Paper-Thin Walls

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  After leaving work, I swung by my parents to retrieve Adam. He’d spent most of the day in preschool, but my mom had picked him up.

  “Momma,” my little man greeted me with a giant hug. “I missed you,” he said, grabbing me around the neck after I scooped him up.

  “I missed you too,” I echoed, giving him a big kiss on the cheek.

  “I spoke to the director about Adam coming to preschool five days a week,” my mom told me. “If you’ll drop him off in the morning, I’ll pick him up in the afternoon and keep him until you can get off work.”

  “Thank you,” I said appreciatively. “I wasn’t sure if they’d have space available for him and thought I’d have to put him in childcare.”

  We discussed the finer details and then I backed the car out and headed for my new abode.

  “Where are we?” Adam asked when I turned into the Woodlands Pointe parking lot.

  “We’ve moved, honey. We’re staying here for a while.”

  “No! I want my room! I want to go home. Why did we move?” Instant tears overflowed his eyes and ran down his cheeks.

  “Just give it a chance, sweetheart. I saw a little boy about your age yesterday. You might like it here.”

  “No,” he fumed, throwing his hands across his chest and bunching up his forehead. “I want to go home.”

  “His momma told me there’s a playground in the back. We can go check it out.”

  He thought about it for a while, torn between continuing his standpoint versus playing. “Okay,” he said in a solemn voice, his forehead remaining pinched in a frown.

  Still dressed in my business attire and overcoat, I took Adam’s hand, and we went through the lobby and out a back door. “Jesus,” I said low under my breath after a quick survey of the grounds behind the building.

  Last night when I had disposed of the dead rat, it had been too dark to see clearly. But now, though the sun was setting low in the west, there was still light enough to see the old, rusted playground fixtures consisting of a swing set, a merry-go-round and a jungle gym, all on nothing but hard-packed dirt. And the swimming pool was filled with green water that I wouldn’t dare go in. But it was fenced.

  Adam didn’t seem to mind the substandard play equipment and raced straight for the merry-go-round where two other tots were riding, and an older one was pushing.

  “I’m Adam,” my son announced on approach.

  “I’m Harry,” the one pushing said. “Get on and I’ll push you.”

  “I’m Charlie. That’s Susie,” the other kid said as Harry slowed the spin enough for Adam to climb aboard.

  There were two other women on a nearby bench. Taking a cue from my son, I approached them.

  “Hello, I’m Hailey Sinclair. That’s my son, Adam.”

  “Have a seat. I’m Trisha. Harry and Charlie are mine.” Trisha’s face was worn, like she’d had a hard life, and her clothing was faded and didn’t fit well.

  “My name is Joyce. Susie’s mine.” Joyce was wearing a lot of makeup. Her mousy brown hair hung loose across her back. She had an earring in her nose, her lip and her right eyebrow, and her arms were covered in tattoos.

  Both women appeared to be around the same age as me. And though they were friendly enough, we were worlds apart in commonalities. And being overdressed for the occasion, made me look out of place.

  “My son isn’t happy about moving. I picked him up straight from work and was using the playground to distract him and didn’t take the time to change clothes.”

  “Oh, you work?” they both marveled.

  “Yes, I’ve filed for a divorce and needed the income.”

  They both erupted in laughter. “Girl, you need to get with the program. Sign up for child support, welfare, food stamps, Section 8 housing, and Aid for Dependent Children. And you can stock up on food from the nearest food bank. You don’t have to work.”

  “Oh,” I said, like I’d just learned something valuable.

  My conversation with the two women was strained at best. While I intended to go after child support, it was because I felt Ryan had a duty to support his child. On the other hand, I didn’t want the government’s help. My goal was to stand on my own two feet. But at the same time, I didn’t want Trisha or Joyce thinking I was looking down my nose at them.

  Thankfully, I received a text message alerting me that Adam’s bed was on its way.

  “Furniture delivery. Sorry, I’ve got to run.” I stood from the bench and waved a hand toward my son. “Adam, we need to go,” I called out, hopefully before he needed a tetanus shot.

