by Blythe Baker
“I could go.” His voice was low, more of a mumble than anything else.
“Go where?” I asked, knowing what he meant, but still not able to believe what he was offering.
“To New York,” he said. “I could go with you if you needed someone to accompany you. I haven’t been to New York, either.”
“Could you leave your practice so suddenly? My flight leaves this afternoon.” The thought of Billy and Tucker following me around New York popped into my head, and a sudden dread filled my stomach.
“I guess not,” he said, voice trailing off.
“It will only be a few days. Don’t worry, Billy.”
“I’m not worried.”
“Good,” I said. There were a few beats of silence. “Maybe when I get back we can grab dinner at the diner.”
“Yeah, definitely. Or somewhere else, too. There’s a good Italian place in Branson that just opened up. And a drive-in theater not too far.”
Dinner and a drive-in movie? It would be hard to convince Suzy and my grandma that wasn’t a date.
“Yeah, that would be great,” I said.
“Great,” Billy said, sounding much more cheerful than he had when he’d called. “Then, I guess I’ll talk to you in a few days.”
“I’ll call you when I’m back in town.”
As soon as I hung up, I pocketed my phone, grabbed my suitcase, and lugged it downstairs. I tossed it into the back of the old farm truck, kissed my grandparents goodbye, and promised them I’d be home in a few days. Then, the ancient engine roared to life and I was off.
8
Somehow Tucker managed to book a seat on my flight from Branson to New York City. So, even though I made it to the airport and through security without running into him, he found me while I was waiting at the gate to board.
“Which seat are ya in?” he asked, holding up his ticket. I leaned over and read his: 16C.
I held in a groan. “16A.”
“Great. I bet we can get 16B to swap with one of us, so we can sit next to each other.”
And Tucker was right. 16B was a man in a business suit who didn’t seem to care about much outside of his laptop, and he was more than willing to switch seats with Tucker. I spent the entire flight pressed against the window, pretending to sleep. It was going to be a long trip.
When we landed, Tucker immediately began his sight-seeing tour. He craned his neck to look through every window we passed, oftentimes holding up the flow of passengers trying to make their way through the airport.
“Do you have any place to stay yet?” I asked.
He looked at me, eyebrows pulled together. “I haven’t booked anything. Do ya have a guest room at your place?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s a one-bedroom. Two-bedrooms in New York are too expensive for my budget.”
I didn’t admit that I had briefly had a roommate at one point and that I did, in fact, still have that previous roommate’s old futon in the living room, where Tucker could have slept. It seemed better not to encourage him.
He nodded, looking disappointed. “Okay. So, I’ll just get a hotel close to your apartment. No problem.”
“There’s a hospitality desk over there.” A woman with bright red hair and a nametag reading ‘Deanna’ stood behind the desk. She looked Tucker up and down and smiled.
He turned back to me, eyes wide. “Can’t you help me find one?”
“Deanna will make everything so much easier. Trust me. She’ll get you set up with a nice place and a good nightly rate. You get your living situation sorted out and then we’ll meet back up later.”
“You’re leavin’ me here?”
“I have some things I need to sort out at my apartment that would be boring for you.”
“I don’t mind,” Tucker said hopefully.
I waved him away. “You’ll be fine. Just get a hotel, snag a taxi out front, and call me when you’re ready. You have my number, right?”
He nodded.
“Great. Then, it’s a plan?”
Tucker looked at Deanna and then back at me, obviously conflicted. Finally, he shrugged, nodded, and walked towards the desk. Deanna visibly brightened at her luck. I was sure Tucker was one of the most handsome travelers she’d talk to all day. Maybe even all week.
As soon as Tucker was involved in conversation with the very flirty Deanna, I rolled my suitcase out front and waved down a taxi. I felt bad ditching Tucker at the airport when he so clearly wanted to stick together, but I hadn’t been to my apartment in a few months. And for some reason, I wanted to be alone when I went back.
A cab pulled up in front of me, and I began moving towards it, bending forward to look through the window and wave at the driver. He had dark hair and a thick beard, and he lifted his hand to wave back. Except, as soon as he got a good look at me, he froze. His eyes widened, and before I could even contemplate what was happening, he drove away.
I watched him speed out of the airport pick-up zone without a passenger, and I couldn’t understand. In all my years in New York City, I’d never seen any cabbie willingly drive away without a passenger in his car while on duty. Every mile they drove with an empty car was a mile they weren’t getting paid for. Why wouldn’t he want my money?
Another cab replaced that one and the driver—an Indian man with a big smile—popped the trunk for my luggage before I could even ask. He seemed to have no trouble at all taking me on as a passenger, and by the time we reached my apartment, I’d forgotten about the first driver all together.
My apartment building was a narrow six-story walkup with a set of stairs running along the right side and apartments stacked on top of one another on the left. There were three units per floor, except for the basement which had been converted into one large unit for Blanche’s son, Jay.
