Noel Street

by Richard Paul Evans

  The hotel was built more than a hundred years back when Mistletoe was a prosperous mining town. As usually happened, when the veins of ore ran dry, so did the town, leaving a few farmers, homesteaders, and those too old to pick up and start their lives over again. The hotel passed into bankruptcy and eventually it was left to the owner to either tear down or find a way to repurpose it. He chose the latter.

  It was dark out, had been for several hours, and the Harrison apartments were near the south end of Noel Street in a bit of a run-down area. In a bigger town this might have been considered dangerous or scary, but this was Mistletoe and its days of newsworthy crime were pretty much past.

  There were no lights on this end of the street and a sickle moon lit the area, sparkling off the recently fallen, crystalline-crusted snow.

  No one had shoveled the sidewalk in front of the apartments and there was a single set of footprints that led into the building. William’s olive-green pickup truck was parked around the side, visible from the street.

  I parked my car at the curb out front of the building, got the food out of the back seat, and carried it up the snow-encrusted walkway to the front doors and into the apartment building’s dimly lit lobby.

  The inside of the building looked as derelict as its exterior. There was a bag of garbage, a bicycle with a flat tire leaning against one of the walls, and a pile of mail on the floor beneath an inset brass mailbox as if the building’s residents, past and present, hadn’t picked up their mail for a few months.

  The place looked like I imagined it might, as if the owner was absentee and the place’s inhabitants were more squatters than renters.

  A spiderweb-covered bronze chandelier flickered a little but gave enough illumination to reveal a dirty black-and-white-checkered tile floor. The lobby still looked like it belonged to a hotel. There was a curved stairway with a carved wooden banister leading to a second-story landing with a spindled balustrade.

  The base of the stair flared out and, on each side of the stairs, a columnar newel post supported an intricately carved wooden pineapple that had likely once been beautiful but now was chipped and dusty and covered in spiderwebs.

  I was startled by a brindled brown-and-black cat that darted across the lobby and disappeared down the darkened hallway.

  I took the receipt from my pocket where Renato had written the number of William’s apartment. Number 205. I climbed one flight of stairs and walked down the hall to the third door on the right.

  Curiously, the door to the apartment was already open a few inches. I set the bag of food down on the floor, then rapped on the door with the back of my hand. There was no answer—at least not from his apartment. The door across the hall opened and quickly shut again before I could see who was there.

  I rapped again. There was still nothing, though my knocking had opened the door a little more, wide enough to reveal the room’s interior, lit by a single yellowish light from a brass floor lamp. I could hear the metallic ticking of a radiator.

  “Hello?” I said, then louder, “Is anyone home?”

  There was no response.

  “William?”

  There was a spasm of coughing followed a few moments later by heavy, slow footsteps. A hoarse voice asked, “Who is it?”

  I swallowed. “It’s Elle. From the diner.” Then added, “You fixed my car.”

  William staggered over to the door. I almost didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt; just gray cotton sweatpants that hung loosely from his thin waist. He was lanky and lean in form, but muscular. His right shoulder was covered in a tattoo. He looked sick; his face pale and his hair matted to one side as if he’d been sleeping. His chin was covered in thick stubble. He leaned against the door for support.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, even though he clearly wasn’t in a condition to do anything for anyone, including himself.

  “I came to thank you,” I said, feeling like getting him out of bed was doing more harm than good. “I heard you were sick, so I brought you something to eat.” I squatted down and lifted the food. “I brought you some soup. It’s still warm.”

  He coughed, covering his mouth with his forearm. He looked unsteady and in no condition to carry what I’d brought him. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just put this on your counter.”

  He nodded slightly. “Thank you.” He stepped back from the entrance, though still leaned against the door. I walked past him into the room.

  The room smelled dank and musty, old like it was. The apartment still looked like a hotel room, boxy and curtly divided with a small coat closet near the front door. The front room included a small kitchen with a chin-high refrigerator and a small hot plate. The floral wallpaper was faded and torn in places.

  What furniture there was looked to be remnants from the hotel days. There was a small table, two chairs, and a low couch upholstered in a threadbare green velvet from the fifties.

  On the other side of the apartment, the bedroom door was open and I could see the unmade bed he had just crawled out of. I set the food on the counter.

  “Would you like me to pour the soup into a bowl?” I asked.

  “No,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

  I sensed that he really just wanted to be left alone. “I’ll just leave everything here.” I looked back at him. “I’m sorry you’re so sick.”

  “Thank you,” he said, the words sounding like they’d taken great effort. He was still leaning against the door like it was holding him up. As I walked back toward him, he put his head down as if he were dizzy. Then he collapsed to the floor with a dull thud.

  “William!”

  He was unconscious. I put my hand on his forehead. He was burning with fever. I knelt at his side, my hand on his arm. “William,” I said softly. “William.”