  He frowned. “Already?”

  “Yes, come on.” I waited for him to join me, then looked back at Trisha and Joyce. “It was nice meeting you. I’m sure we’ll run into each other soon.”

  Trisha nodded to me in a friendly manner.

  “Likewise,” Joyce returned.

  Leading Adam back inside to apartment 2-A, I unlocked the door and ushered him inside. Adam’s head swiveled to the empty living room, then to the dining room filled with furniture. He looked up at me with a question mark on his face. “This is where we live?” he asked in a disappointed tone.

  “Just for a little while,” I explained.

  “Where’s Daddy?” he asked.

  “Daddy won’t be staying here with us. It’s just going to be us for now.” I should’ve done some online research as to how to discuss divorces with children. I felt so unprepared.

  “Why?”

  “You and me and Daddy are still going to be a family. But for now, Mommy and Daddy need to spend some time apart.”

  “Did you have a fight?”

  “I suppose we did,” I admitted. “But it has nothing to do with you. We both love you so very much.”

  “I want my daddy, though,” he said, tears welling in his eyes.

  “I know, honey. I want him, too. But sometimes things don’t work out like you plan. Sometimes things just happen. It’s okay to be sad about it. Mommy’s sad, too.”

  After guiding him over to the loveseat, I pulled him onto my lap. “We’re both here for you. I’ll tell you what, let’s give Daddy a call and you two can talk.”

  “Okay,” he agreed, his little brown eyes lighting up.

  “Hey buddy,” Ryan responded once the FaceTime call connected.

  At the same time, the doorbell rang. “Ryan, I’m going to let you talk to Adam. There’s a furniture delivery man at the door. I purchased Adam a bed.”

  “Okay … Hailey, I love you.”

  “I … I need to get the door.” I quickly handed the phone to Adam and pushed off the tiny couch. There was no way I was ready to hear begging and pleading from a man who had slept with another woman. He should’ve considered the consequences before he did it.

  After acknowledging the delivery man had the right address, he went to get the bed. I stayed away from the phone. The thought of having to speak to Ryan was too upsetting.

  It wasn’t long before the bed was brought in and set up. The delivery guy was kind enough to help me place the loveseat into the living room and set up my other bed. As soon as we positioned my dresser, I tipped him nicely and he was off.

  Adam was off the phone by then and seemed content to play on his tablet while I cooked dinner. We had our first meal on the card table, sitting on cold metal folding chairs. Each of us dining on chicken strips, mac ‘n cheese and baked fries. A kid’s meal at best.

  After a bath and two stories, Adam was tucked into bed, and I was slipping into my own. Just before dozing off to sleep, I heard a noise. Something unidentifiable. It was a new place, and it was going to have new noises. I just needed to get used to them. Then I heard another noise. Maybe it was those rats Mrs. Henderson spoke about.

  My bedroom was in the back of the unit and the sound was coming from the front. Crawling from underneath the covers, I tiptoed past Adam’s room and into the living room. Standing still, I perked my ears up and listened.

  For a moment or two I didn’t hear a
nything. Then it sounded like whimpering was coming through the walls from the unit next door.

  “Just go to bed.” I jumped out of my skin, hearing a harsh, demanding male voice. “I’ve had enough of your shit for one night.”

  It seemed the noises I had heard were the people next door having an argument. Having lived in apartments before, I knew the walls could be thin. I remembered the guy who had lived above me could easily be heard when he urinated and then flushed the toilet. It wasn’t unusual to hear someone cough or sneeze. But usually, voices came out muffled. But not here. This man’s voice was ultra-clear, it was like he was in the room with me.

  Everything went silent at that point. Now it felt like I was eavesdropping, so I went back to bed.

  Not long after closing my eyes and trying to relax, another noise had my heart pounding. It sounded like a punch, then a yelp.

