The Girlfriend Who Wasn't from Delaware

by Danielle Williams

  She scurries back behind the counter to clock in, bill curled up in her fist, puffy sleeves bouncing. I’m turning away when I see them off in the distance, making their approach from the Macy’s end of the mall: Darryl and the Sodium Bombshell.

  I back into a semi-shadowy nook of the food court (well, as shadowy as a table arena lit by skylights at dusk) and watch them.

  Whatever jitters that’d got a hold of Darryl that day he wanted to meet at the airport are gone. They walk hand in hand, him chatting at her with eyes lit up like she’s the best thing since the moon, her with a close-lipped smile. Like she’s indulging him.

  She sees the Pretzel Palace and her eyes light up. She points, little tiny beads sewn on her white sleeve swinging. They practically skip over to the shop together.

  Maybe I oughta go…‌

  But when I see Winnie at the counter calling back an order before they’ve even reached the register, I keep put.

  Darryl’s fishing out dollars and the blonde is leaning forward, looking into the back like a little girl gawking at a carnival prize she’s about to win. One of the new kids hands over two pretzels‌—‌whitecapped with salt, I can see it even from over here‌—‌while, from the looks of it, Winnie asks Darryl what he wants.

  So…‌Jane Blondie is a regular? How’d I miss that bit of important info?

  I screw up my face as she takes a huge bite of the oversalted pretzel. Darryl gets handed a parmesan-sprinkled one, with marinara dipping sauce. His body turns away, holding the sauce and bread, but he’s smiling back, thanking Winnie (while Miss Blondie chews away, eyes crinkled in bliss, ’cuz nothing tastes better than oncoming blood pressure disease, right, lady?)‌—‌and it hits me: they’re coming back this way!

  I do an about face and speed walk towards the parking garage. Luckily, I’ve already changed into my street clothes. I don’t think either of ’em know me well enough to ID me from behind.

  * * *

  I have zero luck canvassing that night‌—‌and the fridge goes into meltdown mode earlier and for longer than it ever has before. Whoever’s up there, I hate him now.

  It’s long past dawn before I can get even a drop of sleep, but that’s okay‌—‌it’s my day off, my recovery day. I get up around two and ride the elevator up. My list shows I’ve knocked on every door on my side of the elevators, and only spoke to that one grocery woman once. But that was a weeknight, after work, and, and this is a Saturday afternoon.

  Still, I give myself the goal of twenty no-shows, just to feel better about the whole thing. I go to the hallway with the square window at its end (now letting in bright blue shining summer light, but not the heat, thankfully) and start knocking.

  I guess it’s the day, or time, but my luck improves quick-like. A dad getting ready to take his kids down to the pool (red and blue towels under his arm) tells me he hasn’t heard any noise. Some six doors later, I get a chain-smoking lady with her hair up in a shower towel turban and fuzzy slippers.

  “Naw, ain’t hearda nothin’ like that, but to tell you the truth, once I get my Ambien in me, I don’t think a stampede of buffaloes could get me up. Sorry.”

  She actually sounds like she means it.

  “Well, thanks for your time,” I tell her, sounding like my old deal making self.

  “Yeah, sorry again,” she says, and shuts the door, leaving me in the quiet with the rows of mute doors.

  Still. Better luck than I had been having.

  I take a break at four to eat some crackers for dinner then get back at it. Four doors later, an old man opens up. He’s wearing all blue‌—‌dark blue ball cap, light blue chambray shirt, and pale blue jeans. He kinda looks like a mailman. He grins wide with a slightly soft mouth (though his teeth look good, horsey, even, and I don’t think they’re dentures), eyes glittering like he’s spotted an old friend.

  So a lonely oldster‌—‌and eager to talk. You don’t work in sales long before you start encountering folks like these, and if you’re any good, you quickly find a way to handle ’em, friendly enough to get sales, but not so friendly that they eat up all your time. Some of ’em can talk forever. Most of ’em, at minimum, can talk both your ears clean off.

  But at the moment, it’s a real boost to see a smiling face.

  “Evening! What can I do for ya?” he asks in a thick Jersey accent.

  “Well, sir, I’ve just been going up and down this hall the last couple days trying to figure out which one of you lives above me.”

