Snoflower

by L. K. Scott

  Usually, people have somewhere to go to cheer them up. I used to sit on the park bench with a book or drive to where the purple and yellow wildflowers grew over Turkey Flats, but I can’t bring myself to go outside.

  I don’t know the other occupants of this apartment complex. Bill Williams tells me the list of improvements needed to renovate this place was longer than John Holmes’ dick and I was taken back briefly by his comparison, but I understood what he meant. This was a hairy place and needed a lot of work. Housing for poor and miserable souls. He had seemed in a hurry at the time and left me with my key and a can of Raid topped with tied with a red bow. I thought of my beautiful roses, so red and fragrant.

  The quiet residents of Langham Manor had never indicated their presence through sight nor evidence of sound. I could have been the only tenant, though sometimes I heard a slight scratching and assumed a pigeon had perched itself upon my window. I don’t know if any of that made me feel better or worse. I couldn’t possibly feel more alone.

  Bill is a strong-built man with skin blacker than oil and fists like mallets. A tough guy whose scratchy voice and short, crass words were evident of a rough life on the streets. I assumed the other tenants shared similar stories. Not me. I had a beautiful, happy life, and plans to get married. I lived well, nothing extravagant, but comfortable. Just an ordinary, optimistic woman with dreams of a family and a fondness for wine. Comfortable enough that Bill had appeared surprised when I arrived. I considered myself a stylish woman and that day my casual outfit was a sleek strapless black dress that hugged my body and pleated delicately an inch above my knees, and a cobalt scarf draped around my neck. My dark hair was flat-ironed, and I wore a pair of elegant sandals with blue toenail polish. To him, I must’ve appeared out of place, different than other women with jeans too tight, or too short, and bulky sweaters or bathrobes or lime green patent leather tube tops like I had seen on my way here. When I asked for a rental application he seemed even more surprised and told me he thought I was from the county, which was never a good visit. Bill was kind. A bit crass and one of the most intimidating men I’d ever seen, but kind and kindness was what I needed most right now. And a place to live. As of yesterday, I was homeless.

  I pull myself into a sitting position still on the floor after my first night. I think of Seth and wonder if it’s his day off and if he’s lying in bed with his new girlfriend, or prepares a delicious breakfast of something French that I couldn’t pronounce. Or maybe they had gone to the coast for the weekend like we used to and made love in the hotel room that overlooked the beach as flocks of seagulls sailed by and boats moored in the bay. Maybe he took her to our special place where above the beautiful cliffs, the pastel orange sun sets behind the distant gray haze of the marine layer and the cerulean waves dance among the cyan rocks below.

  I find a little vodka in the back of the freezer. Just barely enough for a shot. Still not enough to resolve this fucking hangover. Not enough to get me through the shame of another day. The heat is building. I check the time. 12:00, still Flashing. I wipe away the oily sweat pearling on my forehead.

  I close my eyes and let the darkness swallow me until my feeling of sadness grows into a memory. Please, Seth. I need to talk to you, I’m so, so sorry. Please.

  It’s going to be a terrible day. It’ll come in waves, stronger and deeper, as I sober up. Maybe there’s enough change in my purse for another bottle. Bill told me about the liquor store down the street that sold cheap red wine for three bucks. I’m not sure I have three bucks. Shame and anger and humiliation come in only the first wave when I realize I’ll have to start my day sober and that it might have to end the same way. There’s a lurching in my stomach. I take the final shot of vodka. It burns. My stomach churns, but not from the liquor, from shame.

  There are boxes to be unpacked. Only five. Three were filled with books, one with clothes, and last was filled with some plants Seth had given me as a gift during one of our trips to the coast. He told me he couldn’t care for them; he’d forget to water and fertilize, so he sent them with me. I had no furniture, so I place them near the window. Still not enough light. They’d die within a few weeks. In next box, I see what’s inside and my heart palpitates and I believe for a moment I will pass out and die right here on the dusty, slivery floors. A photo of us at the coast with seals in the background, both of us making faces like we’re barking, our mouths rounded in O’s as we pretended to be elephant seals sparring. He’s a handsome man, pale with smooth skin, lightly freckled face and hazel eyes like gemstones. He kept the roundness of his chin sparse with scruff; he knew how much I liked facial hair on men. It made him look trendy and mature. In the photo, he is wearing his favorite tweed flat cap. I smile when I remember he calls them duffer caps before I start to cry. We’ll never have those days again. Such happy, romantic days. I let the photograph fall back into the box and clothe the flaps. There’d be no more unpacking today.

  I tell myself I’ve done worse things. I’ve yelled at him in public, I’ve shoved him and I humiliated him at work when I came in wasted and demanded we talk about our issues all while he was in the middle of a dinner rush. On his birthday we fought in his hotel room and I came at him with an empty champagne bottle, bruising his temple. For weeks he could hardly open his mouth to chew. I don’t remember doing it or even why I did it, and like every other alcohol-fueled argument, I figured the reason wasn’t worth remembering. Only that it had happened, and it shouldn’t have.