  While I couldn’t be sure, my imagination concluded someone had just hit someone and then stifled their scream.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hailey

  The remainder of the week flew by in a blur. I was getting the hang of my new job and felt a friendship forming between James, Carter, Ms. Davis, and myself. Adam was happy at preschool. Ryan had called each night to FaceTime with Adam, though I had avoided having a conversation with him. The only disconcerting events were hearing my neighbor’s continuous spats each night. Wednesday it was something about the gas bill being too high and the thermostat needed to be kept lower during the day. Thursday night the argument dwelled on the grocery bill being too extreme and more consideration should be given to items on sale.

  Now it was Friday night, and Adam was already asleep, and I had just turned in for the night when the argumentative noises started once again. This time much more clearly and a lot more aggressive.

  “You bitch! I told you I had to work tomorrow. Why the hell didn’t you get my shirts washed? You’re such a lazy bitch. I don’t know why I even keep you around.”

  The sound of a slap came next. Then a harsher punch.

  The female screamed, “You’re hurting me. Ouch, please, stop.”

  “Shut up. You’re making too much noise.”

  But with no insulation to buffer his abuse, there was nothing to prevent my overhearing them. More slaps. More punches. The slimness of the walls was all that kept me from seeing what I imagined was the woman being thrown against the wall opposite my bedroom.

  My mind turned over the possibilities, weighing out the best course of action. Was it better to stay out of it, or to call the police? A sense of dread prevailed, thinking the woman would most certainly be beaten to death. I hauled myself across the room, to my purse, and dug out my phone. Another scream rocked the walls. My pulse kicked up another gear and I tightened my grip on the phone. After hearing another loud thud, I dialed 911. My breath came faster as I waited for the police to answer.

  “My neighbor needs help,” I cried into the phone, my voice rising to an undistinguishable point. “They’re fighting. It sounds like someone is being hurt.” The whole time I was on the phone, it sounded like he was going to beat her to death. “Hurry, before he kills her,” I urged.

  It took fifteen eternal minutes before two police officers were banging on the neighbor’s door. Yes, I peeked into the hallway. Then, yes, I pressed my ear against the living room wall.

  “Good evening officers. How can I help you?” the male voice asked after answering the door.

  “Someone reported hearing loud noises coming from this unit. It sounded like a fight,” one of the officers said.

  “A fight? No, not here.”

  “Are there other occupants in the household?”

  “Just myself and my wife.”

  “We’d like to speak to your wife.”

  “Oh gosh, she’s already in bed.” After pausing a millisecond, the male added, “Oh, you know what, I’ll bet I had the TV up too loud. There are a lot of old people in this complex. One of them must’ve misheard things.”

  The male was jovial to the cops, even chatting with them for a while. At one point, the wife even yelled from the bedroom that she was fine, claiming she was in her gown and didn’t want to come out.

  Then the police left. They didn’t make the woman present herself, nor did they come over and talk to me. While it was disappointing that the wife hadn’t filed a complaint, it was probably best that the next-door residents didn’t know I was the one who had phoned in the incident.

  Disturbed by my neighbor’s physical altercation, Saturday morning arrived after a restless night of sleep. I wondered how they faced each other after their humongous fight. Were they all hugs and kisses and forgiving of each other? It bothered me that the man living next door had beaten his wife and she had covered for him by telling the police she was fine. While I understood the world was filled with abusive relationships, it didn’t mean I approved of them.

  After fretting for more than an hour, I turned my attention to doing something productive. The sheets on my bed hadn’t been washed in a while as we rarely had guests at our house. Deciding they could be freshened up, I stripped the bed and placed the linens in a basket, along with a stack of dirty clothes.

  “Come on, Adam. We’re going to do laundry.”

  “Where?” he asked, gazing around the apartment as if searching for a washer and dryer.

  “Down in the basement. Get your tablet.” I grabbed mine as well, thinking it would help pass the time.

