by Gun Brooke
Who lived here with the old woman? Where is she? I’m quite sure it’s a girl’s room, but of course, I shouldn’t be prejudiced about pink and purple, the stickers, and the knickknacks. I’m sure boys can appreciate them too. For now, I’m going to refer to this enigmatic room as the girl’s room. Apprehensively, I open a drawer in the desk and find a small stack of notebooks. Not about to pry further, I push it closed. Whoever wrote in those books and adorned the unremarkable white desk with stickers of horses, music notes, and famous people shouldn’t have their privacy invaded, even though I am the legal owner of all the inventory.
The other rooms are as I remember, and I make my way down the stairs. I’m glad I parked so close. Now I can haul my bags in and change into much more appropriate attire. I have two bags of groceries to hold me over the first week. I carry my bags in, one at a time, and when I return for the cooler that holds my frozen goods, I stop as I reach the car. Someone’s watching the house, or me, from the road leading to the driveway. I squint as the late fall sun is half in my eyes. It looks like a young man, no, a young woman. I attempt to ignore her and try to hoist the cooler out of the back seat.
Clearly, I’ve forgotten how heavy it is, and I drop the damn thing half an inch from my toes. Muttering under my breath, I see I’ve forgotten the cable that attaches the cooler to an outlet in my car. I unplug it and manage to hit the orthosis against the door opening when I back out.
“Hi there. Can I help you with that?” The female, hesitant voice makes me jerk back. I can see this woman is quite young and dressed in clean, but unmatched, worn clothes.
“Who are you?” I ask in my no-nonsense, terse tone.
“Um. I’m Romi. I saw you struggle with the luggage and thought I might be able to help you.” She smiles hesitantly, showing off even teeth.
“Why?” I place my good hand on my hip, a pose that puts the fear of God into even the most demonic conductors. I’ve worked with all the greats and refuse to let any of them intimidate me.
“Just trying to be a good, you know, neighbor?” Romi shifts where she stands, but she’s not even close to being intimidated, merely helpful and direct. On any other day, I might have admired that trait, but today it merely annoys me.
“You live near here?” I look around even though I’ve been told the closest house isn’t within sight.
“Yes.” Romi averts her eyes and looks down at the offending cooler. “Wow. That’s a mother of a cooler you’ve got there…um, I didn’t catch your name?”
God. I really don’t want to be forced to constantly turn away odd people wanting to welcome me to the area and socialize. “Gail.” No surname needed as she didn’t give hers.
“I don’t mind helping. It’s not like I’m asking you to pay me,” Romi says. “Just being neighborly.”
I study the girl for a few moments. Her alto voice with a New England accent also holds some New York City tone. How old is she? Twenty? That’s what her physical appearance suggests, but her eyes indicate an older soul. “Very well. Thank you. I appreciate it.” I know I still sound like a barely harnessed bitch, but that’s as gentle as I get these days.
“No problem. You’re injured.” Romi nods at my hand and then hoists the cooler after wrapping the cord up first. She carries it across the porch and then stops at the half-open door. “Kitchen, I assume?”
“Yes. To the left.”
“Oh.” Romi flinches but then nods and disappears into the house. I take the last bag out of the car and make a face at the contents. My pain medication and ointments for the fucking hand. I hate being dependent on those things. What’s more, I hate my hand. It’s not recognizable as mine anymore.
“There. I put it on two kitchen chairs for you. Easier to empty it that way.” Romi comes to a stop after she’s descended the few steps.
“Thank you.” I try to sound, if not friendly, at least polite. It was considerate of her to go the extra mile like that.
“No problem,” Romi says again and kicks the dirt. “I’ll be on my way. Welcome to the neighborhood, such as it is.”
“Well.” I merely nod. Her words make me wonder for a few moments what she could possibly mean, but then I push the question away. As I walk through my front door, I turn to close it, reluctantly curious to see which way Romi’s house is located. I blink, frowning. The view from the front of my house is at least a hundred yards in three directions, and Romi is already out of sight.