  I drink too much. I know I do. It gets worse. In the kitchen sink stained yellow and black and rusted, smelling of something rotten in the drain pipe, I find broken glass. I don’t own dishes. I don’t even own a single glass, so where did this come from? There was more beneath the window in the center of the living room wall. Quite a bit more.

  My time with Seth was merely a beautiful dream. We had our occasional spats, some worse than others, but we had many good memories together more than bad ones, but for some reason, he chose only to remember the bad ones. Our fights always smoothed over and then for months we’d live in bliss before another alcohol-fueled fight made us both say and act in horrendous ways to each other. Life was different when I woke up. I learned that not everything can be forgiven, especially when mistakes are repeated and promises are broken. When that happens, life becomes broken, and a broken life is a nightmare and I wish I could wake up. I know I’ve done some things wrong, but I can’t always remember what they were. All I know is they cannot be put right.

  “You need to be put in a mental institution, Cadence. You need to be in jail. Even your dad agrees with me. I just can’t do it anymore. I can’t help you. We’re not good for each other.”

  I’m offended he brought my parents into this. My parents can’t help. I have two siblings, a younger brother, and an older sister. Both have steady jobs and families living a suburban lifestyle. I called my dad once not too long after one of my good evenings with Seth to check on my mother who had been recovering from rotator cuff surgery. My dad answered and mom had asked who it was. When he handed her the phone I heard him say, “It’s the middle disappointment.”

  There’s dried blood on my hand from something I did last night, but don’t remember. If I had punched a wall, no tenant had called about a disturbance. If it had something to do with the broken glass beneath the window and in the sink, then it’s an even greater mystery. Then I remembered something strange. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but there was a particular expression on Bill’s face when I asked for this room. Not that he went pale, or that twisted face a person makes before a sneeze, but something similar, or somewhere in between. If I had been sober, I would’ve been nervous. Whatever look it was, it was one to be worried of. It should’ve been my first warning.

  My apartment is on the fifth floor, room 503, second from the top floor. Supposedly there were occupants on either side, above, and below, but I never heard them. Or seen them for that matter. My front door went into the center of the hallway tha
t smelled of musty old cigars and rotten wood. Cracks zigzagged across the walls, peeling of paint that reminded me of a color called Paris Green, which was no longer used due to the abundance of arsenic. The stench had nearly made me gag, but I said nothing.

  Entering room 503, I came to the living room. The door directly to my left was the bathroom and just to the right of it was the door to the single bedroom where the only two doors led into a closet and the other, the bathroom. On the right side of the apartment, directly across from the bedroom, was the archway, which led into the kitchen. The living room itself was just a big, empty, dusty square with a single window. I had no furniture, so I slept in a comforter on the living room floor. My boxes I stacked in the corner near the kitchen archway. Sad-colored curtains half closed the window and could close no further. The odor in the apartment was less faint than in the hall but was still unpleasant. I hate that my life has come to this.

  “If you need anything I’m in room 101,” Bill told me after I filled out the proper forms and handed him my security deposit. “It’s the first apartment when you enter the building. There’s a mail slot to deposit your rent check or if you need to write a complaint.” That’s when he handed me the can of nearly gift-wrapped Raid, and I figured pestilence was not a critical complaint to him. There was a doubtful intonation in his voice, which did not surprise me. I was wrong, however, because not long after discovering the broken glass beneath the window and in the sink, I made a complaint, which he determined to be very critical.

  Nothing especially worthy of mention occurred during my first full day in room 503. I found a crumpled dollar in the pocket of a coat, and with that and some change I paid for a packet of ramen and a bottle of red wine at the corner store exactly where bill described. While I walked home I stopped in every shop to ask for job applications, though everywhere I went I was met with the same response: “We’re not hiring, but you’re welcome to fill out an application and we’ll keep it on file.”

  I am exhausted, my head thick with sleep. My hangover subsided very little. I hated the sun and the heat and the musky air and the fact that I was sober.

  When I return I see Bill on the first floor with a gym bag in hand. He asked me how my first night was and I respond, “Quiet.”

  He gave me that strange look again, followed by what I could’ve interpreted as relief. I asked him about the other tenants, assuming they kept to themselves, omitting the fact I intended to do the same.

  “Each tenant is different. Some more trouble than their rent is worth,” Bill said.

  I gave a deep nod, forced a weak smile out of politeness, and headed to the elevator. As the doors close he watches me with concern.

  I enter 503. It’s strange to call this place home. It doesn’t feel like home. It’s an empty, rotting shell. I place my job applications on the floor next to my blanket. From my bags, I unpack the wine and my only pack of ramen noodles when I realize I have no pots or pans to cook my ramen, a corkscrew for my wine, or even a pen to fill out my applications. I throw my arms over the counter and I begin to cry.

  I went to the blanket with tears down my hot cheeks and rest my head on the pillow. I squeeze my eyes shut. Seth is opposite of me and I can feel his bare chest against my back as he snuggles me, and the weight of his leg across mine. It’s how we always sleep. I smile remembering those times I wake up before him and see him sleeping with his hand curled beneath his chin like a kitten. A loud noise crashes in my apartment. I blink hard and Seth is gone.