  Gathering a box of soap, my keys and purse, we headed out the door. Standing in a dimly lit hallway, I locked my unit and we headed for the elevator. My apartment was on the second floor and while I might normally take the stairs, due to lack of sleep from last night, coupled with the piled-high laundry basket in my hands, I imagined myself tripping over my own two feet and tumbling to my death. Stepping onto the ancient lift and selecting the button for the basement floor, the box juddered at a snail’s pace downward and jerked to an abrupt halt on its final stop.

  “This is scary,” Adam said, clinging to my waist as we entered the bowels of the apartment complex.

  Tenant storage bins lined both sides of a narrow hallway, barely visible due to less than adequate lighting. Several rusted pipes ran along the ceiling. Some were dripping, giving the place a dank cellar-like odor. A couple of times movement ran along in front of us, disappearing into small crevices. Rats. Pulling Adam closer to me, I forced myself deeper into the unknown.

  After poking my head in a mechanical room containing the building’s boiler, a large furnace, an antiquated air conditioning system, and a wall of electrical panels, we finally came to the laundry room.

  Overall, the room was much brighter than the rest of the basement. The cement walls were painted a pale yellow. A long rectangular table used for folding laundry was front and center. Behind it were several mismatched coin-operated washers and dryers, ranging in color from white to harvest gold, to avocado green, letting me know they were extremely used and antiquated.

  A row of chairs was over to the far right. Only one was occupied.

  “Hello,” I called out to a skinny girl with long, stringy black hair, possibly in her early to mid-twenties.

  She jumped, startled by my presence. “Oh, hi.”

  “I’m Hailey Sinclair. This is Adam.”

  She smiled at my son but avoided making eye contact with me. “I’m Kenna Simpson.”

  “It’s nice to meet you. We’ve just moved in.” I worked my way over to the appliances and dumped the sheets in one washer, and my clothes in the next one. Selecting from a few options, adding some detergent, and placing several coins in a small slot, I got both machines going.

  “Do you have any kids?” Adam asked.

  “No. Not yet,” she added with a hopeful tone in her voice.

  “Are you trying for a family?” I asked. Ryan and I had been planning for a second child. I supposed it was a good thing I hadn’t become pregnant.

  “I’d love to have a baby,” she said,
flashing a smile across her face. In that quick moment, I saw her eyes were blackened and her bottom lip was busted. My face said it all, causing her to immediately duck her head and let her thin black hair fall forward in an attempt at covering herself.

  She was the girl from next door. The one whose husband had beat the living shit out of her. And she wanted to bring a baby into that environment? I hated being overly judgmental. But I was.

  “What happened to your face?” Adam innocently asked, crowding up next to her and trying his best to get a good look at her.

  “Sweetheart, let’s get you set up over here.” I dragged one of the chairs several feet away and handed him his tablet. Adam quickly engrossed himself in a children’s educational game.

  I seated myself next to Kenna. “Are you okay,” I softly asked.

  “I deserved it. I didn’t have Bill’s shirts washed. It was just so stupid on my part. There’s really no excuse.”

  “There’s never an excuse for a man to hit a woman. You didn’t deserve this.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s my job to cook, clean, do the laundry. You know, the woman stuff. It shouldn’t be that hard for me to keep up with.”

  From what I’d read, many women who were beaten, bullied and bashed by their partners blamed themselves for their shortcomings instead of seeking help. Though I was troubled by her situation, I bit my tongue and held back the many questions I wanted to ask her. Besides, I was a stranger to her. She wouldn’t confide in me if I pushed too hard.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I kindly offered.

  She frowned. “What would it be? You want to finish Bill’s shirts while I go up and clean the oven? Is that what you mean by help?”

  “Yes, I can do that for you. I’m here doing my own laundry anyway.”

  She shook her head. “You wouldn’t begin to know how he likes his shirts. They must be pressed and starched and if there’s even the tiniest wrinkle, then are you going to come over and take the beating for me?”

  Nope, not when she put it that way. If she left me in charge, I was taking his clothing to a professional dry-cleaning service. He could take his complaints there. It caused me to wonder why his shirts were so important.