Chapter Three
Romi
I enter the house in the way that I’ve practiced for the last week. Quick through the shrubbery obscuring the view from the house, to the basement door, being sure I don’t make any obvious footprints anywhere and locking the door from inside, but not with the deadbolt, of course. Gail has the regular basement key, and if suddenly the deadbolt is used, and she’s not the one doing it, that would be disastrous. Luckily, I have keys for both.
Gail. It’s been a week now, and I’ve concluded that I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s older than me, that’s obvious, but I have no idea by how much. I’d say she’s in her mid or late thirties, but I’m not good at guessing ages. She has blond hair that reaches her shoulders in a soft curve. It looks thick and has that shine to it you get from using fancy shampoos and conditioners. I once scored some sample bottles of that stuff and loved the way my black hair suddenly had bluish highlights and how it curved easily against my head. I keep it short, mainly because it’s easier to maintain, as I often don’t know when and where my next shower will happen. Perhaps now since I have the shower in the bunker room, I can let it grow longer. I can shower or flush the toilet only when Gail is outside or if she’s running water at the same time. Otherwise, the sound of the pipes will give me away.
I admit that trying to learn more about my involuntary landlady, which is a ridiculous word for someone as posh and haughty as Gail, is starting to take up more of my time. That, and the undeniable guilt of trespassing. If I could do this differently, I would, but I can’t think of any other way. The cops will never take my word for not being part of the breaking and entering. I’ve been to the library in Westport, twice, using the computers. I pick the time when the high school kids swarm the place. They’re not always so interested in the computers as they’re always on their cell phones anyway. It also makes it easier for me to blend in and not risk anyone suddenly asking for a library card.
When I looked at the crime reports from New York City, mainly from the online newspapers, I found two snippets that I thought could be about me. The breaking and entering I read about took place in a wealthy area, and the thieves stole super-expensive watches and jewelry, among other things, from some bigwig. No way a New York newspaper would report a robbery if it was just about a regular person. This had to be someone important, which means I’m even more screwed because they’re not going to let the theft grow cold. No way. The second snippet told that a person of interest in the high-profile robbery had escaped police custody during a “spectacular maneuver.” Ha. Spectacular, my ass. I walked out of there because the cops dropped the ball and took their eyes off me. I’m not going to prison because some idiot planted my wallet at the scene of a crime. I’m just grateful that nobody who lived in that house got hurt. At least I couldn’t find any reports of that. And I doubt that cop would have handled me quite that unassumingly if that were the case.
I listen as I’m in the basement, to make sure Gail hasn’t stepped back into the house. I saw her briefly through the branches where she was walking slowly at the far end of the yard, wrapped in a blanket and holding a steaming mug with her good hand. I wonder what happened to her. If I wanted to, I could probably research who bought the house and find out things about her, but that would make me feel like more of a creep than I already do. I try to console myself with the fact that I don’t sneak around in hollow walls and eavesdrop on the poor woman. I keep tabs on her only when she showers so I can get clean too. That is perhaps a tiny bit creepy, but I’ve got to be careful.
I begin to pull at the shelf when I hear steps above me. I stop and hold my breath. Gail sure came back inside quickly. I was waiting in the shrubbery for a while until she exited the house via the deck on the back. She could have been out there with the mug for only three or four minutes.
I hear murmurs and then her voice almost as clear as if she were standing right next to me. Before I freak out, I look up and see a grid by the ceiling. Right. That’s the spy vent. I’d forgotten about that. Whenever Aunt Clara was on the phone with someone at school about something I’d done, or not done, she would sit in her armchair by the far corner of the living room. She called it her parlor, which sounded ridiculous to me. When she was in that corner, I would sit right here and overhear her part of the conversation.
I know I should remove myself and not inadvertently spy on Gail, but I’m afraid to move. It’s only logical to assume the sound travels both ways. Groaning inwardly, I try sticking my fingers in my ear, but as I can’t go “la-la-la-la-la” to drown out the words filtering through from above, I can still hear Gail speak. And, boy, does she sound pissed.