  He shifts onto one leg, leaning against the door, settling in. “Gad‌—‌tell me about it! I’ve been livin’ in nothing but apartments for the past thirty years ever since my wife passed, God rest her soul, and I ain’t never seen a building laid out more crazy.” He throws his hand forward dismissively.

  “I say they drew the floorplan up after running a wiener dog through a maze with a marker attached to his leg.”

  He places the flat of his hand to his heart and leans back, chuckling like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in ages. Maybe it is. In any case, his reaction gives me a great big grin of my own. I’d only been able to trot that li’l joke out to my sis, and I think it lost something over the phone‌—‌at least, it didn’t sound like she got that that big a kick out of it. This guy was a good audience.

  “That’s a good one,” he says after he recovers, resettling the earpiece of his glasses on his ear. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

  I lift my hand towards him, bequeathing the gag upon him. “Use it as you see fit.”

  His wiry eyebrows fall, like he wants to be serious, but the mirth hasn’t entirely left his mouth. “So why you wanna know who lives above ya, anyway? You lookin’ to move? View can’t be that much better, not a single floor up.”

  “Though who knows, with this layout!” I quip. It wins me another grin from the oldster, another palm flat on his heart. “But you’re right, I’m not lookin’ to move. Tell ya the truth, I’m trying to figure out who lives above me so I can kick his ass.”

  “Oh! Why’s that?” He’s still grinning so I can tell we’re okay.

  “’cuz his damn fridge is broke, and it makes this godawful racket in the middle of the night, sounds like the ceiling’s about to cave in on my head. No way I can sleep through it‌—‌and I gotta job to be at!”

  “Huh.” The mirth’s left, and now he strokes the soft side of his cheek with one knuckle, thinking. “Well, if anything’s makin’ a racket at night, I’m the last person who’d hear it.” He turns his head and taps below his ear, bringing the flesh-colored hearing aid to my attention. Crap. I’m barkin’ so far up the wrong tree, I may as well be a squirrel.

  He turns his head back, resumes stroking his jowl. My sorry for bothering you is on the tip of my tongue, but then he shakes his finger at me and says, “Though come to think of it, the last time my granddaughter came here, she heard some kinda noise.”

  My antenna perks. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He puts his pointing hand on his waist. “It really scared her, too. That’s the reason I’m in this building, it’s not far from her and her husband, and it’s nice, they know I like a visit more often than not. Beats an old folks’ home, or at least I think it does, but whadda I know?”

  My toes wiggle in my shoes, but I know better than to rush him.

  “Anyway,” he says, tossing his hand again, “they came over some afternoon last week‌—‌least, I think it was last week‌—‌brought a Disney movie with ’em, along with the great-grandkids…‌anyway, at the end, the great-grandkids are headin’ out the door, all their toys in their little backpacks, complainin’ cuz their”‌—‌he flaps his thumbs in front of him‌—‌“vidya games ain’t workin’…‌that’s when Sharlene‌—‌that’s my granddaughter‌—‌freezes like a deer in the headlights, and says, ‘Poppop, what’s that noise?’

  “’Cept I can’t hear what she’s talkin’ about, ’cuz these damn things”‌—‌he points to his hearing aids‌—‌“get so uncomfor
table, I take ’em out, and that time they were bugging me so bad I had ’em out before the end of the movie. Anyway, her back is turned because she’s got her ear up to this wall, here”‌—‌he swings his arm towards the north, and I lean in to see, but it’s just a normal wall, kitty corner to his old box TV and a corduroy sectional with the seats worn smooth‌—‌“so I put my hearing aids back in quick so she don’t see I took ’em out‌—‌she gets her feathers ruffled when I do it, just like my wife did‌—‌but when I got ’em in, it’s like the batteries are dead, except they can’t be, mister, they can’t be, ’cuz I’d just had the batteries replaced that week at the Sam’s Club!”

  “Really!” I think of my noise box sitting on my nightstand, and for a second I think, what if it’s not a fridge? Could a terrorist live right above me, attracted to this butt-ugly building for some evil reason, working on some kinda…‌Idunno, electronics-killing weapon?