I slid my key into the door, and it felt routine, as if I’d never left. The door clicked open, and I stepped into the yellow and green-tiled lobby. A wall of metal mailboxes was off to the right, and I pulled out my mail key to check mine. As soon as the small door opened, envelopes and coupons began spilling out onto the floor. I’d set up a forwarding address at my grandparents’ house in Missouri, but clearly some people didn’t get the message. I shoved bundles of mail into my purse, content to sort through it later.
“As I live and breathe.”
The voice startled me for a moment, but then I recognized who it was. When I turned around, I was wearing a warm smile. “Mable, how have you been?”
“Still alive,” she said with a laugh, and then she sobered. “I suppose I shouldn’t say that considering the news around here these days. Did you hear about Blanche?”
I nodded. “I heard. How sad. Do they have any idea how it happened?”
She pulled her thin shoulders into a shrug. “No one tells me anything, and I don’t get out as much as I used to.”
That was an understatement of epic proportions. Mable Abernathy had lived in the same apartment for twenty years, and to my knowledge, she hadn’t left in that long, either. No one had ever seen her leave the building, she had her groceries and medications delivered to her door, and with the invention of the internet, her life of solitude had become even easier. Of course, it wasn’t total solitude. She would stand in the doorway of her apartment to see who came and went from the building, popping out every time someone she recognized passed by, so they could chat.
I said, “I haven’t heard anything, either.”
“If you do, you’ll let me know?” she asked, her pale face pulled up hopefully, drawn in eyebrows stretched towards her hairline.
“Of course. I’ll only be back for a few days, but I’ll be sure to knock and see you again before I leave.”
“You better. Oh, and before you leave, let me grab you something.” She disappeared from the door for a few seconds, and I heard movement inside her apartment. Then, she reappeared with a paper plate full of brownies. “Please take some of these sweets off my hands. I’ll eat too many of them if they’re around.”<
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“Oh, I’ve certainly missed you, Mable,” I said, patting my stomach. “No one makes a brownie like you.”
“I’m a humble woman, but even I have to agree with you there.” She winked at me and then clicked her door closed, bolting it immediately.
With my luggage and newly acquired brownies in tow, I walked up the three flights of stairs to my apartment. The door was a bit tight at first, swollen from humidity and lack of use, but I managed to kick it open. The room smelled musty as soon as I walked in, which I initially attributed to the lack of airflow, but as I dropped Mable’s brownies on the counter and stepped into the space, I realized my rug was damp.
My shoe squished in the rug, water leeching out of it and spread out across the wood floor.
“What in the—?” I mumbled, my mouth hanging open. I followed a trail of wetness from the edge of the rug all the way to the window, and then I solved the problem. The window had been leaking.
I sighed. How had I forgotten about my leaky window? It had caused havoc for me all Spring the year before, and no matter how many times Blanche sent the maintenance guy in to fix it, the next time it rained, the window would leak all over my carpet. I’d gotten pretty good at strategically placing towels and cups around the frame and on the floor to catch the water, but considering I hadn’t been home in months, the water had soaked through the towels, filled the cups, and spread across half of my living room. Luckily, my furniture was safe, and my books were all in a shelf in the bedroom, but my rug was a goner. It smelled like mildew and some of the colors had begun to bleed due to the constant damp.
I set to work cleaning the mess. I moved my coffee table, sofa, and armchair to the edges of the room and rolled the damp rug. As it folded in on itself, water began to leak from the ends like a Swiss Roll with too much cream. I ran to the pantry and grabbed two trash bags to tie around the ends and collect some of the water so I didn’t leave a stream of water all the way through the apartment building. Ten minutes later, I was heaving my sopping wet rug—which looked like a damp q-tip thanks to the sagging trash bags on either end—down three flights of stairs and to the dumpster in the alley. The sight of the beautiful rug I’d bought on clearance just a year before in the dumpster was sad.
There’s $150 down the drain.
I hoofed it back up the stairs, pulled out my mop and bucket, and began the arduous process of cleaning my wood laminate floors. By the time I finished, my back was aching from bending forward, my arms hurt from the repetitive movement of squeezing water out of the mop, and my forehead was sweaty. But my apartment smelled slightly less damp, and rug or no rug, it looked nice. Cozy.
I was tempted to sit down on the couch and kick my feet up, but I knew if I did, I’d never stand up again. So, despite my protesting feet, I dabbed the sweat from my face, picked up the brownies from the counter, and headed down to the basement. Jay Wilkins and I needed to have a discussion.
9
My apartment building was surprisingly affordable, but it lacked many of the amenities of nearby spaces. No resident gym, no washers and dryers, and a general lack of pleasant aesthetics. The apartment units had all been painted a neutral white, but the hallways hadn't been updated since the 1980s, at least. The color scheme alone—varying shades of green, yellow, and brown—made that abundantly clear. But the yellow glass votives and shaggy orange carpet runners finished the deal. The building was ugly.
The basement, however, belonged to Jay Wilkins, and he apparently had been given the option to renovate. As soon as I opened the door to the basement, I felt as if I’d stepped into a villain’s lair. The floors were a shiny slate gray, and the walls were a dark charcoal color with light fixtures shining bright white beams from the ceiling to the floor every few feet.
