jokingly.
“Perfectly,” replied the agent. She threw on her coat. “Just a little harrowing. To make life interesting.” She motioned Allison out, set the lock, and slammed the door. “I’ve been in this building five years, and though it looks like it’s falling apart, it’s sturdy.” The landing squeaked under her feet, as she approached the staircase and grabbed the banister. “I’ve thought about renovating a portion of the second floor and even the staircase, but that wouldn’t make any financial sense. I suppose I’ll get out of here sooner or later, but, you know, once you get used to something, you don’t like to leave it. The office is like a second home.”
“I understand,” Allison replied. “I’m a little like that myself.”
“Midwesterners are. They have a more finely developed sense of home and sentiment than New Yorkers. I rarely find New Yorkers having a sense for anything, but sex and money.”
“I guess there’s something to be said for that too,” observed Allison.
“Each to his own,” said Miss Logan obliquely, as she opened the front door.
They stepped onto the street into a tide of shattered sunlight painted in striations by a descending sun through barren trees; they hailed a taxi.
It was a standard New York brownstone. Five floors. Extremely old. Engagingly battered.
Allison paid the driver; they stepped from the cab.
“One of the nicer tree-lined blocks in New York,” declared the agent, starting her sales pitch.
Allison pivoted and glanced up and down the narrow street lined with brownstones.
“And it’s convenient,” Miss Logan added. “There’s a subway on Ninety-sixth and Central Park West. There’s another on Broadway. There are plenty of buses, and cabs are easy to get. And, of course, you have the park.”
They began to climb the stone staircase to the raised front entrance.
“Around the far corner there’s a supermarket. There’s also a cleaner’s nearby and a hardware store.”
Allison digested the geography lesson, as Miss Logan smiled broadly, Allison’s look of satisfaction having added fuel to an impending deal.
“We’ve become slaves to convenience,” said Allison.
“New York does that.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Shall we?” asked the rental agent; she opened the heavy front door and stepped into the rectangular hallway.
Allison followed, admiring the soiled wood paneling that completely covered the walls.
She glanced at herself in a hanging mirror, then leaned against a bicycle rack in the center of the hallway.
“You can keep a bicycle here,” said Miss Logan, standing at the base of the building’s main wooden staircase, “although the basement is probably more convenient.”
Allison nodded thoughtfully. Eyes darting. Feeling a rapport with the building’s personality.
With the rental agent leading the way, they began to climb the stairs. Halfway up, Allison stopped, grabbed the banister and shook it firmly. It was sturdy. Reassured, she continued to the first landing, forty-two steps from where she’d started.
The second floor was paneled like the first with long strips of worn, soiled pine. However, at the junction of the landing and the second-floor hallway, there was a segment of wall that had been completely refurbished. It began about four feet off the ground, ran to the ceiling, and was approximately eight feet wide, reaching from the stairwell wall to the door of the B apartment that stood at the top of the landing at the beginning of the hallway. Allison inspected the fine new pine closely, touched it and thought of a pearl in an oyster, an isolated addition to an otherwise homogeneous surrounding. She shrugged, dismissed its presence, and stepped away.
The lighting was extremely poor; the texture of the air was thick, almost filamentous, making it even harder to see. But she continued to follow Miss Logan, relying more on the agent’s exemplary progress and her own non-visual senses than on her eyes. They wandered down the hall past the A apartment and climbed the second staircase to the third landing, which was easily as dark and foreboding as the second. The small yellow wall lights, one at each end of the hall, provided the only illumination. Miss Logan removed the chain of keys from her picket and inserted one into the door marked 3A. It opened and they entered.
The apartment, as advertised, was a floor through. The living room, which lay directly beyond the entrance, was large, rectangular, and generally well-preserved. The furniture was eye-catching, the style Victorian, the condition old, a treasure chest of antiques, from the smallest ashtray to the two large grandfather clocks that stood on either side of the mantel. She particularly liked the sofa that set the general tone and mood and stood in the middle of the room between two old granny lamps and before a low-standing bookshelf. Across from the sofa was a fireplace bordered in marble. It was clean; obviously it had not been used in some time. Scattered around the room were delicate chairs with arching backs and exquisite hand-sewn fabrics. She noted their position and thought to herself that the chair in front of the middle window belonged by the chair near the side wall. Perhaps she could buy a coffee table to place between the two, thereby establishing a separate personality to that little corner of the living room. The idea pleased her; she smiled to herself as she crossed the Oriental rug, glancing at the handsomely papered walls and hand-wrought mirrors.
Miss Logan followed and stuttered. “The old furniture fits in perfectly, I’m sure you’ll agree.”
Allison did. But she did not respond. Instead, she continued walk around the room. Noting details. The many small objects. “I assume all of this will come with the apartment?” she asked.