  I’m still in my own blanket on the floor, my heart pounds in my chest. My eyes dart around the room to see if any boxes had toppled over, but they weren’t even stacked upon each other. I snatch air into my lungs and realize I’ve been holding my breath. I think I hear neighbors fighting. A man and a woman. They sound miles away yet I can barely hear them. There’s a slight echo in their voices.

  I climb to my unsteady feet. I forget the tears drying on my face and I’m no longer concerned about the wine opener or my lack of cookware. The crash sounded like a hard banging against my window. That was impossible, of course. 503 was on the fifth floor and had no balcony. The window looked into a narrow alley only wide enough for a pair of dumpsters, and across was a big brick building, three stories taller than the Langham Manor. There were no windows on that side of that building and was without access. A pigeon, I told myself. A simple explanation for the crash. A pigeon had flown into my window. Still, though it didn’t seem quite right. The crash occurred with such force I thought the window would’ve shattered. A bird couldn’t do that. I was in my daydream when it occurred and perhaps I had not heard it as clearly as I thought. If not a bird, then someone else—another tenant perhaps—moving furniture. Or Bill working on some rigorous chore.

  I was shaking and went to the kitchen to dip my face under the faucet and gulp the bitter city water. I could borrow a corkscrew from Bill, I decided. And a pen.

  I was still unsteady on my feet when I moved to the boxes in the corner where I found my toothbrush and toothpaste. A full night and day had passed and I hadn’t brushed my teeth. My mouth felt disgusting as if my teeth were growing fur. I feel sick thinking how I’ve let myself go in a matter of days. I knew it would only get worse. I’d get fat from only being able to afford cheap junk food like potato chips and ramen, or I’d starve myself to death. I had hoped to drink myself to death before that happened.

  In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth. The taste of the vanilla-mint toothpaste was almost enough to mask the chemical taste of tap water. When I finished I opened the medicine cabinet to store my toothbrush and noticed a prescription bottle sitting on the top shelf. I placed my toothbrush and the toothpaste tube on the shelf below the bottle and took the bottle in my hands, rolling it between my fingers until I read the name, Sally Jones. A prescription for Xanax filled eight months ago in October. I twisted open the cap and at least a dozen white pills rattled inside. Left behind by the previous tenant, I figured. I inspected the pills carefully ensuring they were, in fact, Xanax. I placed a single tablet in my pocket, placed the bottle back on the top shelf, closed the cabinet, and returned to the living room. I snatched the room key from the top of my box of clothes and reached for the door knob. When I began to close the door behind me, I heard angry footsteps rushing through the living room. I turned, but as suspected, I found the room empty. Just sad and empty. Welcome to your new life, Cadence Forster, on behalf of all the citizens of Langham Manor, as a reward for your deeds, here is the key to your city. Congratulations, Cadence. You’re officially fucked. A heavy sigh escaped my throat, I took the keys in hand, and entered the hall, ensuring the door was locked behind me.

  The elevator, jarring as it descended to the first floor, reeked of rancid urine and ejaculate. The temperature was still hot down here, but not nearly as hot as my stale apartment upstairs. The increasing eagerness of the sun to linger in the sky as the hours passed, the extra scorch in the air, the oily scent of garbage baking on hot asphalt, and the sweat coating my neck—all the evidence of summer drifting into the dog days. The days would only grow hotter before they became cool again. Today, Bill was working in a tank top, opaque with perspiration, on something inside the wall. Many boards had been removed and were lying in a pile. He was a tremendous man and I couldn’t imagine how he worked so delicately in such tight places.

  “Hot morning,” I told him. I felt stupid. I was not a social creature and had never been graced in the art of conversations. I was certainly skilled at ending them though, almost as well as ending relationships. Hell, I could write a fucking how-to book about it. Was there a demographic for the opposite of self-help books?

  Bill grunted in reply and pulled back. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed by his construction project or by my interruption so I intended to make this conversation as brief as possible.

  “Not much of a morning,” he said. I realized I hadn’t known the time at all since the day I moved in. Time had no meaning when you had no job, no friends, or a
relationship, and your only hobby was booze and books. “Hot as a slut’s pussy in Hell.”

  I blinked several times. “Yeah, sounds about right,” I said as I try to force a chuckle. I wasn’t used to such crass language from a stranger, but the Langham Manor was just one step away from being out on the street and the streets, I imagined, were not inhabited by pleasantries and polite folk. Frankly, it felt kind of nice to be with someone who wasn’t judgmental. If you lived in the Langham Manor, you were no stranger to bad decisions and their consequences. That is, after all, why I’m here.

  “I can see you’re busy, I’d hate to bother you—”

  “Girl, if you got somethin’ to say. . .”

  I nodded, muttered a quick apology. “Do you have a wine key I could borrow?”

  He studied me and his expression softened. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hands and used a rag for his hands. When he looked back at me, all the irritation in his expression had changed to something softer. The wrinkles in his forehead disappeared, his jaw relaxed, and he stood in a casual stance. “Yeah, I got one. Bring it back when you can. I got an extra, but. . .” His voice trailed off which left me wondering what he had intended to say.