“I have told them too many times, Neill. No, I’m not interested in any further tests. I swear, each time they’ve had their incompetent hands all over my arm, not to mention the torture they call physiotherapy, I’ve only gotten worse.” Gail spits the words and her frustration is palpable. “No. I—said—no.”
I wonder who this Neill is, who is brave, or foolish, enough to contradict this woman. A family member? Perhaps. Gail is quiet, and I’m not sure if she hung up on the dude or if she’s listening. Turns out to be the latter.
“How dare you?” Now Gail’s frustration has morphed into fury. “How dare you even ask me that? I might expect that from pretty much anyone else, but not you. Of course I bloody miss it!” A thump on the floor suggests Gail may have stomped her foot. I wouldn’t have pegged her as a stomper, but I suppose enough anger might need that type of outlet. “I miss playing every single day. If you think the pain of not even being able to look at my violin will make me subject myself to the agony of yet another surgery, and yet another clueless surgeon out to make a name for himself by becoming my savior, you’re not the friend I thought you were. I have to go.”
Everything becomes quiet after that. I still don’t dare to move. She spoke the last sentences with so much anguish in her voice that my heart raced. I’m not sure why her anger and pain affect me. I mean, I don’t know her at all, but they do.
I hear her footsteps as she walks to the other end of the house. Relieved, I grab hold of the shelf again and pull at it slowly. I manage to move it only an inch when I hear her steps as she walks down the stairs to the basement.
Panic-stricken, I gaze around me, unable to think. Getting the shelf open enough to slip through isn’t an option. Too slow and too loud. My head swivels enough to make the muscles in my neck spasm as I look for an escape. I spot Aunt Clara’s large oak chest, which apparently her ancestors brought to America from Europe. It used to be empty. I tiptoe over to it and open the lid. It squeaks, but I have to chance it. I jump into the chest and find that it holds some fabrics, but I believe I can curl up enough to fit. Not the first time I’m glad I’m not a large person.
I pull the lid down over me, where I’m in a fetal position on my side. The lid won’t close enough, which leaves a half-inch gap. I can see the basement with my left eye and pray Gail won’t notice it.
“Damn,” Gail mutters to herself and runs her good hand through her hair. She keeps it loose today. Some other days she’s worn it in an austere twist. I wonder how she manages that with just one hand. “Was the old lady a hoarder?”
Not far from it, but not like the people on the TV shows I’ve caught on library computers and the TVs at the shelters. Aunt Clara kept things, and since she’d done so for a very long time, of course the place got cluttered. She did make sure everything was neat and tidy, which was another one of her mantras, which I know from personal experience. I dusted and cleaned this basement and everything in it more than once when I lived here.
I breathe as quietly as I can while I watch Gail move around down here. She raises a lid here and there, and I just know my luck’s about to run out. Even if I could prove my innocence when it came to that robbery, which I doubt, I couldn’t swear myself free of this invasion. I haven’t broken anything, but I have entered—and I have stolen food. In the eyes of cops, that would be strike two.
I nearly gasp when Gail reads the labels on the jars of fruit and pickles. She tilts her head, and her hair falls to the side like a golden curtain. “Plums, cherries, applesauce…not bad.” She takes a jar from the shelf and casts another glance around the room. I can swear she looks right into my eye when she spots the chest.
I’m shaking now, and if she comes closer, I’m sure she’ll hear my shoes reverberate against the massive wood. I really hope she won’t. I don’t want to scare her. Finding a person in a chest in your own basement could give anyone nightmares for years. I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will help ward Gail off somehow. Kind of like those three monkeys. See no evil…
When nothing happens, I open my eyes slowly after a few moments, and I’m alone in the basement. As I’m in the chest, I can’t hear if she’s walking up the stairs, but after waiting another couple of minutes, I deduce that she must have. I push the lid up very slowly, afraid I’ll drop it and it’ll slam into the wall behind it. My legs ache from being folded up so tight, and I nearly fall when I climb out of the chest. It feels like escaping a damn coffin. I walk quietly toward my bookshelf, and looking at it, I’m grateful that she didn’t notice how misaligned it was. It sticks out more than an inch, and if Gail had examined it, she would have seen how it ends in a thirty-degree angle to be able to swing free of the neighboring shelf.