  “Anyway, her ear’s right up against the wall over there, and I says to her, I says, ‘I can’t hear anything, sweetheart, what’s it sound like?’ But she don’t answer, she just points at her husband, says, ‘Get the kids in the car,’ serious as a heart attack, but she don’t move, even after they leave.”

  “Did he hear it?”

  He shrugs. “Dunno. Tell ya what, I’d bet money his hearing’s going, too. He used to work out at the airport, around the planes, and you can’t tell me those”‌—‌he mimes putting on earphones‌—‌“completely protect your hearing when you’re right up next to those jets.”

  I keep nodding, digesting all this.

  “Anyway,” he goes on, “I try to ask somethin’ else, but she shushes me. She don’t look so good, whatever she’s hearin’, it’s scarin’ her, I tell ya…‌” He shakes his head. “Tell ya, I hated seeing her look that scared. I remember when she was born!” He holds his hands upright, like he’s measuring a fish he caught, indicating a length a little over a foot. He looks at me over his glasses. His voice drops to a whisper. “Can you believe it? I remember when she was born, and now she’s got kids of her own. Man, I’m old.“ He gives a rueful chuckle, at full volume again. “So here I am scared for her, and finally she wheeshuu”‌—‌he spins his hands, and I can imagine a woman spinning on her heel‌—‌“and says, ‘Poppop, you’re coming with us.’ And I says, ‘Over a noise? Sweetheart, it’s probably just a movie, or some idiot’s music‌—‌or even if it ain’t, I ain’t leaving!’

  “I mean, like I said, I been in apartments forever now, and if I can’t hear it, hey!” He shrugs carelessly, “Why worry about it? She scolds me, but I don’t go, I tell her if I can’t hear it, it can’t hurt me, and she gives me her Serious Business Look and makes me promise to leave right away if I hear anything funny or if I get scared.” He rolls his eyes. “Oh! And she makes me swear to get my hearing aids checked out.” His noise is wrinkled in distaste by the time he says this, shaking his head.

  “But you never heard anything, not even after that.”

  “No, sir. But my hearing aids have acted up a couple times since then‌—‌out for hours at a time. But, you know, it’s just me and the TV lately, so I turn up the volume, heh, problem solved!”

  “And it happened in the afternoon…‌” I muse. “You don’t remember the date?”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry. The days all blend together at my age. But like I said, she heard it from that direction.” He points. “Don’t think it’d be my next-door neighbor, figured if the noise were that bad that it’d bother Shar, I’da felt it, you know, the vibrations.” He wiggles his hand. “Besides, he travels all the time for his job, ain’t hardly ever at home.”

  Maybe that’s why there hadn’t been a repairman. “So if there was a problem,” I say, “maintenance wouldn’t go in.”

  “No, I guess not. But that’s the direction,” he emphasizes with a pointed finger, “Mister Apartment Detective!”

  I reach out my hand to shake. “Ray Belga.”

  He grins and takes it. “Rich Stone. Let me know what you find out, kay?”

  “Yes, sir.” We release hands.

  “All right, bye now.”

  “Bye‌—‌and thanks.”

  He shuts the door. I jot his name next to his room number, along with a star.

  Then I circle the two rooms to the north of him. Past Rich, this hall splits in a V-shape, then ends, the two rooms in a row next to Rich, but no across-the-way neighbors. No windows, either.

  I think these rooms could be over my place, but with the weird forks in the halls and cantilevered floors of the building, I can’t tell.

  Still, I got a feeling in my gut. It’s gotta be one of them. Gotta be.

  I knock on the next-door neighbor’s place. No sound, no movement. Shoulda asked Rich if he knew if the guy was out of town now or not. I knock again, louder, wait around a while. Still nothing. I write traveling? Next to the number on my list.

  I try the next door down, the second one circled on my list, but it’s just as dead there. I write a ? next to it, then go back downstairs. I had a good run today (though I didn’t make my twenty no-shows, which only goes to show ya that if you swing long enough, you’re bound to hit a ball now and again) but I can feel the barbell deepening between my shoulders.

  I don’t wanna push it. Those apartments will still be there after my shift tomorrow.

