The police and two fire trucks are out front of the building when Morris returns. The area’s roped off, no one allowed in. A crowd’s gathered in the street, on the sidewalk, blocking the view. Morris smells a charred, damp odor, like rotten hamburger. “What’s happened?” he asks an officer.
“I’d say you caught a bad case of whip-ass,” the officer says, pointing to Morris’s black eye. “Girlfriend problems?”
“Yeah, kind of,” he says, then, “I live here. What’s going on?”
“You know this guy?” He nods toward the body bag the paramedics are wrestling onto a stretcher.
“Who is it?”
“That’s what I’m asking you, Winky,” the officer says. “We’re not sure. No I.D.”
“Winky?”
The officer motions to the building. “He jumped. From the roof. A flamer.”
“A flamer? You mean, what, he was gay?”
“I mean he was on fire.”
“Jesus,” Morris says, then suddenly worries it might be his father. “What’s the guy look like?” Morris asks, his stomach knotting at the realization of what he’s smelling.
“Burnt. Dead,” the officer says. “Pretty sure he lived on the top floor. His apartment was wide open.”
“Mr. Sofar?”
“That his name?” the officer asks, pulling out his notepad. “You know the guy?”
“He used to be a family friend,” Morris says, feeling like he’s just been operated on, like something’s been stripped from him. “He’s lived here over thirty-five years.”
“What’s your name?” he asks, jotting notes.
Morris tells him.
“How long have you lived here?”
“All my life,” Morris says, staring up at the building. He’s never noticed the cornices before. “Thirty-five years.”
“Long time,” he says, working his pen over his notepad. “When was the last time you saw this Sofar?”
“Yesterday,” Morris says. “Or no, maybe twenty years ago.”
The officer looks up at Morris, his black eye. “Keep it straight, Winky,” he says. “When did you last see him?” he asks again, more forceful.
“I stopped by his place yesterday, but he didn’t answer the door.” Morris explains the entire relationship, tells the officer about his family, his mother’s death, how, just this morning, after living with him thirty-five year, Daddy had told him he’d have to leave.
“Daddy?” the officer asks.
“Danny,” Morris lies. “My father’s name is Danny.”
The officer eyes him warily. “You said Daddy.” The ambulance with Sofar’s body flips on its sirens then pulls away, in a rush. There’s no race. Sofar’s status isn’t changing.
“No,” Morris tells the officer, “I said Danny.”
Finally, he’s allowed into his building.
The halls are dimmer, clouded with dust. The stairwell has narrowed, appears more worn. Nothing’s changed, only now, Morris is noticing. Thirty-five years there and now he’s noticing.
Opening the door to his apartment, Morris finds silence and emptiness.
On the floor, he finds a letter, addressed to him.
Chapter 45
The Trouble with Bliss Page 49