“I think so,” responded the agent, “but I can check before either of us makes a final decision.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Allison acknowledged, opening the window draperies, admitting the soft muted light of late afternoon. Looking out the third-floor window, she nodded a circumspect approval, closed the draperies, then turned back to the impatient rental agent and asked whether she could see the bedroom.
“Of course,” answered Miss Logan.
She led Allison down a narrow hallway, approximately fifteen feet long, which was bisected lengthwise by two opposing doorways, one leading to the small kitchenette, the other leading to the bathroom. Allison peeked in…they were standard, no more, no less…listened to Miss Logan’s inane commentary about the utility and workmanship of each of the items, including the toilet bowl, then
continued down the hall and walked into the bedroom. She sat down on the four-poster and looked about the room at the antique furnishings. The burnished walls. The gold-leafed metalwork. The ceiling. It was hand-carved. “Who put it in?” she asked, glancing upward.
“A prior tenant.”
The ceiling was certainly an unexpected find in a rental apartment. Not the type of addition one would include without an interest in the building or a long-term lease. “Did you know the people?” Allison asked curiously.
“No,” replied the agent.
Allison shrugged. She patted the quilted bedspread; little bits of dust billowed into the air, dancing in the gray light, settling into the darkness. She stood and walked back through the hallway; Miss Logan followed nervously.
“I want the apartment,” Allison declared, when they’d reached the brighter confines of the living room. The grandfather clocks struck the hour, then resumed their frantic ticking. She turned. “It’s exactly what I need. Exactly.”
“I was sure that you’d feel that way.’
“How much did you say the rent was?”
“I didn’t,” said the agent. The modulation in her voice increased in intensity; she appeared overly anxious. “The rental is four hundred and fifty a month. I’m certain that’s within reason.”
“Interesting,” remarked Allison after a long pause, “but I’m afraid we have different standards of reasonableness.”
Miss Logan smiled. “The apartment is large and it’s furnished.”
“And it’s in the West Eighties,” said Allison. “Not one of the up-and-coming neighborhoods in the city.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” the agent challenged, as she sat down on the sofa and leaned forward.
“I would. Four hundred and fifty is out of line. If you can’t bring it down by at least one hundred, we might as well thank each other for the other’s company and call it a day.”
Miss Logan bit her lip. “You want the apartment?” she asked rhetorically.
Allison nodded.
“Frankly, three hundred and seventy-five a month is not excessive in New York.”
“You said four hundred and fifty.”
Miss Logan wrinkled her brow. “Did I? Careless of me. I do that all the time.”
“I’m sure,” Allison remarked with an amused grin. She opened her pocketbook and removed her checkbook.” Do you have a pen I could borrow?” she asked.
Miss Logan withdrew an expensive ballpoint from her jacket and laid it in Allison’s outstretched hand. “A fifty-dollar deposit will be fine.”
Allison scribbled in the figure and handed Miss Logan the check.
“You’ve made an excellent choice,” the agent declared.
“I’m sure I have,” Allison concluded.
She followed Miss Logan through the door and began the descent toward the lobby, which they reached quickly and left immediately, stepping from the brownstone into the fading light of dusk.
Miss Logan leaned against the brownstone’s abutment. “I’ll see about improving the lighting in the halls. I’d hate to have you fall and break something, and I’m sure the landlord will be most concerned about it.”
“Thank you.”
“As to the landlord, remember that your occupancy must be passed on and accepted by him. He hasn’t liked anyone yet, but who knows, maybe he’s decided to stop being so picayune. The apartment is no good to anyone empty.”
“I hope you’ll be able to get back to me quickly. I want to get settled as soon as possible.”
“I understand. I’ll let you know one way or the other by tomorrow evening.”
The two women shook hands and descended to the street.
“Can I give you a lift back to the East Side?” Miss Logan asked.
“No, thank you,” Allison replied. “I’m going to browse around the neighborhood before I go back.”
Miss Logan smiled and began to walk toward the corner.
Allison stepped back and reappraised the building. “Miss Logan,” she called moments later.
The agent turned.”Yes?” she asked.
Allison continued to stare at the last row of windows.
“Yes,” repeated the agent.
“Unless I’m mistaken,” Allison began, “someone is staring at me through the curtains in one of the fifth-floor windows.”
“I’m sure you’ve been stared at before.” The agent laughed.
“Yes,” replied Allison, “but…”
“That’s Father Halliran,” interrupted Miss Logan. “Matthew Halliran. In five A. A priest. He’s been here for years. As far as I know, he doesn’t leave his room. Kind of senile and blind. But he’s harmless. He usually just sits by the window.”
“Sounds ominous,” said Allison, somewhat amused by the image she drew of this barely visible character.
“Speak to you tomorrow.” Miss Logan saluted and briskly sauntered toward the corner.