  * * *

  The barbell’s still there the whole next week as I sleep, go to work, and knock on those last two doors. I keep trying the rest of the doors in this end of the building, you know, just to fill out the rest of my bingo card, but I always try the two doors by Rich’s place first. But it’s well into next week before Rich’s neighbor, traveling?, opens up.

  He’s a black guy, looks like he might work in tech‌—‌square glasses, black hair in a flattop, purple button-down, khakis, and, weirdly enough, knitted house slippers that are, like, salmon orange. Huh. Maybe he got ’em from another country?

  “Hello,” he says.

  “Hi. I’m a friend of Rich’s, your neighbor?” I point with a tilt of my head, since mentioning Rich’s name didn’t register in his eyes. Luckily, neighbor makes him drop the mental wall.

  “Oh, yeah, the old guy, right?”

  “Yeah. Listen, I know this is a weird question, but does your refrigerator run rough at all?‌—‌No joke, I promise.”

  His brow flexes and puzzlement runs down the rest of his face, like he’s tasting a new flavor in his mouth.

  “No. As far as I know, it’s fine. Why?”

  I go through the spiel‌—‌where I live, what I’m hearin’ at night, and that Rich’s granddaughter heard strange noises coming from this direction. By the time I’m through he’s gawkin’ at me like a weird story on TV.

  “It can’t be me. I just got back, but maintenance has permission to enter…‌and I’m sure someone on this floor would’ve called in a complaint about it, especially if it’s as loud as you say.”

  I nod. But as he’s closing the door, I add, “Uh, now, if you hear anything at night…‌”

  The door stops, but he’s already shaking his head. “Sorry, man. I fly out tonight for a client. Won’t be back for three weeks at least.”

  “No prob. Thanks for your help.”

  “See ya ’round,” he says, then shuts the door.

  I pull out my list, make a note. I put a star next to the neighbor on traveling‘s other side. The ? room. That’s gotta be it. I give it another knock, but there’s still nothin’.

  Back in my room, I consider my life. It’s been over a week since the last bug-out above my head. My noise box has been humming along without any problems. I pull out my notepad from my breast pocket and study it, frowning. Knew I shoulda recorded the dates when I knocked. I got the feeling I’d tried the ? door at least once before. That had to’ve been long before I met Rich, back when the racket had been going strong. There’d been no answer then. And a machine like that wouldn’t just up and fix itself. So why would it go silent
now? Did the owner work graveyard, got it repaired while I was at work? …‌Or could it be that the fridge’s owner had been like Rich’s neighbor? On vacation, got back sometime last week, then had the thing taken care of?

  Hold up, Ray. Who cares when it happened? It’s done.

  I look up from my notes. Yeah. And if the thing’s fixed, I was just wasting time thinking about it now.

  Yeah. That’s it. It’s fixed and I deserve a celebration! A toast to you, guy upstairs! Way to fix your broken crap.

  Today’s payday. I grab my keys and head for the elevators. As the doors close, I get another idea: call Darryl. My social life’s kinda gone on hold since this ceiling noise stuff, but I really don’t want him turning into another Bowling Guy.

  In my parked car I pull up Darryl’s number on my flip phone.

  “Hey, Ray,” he answers.

  “Darryl, bud! How you been?”

  “Great!”

  I grin. “Now, that wouldn’t have something to do with that pretty blonde I saw you walking through the mall with, would it?”

  “Guilty as charged.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I’m actually over at her place now.”

  Oh, sure, it stings a little to hear that, but that’s the perils of twitterpation for ya.

  “Oh‌—‌well, I was headin’ out to eat and thought you’d wanna come, but since you’re with your lady…‌”

  “Hold on‌—‌we’re seeing a movie tonight at eight thirty. Maybe‌—‌” There’s static, but when it clears up it don’t sound like I missed anything, “Maybe we could catch you on the ride out? We’re heading to the CineStar.”

  The CineStar was a local movie chain, and if he was takin’ her to the one I was thinking of, it was almost an hour out from the city‌—‌but had those lie-back seats, and even beer!

  “Well, I got a hankerin’ for a bowl of clam chowder at the Harbor Horizon.”

  “That’s on the way! We might not get there in time for a full dinner, though. She needs time to get ready.”

  Women! But I still hadn’t really met her yet. And I was curious.