Prior to the renovation, there had been three units in the basement, but now two of the doors had been sheet rocked over, leaving one door at the far end of the hall. The door was the same dark wood as the floor. I stood in front of it, Mable’s brownies held in front of me as an offering, and pressed the small illuminated door bell next to the door. I heard a low gong-like sound echo through the apartment, followed by a deep voice.
“I’m coming.” It was a grumble more than anything else.
When the door opened, Jay Wilkins stood before me in all his glory, looking exactly as I’d pictured him. Balding, with red hair, round middle, and wearing a grungy rock t-shirt. It was also apparent by the raise of his eyebrows that he had no idea who I was.
“Emma Hooper,” I said, extending the brownies. “We talked on the phone.”
He grabbed the brownies but didn’t lose his look of suspicion. “I thought you were out of town.”
“I had to come back to take care of a few things, and I thought I’d stop by to offer my condolences.”
He hummed in understanding. “Well, thanks.”
The door was halfway shut when I shoved my foot against it, stopping it from slamming in my face. “I also came because I have a problem.”
“That makes more sense.” He rolled his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Clearly, our tenant/landlord relationship was off to a great start.
“I’ve had trouble in the past with my window leaking. Maintenance was sent in several different times to fix it, but it still leaks every time it rains. I actually just had to throw out an expensive rug because there was a lot of water damage during the months I was gone.”
“You’ll have to take that up with your renter’s insurance,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “I’ll send Paul up to look at the window this next week.”
Paul had already been in my apartment four different times, caulking every crevice he could find, and it had done nothing. But I had a strong suspicion I would have to bring a lot more than brownies to convince Jay that he needed to hire a professional to replace the window.
“I’m only in town for a few days before I have to leave again.”
He sighed. “I’ll have to look at Paul’s schedule and get back to you. I’ll call you.”
Once again, he tried to slam the door.
“Is there any way we could schedule it now? I’m sure you’re very busy, and I’d hate for you to forget and then come back to another flooded apartment.”
He stared at me for a long time, looking like he was trying to make me disappear with his mind, before stepping aside and letting me into his apartment. I smiled and walked past him.
Much like the hallway, the interior was decorated mostly in shades of gray and black with sci-fi movie posters and death metal rock band album covers hung all over the walls. It looked like a slightly weird kid’s college dorm room. But it was massive. The entire apartment was open concept with an all stainless-steel kitchen running along the back wall and a dining room/living room/gaming room taking up the rest of the space.
A room that appeared to have once been a bathroom for one of the units had been renovated into an office space. Jay flipped on the light switch and turned on the computer monitor in the room. In a matter of a few clicks, he pulled up a chart.
“Paul is free tomorrow at two in the afternoon. Otherwise, he has a slot next week,” he said in a glum voice.
“Tomorrow at two it is.”
“Which apartment number?” he asked.
“3B.”
“What was your name again?”
“Emma Hooper,” I said, feeling strange about being in Jay’s apartment when he didn’t even remember my name.
When he finished, he stood up and immediately moved back towards the front door, evidently eager to have me out of his apartment as quickly as possible.
“This is a nice place you have down here,” I said, looking around. Aside from his choice of décor, it really would be an incredible apartment. One the same size would cost a fortune in rent. “Hopefully your mom gave you a discount.”
He grimaced at my joke. “She made sure I paid, believe me.”
It was clear Jay Wilkins didn’t have a good relationship with his
mother, and it was also clear that he was on the verge of forcefully pushing me from his apartment. I was running out of time to start a conversation and casually bring up her death, so I decided to go for it. Like ripping off a bandage.
“Do you know how she died?” I asked.
He shrugged and looked down at the floor. “They have to do an autopsy first. One EMT suspected foul play.”
“Murder, you mean?”
“That’s my understanding of ‘foul play,’” he said sarcastically. “But I doubt it. I’m not sure what happened. Another EMT guessed she was done in by a heart attack. I told him she’d have to have one for that to be true. I don’t think he got the joke.”
I chuckled to make him feel better, though I also failed to see how the joke could be construed as funny. Most people, when faced with their mother’s dead body, wouldn’t make jokes about how horrible she was.
“She did seem a little cold,” I admitted cautiously, unsure whether this was the kind of situation where only he could say bad things about his mom, or whether her character was open for public comment.
For the first time, he laughed. “A little? The woman was Antarctica. She offered me this apartment as a gift, but the moment my house sold, she began holding it over my head. She told me that I’d be nothing without her, that she was the only woman who could ever care about me.”
I tried to hide my shock, but I worried it was spread all across my face. I hadn’t expected him to be so candid with me, or for Blanche to be quite so cruel.
“Not that she would know,” Jay said, rolling his eyes. “She demanded I eat dinner with her five nights a week, usually both weekend evenings. So, even if I got a date, I couldn’t take her to dinner or my mom would’ve had me evicted.”
“She threatened to evict me once, too,” I said. “I had to prop the front door open with my shoe while I was carrying in a new chair and she told me I’d be kicked out if I ever did anything like that again.”
He shook his head. “Yeah, Mom was always power hungry. She took advantage of it wherever she could. She would cut the power to my apartment if she thought I was playing too many video games.”