  Suddenly his eyelids fluttered open. He gazed at me with a confused expression. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Elle. Remember? You fixed my car.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, then said, “What are you doing here?”

  “I brought you some food. I came to thank you.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “We should get you to the hospital,” I said. “You’re very sick.”

  “No,” he said, squinting with pain. “No hospital. No doctor.”

  I wasn’t sure what to do. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. I barely knew this man. Of course, he barely knew me, yet he helped me. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible for his sickness, since he’d no doubt gotten sicker working through the night on my car.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  He closed his eyes and breathed heavily but said nothing. He looked vulnerable and weak, nothing like the powerful, scary man I first encountered at the auto shop.

  “Is there someone I can call?”

  After a moment he said softly, “There’s no one.”

  The words made my heart hurt. “Don’t you have anyone to take care of you?”

  “I don’t need…” He didn’t finish the sentence.

  I sat there for a moment looking at him. His lips were dry and cracked. I guessed he was dehydrated. “I can help,” I said. When he didn’t object to my offer I asked, “When was the last time you had something to drink?”

  His response came haltingly. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m going to get you some water.”

  I got up and began looking through his cupboards for a cup. There were only three, two coffee cups and a cheap plastic one. Then I looked inside his refrigerator to see if he had cold water. It was surprisingly bare. There was only a carton of milk, a half-empty jar of Miracle Whip, a small jar of mustard, and an opened package of hot dogs.

  I filled the cup with water from the tap and brought it to him. I knelt down next to him and said, “Let me help you drink.” I put my hand behind his head. His hair was matted and wet with sweat. “I’m going to help you lift your head.”

  He groaned a little as I lifted. Then
I raised the cup to his lips, supporting the back of his head with my hand. He drank thirstily, though some of the water dribbled down the corner of his mouth, down his stubbled chin. When he had finished the water, he laid his head back. I dabbed the water from his face with my coat sleeve. He shivered.

  “You have the chills,” I said. “And your fever…” I touched his head again. I’d never felt a fever that hot. I wished I had a thermometer but, considering the austerity of his apartment, I doubted he had one. The situation reminded me of a few months back when Dylan was running a fever and I had sat up with him through the night. “Do you have a thermometer?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to get a cold cloth for your forehead.” I looked around his counter and through his drawers until I found a dishtowel. I opened his freezer looking for ice. There was only a frosted package of peas. I wrapped them in the dishcloth and brought them back over to him.

  “Tell me if it’s too cold.”

  He coughed again, then closed his eyes. I held the bag of peas to his forehead. I glanced down at my watch. It was past eight. Fran would have already put Dylan to bed. Fran rarely minded staying late, or even spending the night, but I needed to tell her. William shivered again.

  “I need to go home and check on my son,” I said. “But I’m going to come back. Okay?”

  “You don’t need to,” he said.

  “I think I do. Let me help you to your bed. Or do you want to lie here until I get back?”

  “My bed.”

  “I’ll help you up.” I set my makeshift ice pack to the side and leaned over him. “Put your arms around my neck.”

  He lifted his arms around my neck locking his fingers together. His breath was warm on my neck. It was strange to think it, but it was the first time in a long time that a man had put his arms around me.

  “Let’s sit you up first and let you get settled for a moment. I don’t want all the blood rushing away from your head.” I sat up, and he pulled himself to a sitting position.

  A moment later I said, “Tell me when you’re ready.”

  “Ready.”

  “All right. Up we go.”

  As I stood, he pushed himself up, using me more for balance than lift. I put my arm around his waist and we walked to the bedroom. He sat down on the side of his bed, then lay back, groaning with the motion. I lifted his legs onto the bed and pulled them a quarter clockwise.

  “You just rest. I’ll be back in about a half hour.”

  “Thank you.” He rolled his head to the side. For a moment I just looked at him. My heart hurt for his pain but equally for his loneliness. Lately I had obsessed over how hard my life seemed, but I didn’t suffer from loneliness. I had friends. I had Dylan. For all I could see, he had no one.

  I walked out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I checked his apartment door to make sure it wouldn’t lock behind me, shut it, and went down to my car. It had started snowing again, and the windshield was covered with a thin batting of white.

  I turned on the windshield wipers and drove down the deserted Noel Street past the diner. The diner was quiet as well and I could see Jamie and Nora inside filling the salt and pepper bottles—one of the things we did before going home each evening.

  My duplex was only eight minutes from the diner. I walked in to find Fran sitting on the couch reading a book. She jumped when I walked in.

  “I scared you,” I said.

  “It’s the book. It’s a suspense novel.”

  “What is it?”

  She held up the book so I could see its cover: Where Are the Children?

  “That sounds scary. Who wrote it?”

  “It’s a new writer.” She glanced at the cover. “Mary Higgins Clark. She’s good.”

  “And how was Dylan?”

