The Trouble with Bliss

by Douglas Light

  ***

  All things, good or bad, come in threes. With Stavroula gone, the bad began. Hatfield’s increased his assault on Sofar, his tactics turning malicious.

  Using a screwdriver, he bored a hole in the building’s roof above Sofar’s apartment. Rainwater seeped in, damaging the ceiling. The plaster turned a teabag brown, sagged like the flesh of a flabby arm.

  While he hated to do it, Sofar called Hatfield, had him come take a look. “A lot of work, a lot of work,” Hatfield said when he finally got around to examining the damage a week after the call. The one time Sofar wanted him, he wasn’t around. It’d rained three days straight. Chunks of the drywall had come loose, fallen to the floor. A saucepan sat on the floor, collecting the rainwater. Hambone was locked in the bathroom, to keep her from biting Hatfield. “Looks like I’m going to have to take the whole ceiling down, find where the leaky pipe is.”

  “Leaky pipe?” Sofar said. “It’s the roof. There’s a hole. All you got to do is patch it.”

  “I’m not certain of that,” Hatfield said, his head cocked as he stared at the ceiling. “I’m thinking it’s a pipe. I’m thinking I’m going to have to take the entire apartment’s ceiling down, just to make sure.” Pausing a moment, he added, “Probably a seven week process.” He clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “Maybe longer. Sure wouldn’t want to try living here when the works going on. The dust,” he said, “the mess,” then asks, “When’s your lease up?”

  The next morning, the sun came out. Sofar bought a can of tar sealant and some shingles. Finding the hole in the roof, he patched it himself, then repaired his ceiling. The whole project took him less than ten hours.

  “We can get started on your place Tuesday,” Hatfield told him when he stopped by at five forty-five.

  “It’s fixed,” Sofar said.

  “Fixed?” Hatfield asked.

  Sofar showed him the work. “A hole in the roof,” Sofar said. “Looked like it was done intentionally.”

  “Intentionally?” Hatfield asked, feigning concern. “I don’t like the idea of someone damaging my property,” he said. “Do you have any enemies, someone who’s out to get you?”

  “I can only think of one,” Sofar said, glaring at him.

  “Now listen here Sofar,” Hatfield said, angrily, “if you’re implying that I was the one who took a screwdriver—”

  “Screwdriver?” Sofar asked. “Who said anything about a screwdriver?”

  Hatfield stammered. “You did.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, it’s good…” He gestured at the ceiling, backed up toward the door. “Good, I’m glad it’s fixed,” he said, then left.

  Having called Hatfield’s bluff, Sofar thought the harassment would stop. He was deluded to think so.

  It got worse: a can of pink paint was spilt outside of Sofar’s front door; the master fuse for his apartment, the one located in the basement of the building, went missing four times; random phone calls in the middle of the night would wake him; a foul odor of rotting, like that of death and cabbage stew, hovered in the hall out front of his place.

  And still, the owner banged on his door every few days at five forty-five p.m., wanting nothing more than to irk Sofar.

  Sofar’s life ground down, his immunity and defenses beaten and bruised by the owner’s continuous badgering, by the absence of Stavroula. He’d kept up with Seymour, with Morris, gave the boy errands. But he’d felt awkward, unwanted, whenever he popped in to see Seymour and the boy. His visits grew infrequent, rare.

  Then Stavroula returned. He was overjoyed, but his joy was short lived. She was quite ill. It was obvious the moment he saw her. It was in her eyes. They were no longer as dark as they once were, no longer shiny and glowing and vibrant. Her eyes said it all; something was killing her, silently gutting her every moment of the day. Hambone whimpered, turned circles. He knew the woman, but her smell wasn’t the same. She smelled of bad things to come. “Stavroula,” Sofar said, trying to sound cheerful. He took her hand, though he wanted to hug her, to wrap his arm about her. “You look—” He broke off, the words lost. “I’m glad you're home,” he finally said.

  She died on a Thursday, early morning, in the hospital. Hatfield pounded on the door at his regular time. Sofar answered, his mind clouded with grief. “Stavroula died,” Sofar said before Hatfield could speak.

  “What happened?”

  “Mrs. Bliss,” he said, “apartment eight. She died.”

  “Oh…well, sorry to hear it,” he said, caught off guard. He’d never seen Sofar emotional. “When’s the funeral?”

  “Sunday. Four p.m.”

  Hatfield nodded, his mind churning with thought. “Sunday,” he said, “at four.”

  The funeral was long, solemn, and saddening. Sofar felt as though it was his wife who died. His fabric of hope frayed more, the ragged edges catching in the gears of life. He was brimming with sorrow, confusion. He didn’t understand anything anymore. It was all a mess, a joke, what he called life, what he did day-to-day. He had no calling, no purpose.

  None of Stavroula’s family showed. Only Seymour and Morris. They were all Stavroula had. Now all they had was each other. It couldn’t get any worse, Sofar thought, offering a prayer before leaving the funeral parlor.

  He was wrong.

  Returning home at around seven that evening, he found his front door ajar, the hinges broken. His place was a mess, all his items, including his Hummels, smashed or stolen.

  Hambone was gone.

  Chapter 29