I open it, only as much as I must to slip through, and pull it closed behind me. Only when I’m inside do I realize I forgot to listen if Gail was back in the spy corner. If she was, and heard me moving the shelf, she might be down to investigate. At least she won’t find me lurking here, though—I stop my train of thought. Did I close the lid to the chest?
I hate when I start second-guessing myself. I’m not going to risk opening the shelf when I don’t know where Gail is in the house. If she comes down and sees the lid to the chest open, I’m sure she would freak out a bit, but surely when she found nothing wrong, she would be the one second-guessing herself. I know I’m grasping at straws, but I’m desperate for some shelter where I can regroup and find some sort of solution to the trouble I’m in. Then I’ll be out of Gail’s beautiful hair, and she’ll never even know I was ever in it.
Gail
I’m still seething after hanging up on Neill. As my friend, he should know better than to underestimate me, and as my agent, he should know better than to try to maneuver me. Yes, Neill, unlike other people in my life, has always been the one I can tolerate more from, when it comes to personal matters. His sarcastic sense of humor is almost always witty, and I appreciate having someone whom I don’t scare the living daylights out of. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that most of my peers, and definitely all the younger musicians I’ve worked with, walk on eggshells around me. I don’t suffer fools with any sort of patience, and my striving for perfection over the years has given me the reputation of being a four-star bitch.
I’m not impulsive and I don’t get angry. That’s not it. I know I can be scathing and even more sarcastic than Neill, and I expect everyone to do their best—and their best to be perfect. But I demand even more of myself.
Well. Demanded. Nowadays, my demands of perfection have sunk to an entirely different level. If I can manage a shower, blow-dry my hair, and get dressed without having to take an extra Vicodin, then I’m on the right track. It’s bittersweet, no, just bitter, really, having had to lower my standards.
I toss the cell phone onto the small table in the hallway and walk into the kitchen. A crew of five has meticulously cleaned the house. They wen
t over everything except the basement. They were supposed to clear out that space, but when they had finished working in the rest of the house, I was sick and tired of stumbling over a polishing, vacuuming, window-washing person in every room for two days, so I told them the basement could wait.
Opening a cabinet, I take out a mug, which, like everything else, came with the house. It’s a ghastly orange color with purple flowers, but it holds my coffee, which is all I care about. I hold on to the mug with my good hand, sipping from it carefully as I stroll through the rooms.
I’m so bored, so frustrated, and I’m doubting my decision to flee to the countryside more and more. Sitting down in the chair where I blew up at Neill, I place the mug on the dainty side table next to it. Holding my injured, battered hand against me, I tip my head back. I rarely cry, and certainly never in anyone else’s presence, but now tears stream down my face. I sob quietly and pull my legs up. Shifting sideways, I press the left side of my face against the backrest of the chair. What am I going to do with myself?
Chapter Four
Romi
I hear Gail approach the spy corner. She sits down, and after a few moments of silence, I can tell she’s crying. My stomach clenches, and I have no idea why her sadness bothers me so much. Perhaps she’s sad that she yelled at the person on the phone earlier. What was his name? Yes, Neill. Or she’s upset that her hand is injured and she can’t play…what was it? Her violin, I think.
Now she sobs, and I pull my legs up tight as I sit on the bed, sharing this stranger’s agony. It rips at my soul, and I can’t explain my fierce urge to protect her. What has happened to this woman, to Gail, to upset her this much? My life hasn’t been stellar, but her tears speak of some fucking cataclysmic event that stole everything from her. Yes, I know that sounds dramatic, but those words fill me as I inadvertently listen to her pain.