  “He went right down,” she said. “How was your night?”

  “Different than I expected. Would you be okay staying a little longer? I’m taking care of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Just a friend,” I said. “He’s new in town. He’s sick and doesn’t have anyone else.”

  “No problem,” she said. “I can finish the book. Should I spend the night?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind. Is it still snowing out?”

  “A little.”

  “The weatherman said it was going to snow all night. All the more reason to stay put.”

  “Thank you. I just need to gather a few things.”

  I looked in on Dylan. He was sleeping soundly, though he’d pulled off most of his covers. I pulled them back up to his chin, kissed his forehead, then went to my room and got a heating pad, a bottle of aspirin, a thermometer, and a couple of washcloths. I grabbed an ice pack and filled it with ice from the freezer, then put it all in a large canvas bag.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back,” I said to Fran on my way out.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” she said.

  “I never do when you’re here.”

  The snow was already coming down heavier. I carried everything out to my car, then drove back to the Harrison. It was nearly ten o’clock when I opened the door to William’s apartment. As I walked in I heard a strange guttural noise that sounded more like a growl than a groan. Then I heard William shout out. “No!”

  I walked to the door of his bedroom, slowly opening it. “William?”

  His eyes were open and he was looking at me, but not at me—like he was looking through me. He looked scared.

  “Charlies are everywhere, Lieutenant! Let’s Zippo it and get out of here.”

  I didn’t know what to do. Was it dangerous for me to be here? He was powerfully built. What if he mistook me for something else?

  Sympathy won out. “William, it’s just me. Elle. You’re in your bedroom. I’m the only one here. Everything’s okay.”

  He stopped, breathed out slowly, then lay back down. My heart was still racing as I walked to the side of his bed and sat down.

  “Hey.” I put my hand on his forehead. He was still burning up. I took the thermometer from my bag. “William,” I said softly. “I’m going to check your temperature.”

  He didn’t open his eyes but turned back toward me.

  “I’m going to put this thermometer under your tongue. Don’t bite it.” I held his bristled chin as I slid the thermometer between his lips and under his tongue. I held it there for a full minute and then pulled it out. A hundred four degrees. I had spent enough late nights in the ER with Dylan to know this wasn’t good.

  “You’re a hundred and four,” I said, setting the thermometer on the windowsill.

  “I’m not that old,” he said.

  In spite of the circumstances, I grinned. “I really should take you to the hospital in Ogden. Would you let me?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I can’t carry you. Do you think you could walk out to my car?”

  “No hospital. No doctors.”

  I sat there a moment as I thought what to do next. “Well, we need to do something. I brought you some aspirin. Let’s at least get that in you.”

  I went back out to the kitchen and refilled his cup with water, then poured the aspirin into my hand.

  “I’ve got some water and three aspirin. It will help with the fever. Open please.”

  He opened his mouth and I individually set the pills in. Then I pressed the cup to his lips. He swallowed the pills with half the cup of water, then lay back.

  “I brought you an ice pack,” I said.

  I set the cup down and pulled the ice pack from my bag. I propped his pillow up so it would hold the pack up to his forehead. It only took a minute for him to fall back asleep, his breathing taking on a calm, slow cadence. “I’m sorry you’re so sick,” I said. “I won’t leave you.”

  I thought he was asleep—maybe he was—but a single tear rolled down his cheek.

  * * *

  The lights were off, but it wasn’t that dark. The moon reflec
ting off the snow lit the room in a brilliant blue. For nearly an hour I sat on the side of his bed watching him, his face half illuminated like a waning moon. He was so broken. Broken yet beautiful.

  At one point he rolled over onto his stomach and the blanket came down from his shoulders. What I saw made my heart jump a little. There were rows of thick scars running vertically down his back. I pulled the blanket down to the small of his back. There were ten-inch scars, more than a dozen of them, raised and angry. I lightly touched one. “What did they do to you?” I asked softly.

  Maybe half an hour later I sat down on the floor next to his bed with my back against the wall and closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep, which was rare for me.

  William got up only once in the night, to use the bathroom. He was disoriented, and I helped him to the toilet. When he came back to bed he said, “Thank you, Nurse,” which I think he believed.

  I again put the ice pack on his head, then lay down on the floor. I think I fell asleep around one. William woke again around three thirty. He was tossing from side to side. He kept saying, “Don’t. Don’t. I don’t know. I told you.” I knelt at his side and gently touched his arm. “You’re dreaming. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

  His eyes opened and he breathed out heavily, almost panting. Then he caught his breath and looked over at me. Even in the darkness I could see the clearness and intensity of his gaze. This time he was looking directly at me, not at some figment of a nightmare, but into my eyes. Then he said, “I see why he loved you.”

  I looked at him. “Who?”

  He closed his eyes and went back to sleep. I watched him for a moment, then went back to the floor and fell asleep.