Allison watched, until the agent had disappeared. Then she tilted her head up again. Perhaps she could see more of the priest. No, the angle was too sharp, the curtains too thick, the light too weak. She crossed the street to get a better view. That proved no better. Whatever light was left caused a dull reflection to hang on the glass, obscuring the image beyond recognition.
She stood for a moment watching for movement. There was none.
She hailed a cab, satisfied that she’d had a fruitful day.
3
The light, at best, was only adequate; it crept through the glass inconspicuously, like a burglar.
Allison glanced at the window. “What do you think?” she asked, while sipping from a cup of instant coffee.
The electrician walked slowly across the bedroom and looked out the window. There was no view; the rear wall of the opposite building stood no more than six or eight feet away. And the overhanging roofs of both buildings created an inaccessible shaft topped by a narrow opening into which the daylight could only enter obliquely.
“I can put another socket in the wall,” he said with a heavy Germanic accent. “And I’ll wire the ceiling for an overhead light.” He paused, scratched his balding head, and glanced along the walls. “Of course, it may already be wired. Sometimes they remove the fixtures, but leave the leads. That would be of great help.”
“Anything you can do,” Allison declared, “but please be careful of the carved wood.” She slipped a leather vest over her blouse and carried the empty cup into the kitchen. “I’m not used to having so little light in the bedroom. In my old place I had an east and west exposure. There was plenty of sunshine all the time. In fact, I could even tell the time of day by watching the rays cross the design on my rug.”
She heard a grumbling in the other room.
“Get a clock,” the man said without suggesting any offense. “And Thomas Edison will take care of the light.”
She laughed softly and dumped a loaded dustpan into the garbage.
The electrician walked past the kitchen into the living room; Allison followed.
“You’ll wire the closets?”
The man nodded. “And I’ll put in new sockets where you marked.”
“Good!” Allison put on a fur-lined jacket and grabbed her black portfolio. “Just close the door when you’re ready to leave. And thank you.”
The man turned to pursue his work; Allison stepped from the apartment with a smile and descended the now familiar staircase.
She stopped in front of apartment 2B. She could hear voices. They were female; two women were arguing. She leaned closer, listening. They were arguing over dessert. One wanted to make a chocolate-iced vanilla cake for dinner, while the other wanted plain angel food, claiming that it would be far less fattening. It appeared that the first woman had little concern for the size of her waistline; it also appeared she would win.
This was her first significant contact with the neighbors. Peculiarly, she hadn’t met anyone in the hallways as of yet, though several days before she’d heard someone walking up the staircase on the landing above. Yet, if anything, her isolation was her own fault. She’d kept to herself, since she’d moved into the building. All she would have had to do would have been to ring one of the doorbells and announce her presence. But she just hadn’t been in the right frame of mind. Perhaps soon. Or perhaps she’d continue to rely on circumstance.
She left the brownstone and strolled past the adjoining buildings and through the Park entrance on Ninetieth Street, heading downtown. It was cold. Overcast. A good day for walking. And she couldn’t have been in a better mood; she was going back to work.
She’d been looking forward to the click of the camera all week, though she’d been far too busy to do anything beyond stopping at the agency, announcing her return, prodding the bookers, and fetching her portfolio from a locked cabinet. That was accomplished Monday morning, an hour after Miss Logan had called to confirm the apartment, and an hour before she’d piled her clothes and belongings into two taxis, directed them to the new apartment, beginning what was to become a week…today was Monday, so it was exactly one week…of toil. She’d expected Michael’s help, but he’d called Sunday night, sheepishly explaining that his transaction would take longer than he’d expected, perhaps another few days. He’d then demanded to know why she’d insisted on renting another apartment, when she could just as well have moved in with him. Disappointed as she was, she’d been in no mood to revisit the already mutilated subject of marriage. Rather, she’d agreed to talk to him on Thursday, which she did, only to discover that he wouldn’t be back until the next Wednesday…a week later than promised.
Paradoxically, his absence had proven helpful. Without him around, she was able to concentrate on the apartment. Not that she was dissatisfied with the furniture or the layout, but there were so many possibilities for creative decorating that she couldn’t resist the temptation. Her first purchase was a dining room set made of heavy oak, which she substituted for the present table and chairs, without Miss Logan’s approval. Then came a picture, framed in carved wood. Strangely, though, she cared a great deal more for the frame than she did for the painting. She realized, after she’d brought it home, that it had very much resembled Michael’s Napoleon Bonaparte. Of all things! Panicked, she’d immediately determined to replace the canvas, but, until then, the bedroom closet was the ideal place for storage. After the picture, she became slightly more careful. She bought a clock for the bedroom, several decorative pieces for various tables and dressers, two new “antique” lamps, a pirate’s chest, which she’d spent all Friday refinishing, and a slew of utensils and gizmos for the kitchen and bathroom.
The Sentinel Page 2