Chapter 2: Mistake

...the new roommate adjusts to city life...


In September, Sherry moved into the room, which held a single bed, night table, lamp, dresser and a closet. She brought only enough to sustain her the year: bedding, clothes she deemed suitable for the cooler climate and a Bible.

Her daily routine meshed with her roommates', since she rose early to be at the office at eight, and Mara and Riley woke up later for mid-morning classes. She relished the independence of the morning hours in the apartment, her own private space.

Then she joined the others in the commute to work. Hers was a twenty-minute downhill walk to Battery. She donned white, carefully scrubbed running shoes and double-checked for the sensible black flats she had packed in the bag slung over her shoulder.

Outside, the days were fresh, cool in the shadows and warm in the glare of the new sun. A multitude of sounds marked the pace of city life and invigorated her steady steps: a cabbie tapping impatiently on a horn, a merchant dragging hollow trash receptacles from the street, the mechanical winding of the cables under Powell, pulling unseen trolleys somewhere on the line.

She picked her building out of the skyline, and thrilled at the illusion of being taller because of the hill. As she approached, its angular structure dwarfed her, as did the façade that framed the revolving doors admitting her.

Work as an office assistant was easy, though the hostile impatience from some attorneys unsettled her. Once, while making copies, she spotted a lone document without a pink copy order. Probably separated from a batch, it looked important, but she couldn’t tell where it belonged. She mentioned it to Lola McIntyre, another OA, who didn’t bother to look. “Someone will come after it.”

She followed her example and kept making copies. Later, one of the attorneys came through. His face grew red as he snatched it up. He looked at Lola, who ignored him, and then at Sherry. He barked, “I need ten copies!”

She jumped, took the document and fumbled as she fed it into the copier. When they came out, he grabbed them and stormed away.

Lola shook her head. “Just blow it off.”

She tried, but it troubled her. Everyone had dash or anger or who-gives-a-fig attitude. Were they acting? She couldn’t tell. But if she behaved that way, she thought her true self would be peering over her shoulder, mocking such foolish talk and deeds.

Then there were clothes. The office trend was smooth lines and basic colors, wool skirts and high heels. Hers tended to blouses with flowery prints and frilly collars, and durable cotton skirts. She didn’t own high heels, which suggested pride, putting oneself on a pedestal, as it were. She went to Macy’s to look for clothes, but gagged at the prices. Everyone’s so rich, she thought.

After quitting work at five, she window-shopped on the way home, enjoying the weather and the crowds. If she didn’t have plans to attend a free concert or a lecture, she spent the night reading. Because of the expense, she didn’t eat out much but shared evening meals two or three times a week with her roommates.

Overall, she thought she made a good transition. Any sense of awkwardness or being different was, she reasoned, part of the experience. When she called her family or Roger, she didn’t dwell on it and, instead, like a travel agent, extolled the beauty of the city.

*

One night, she went to bed at midnight, while Mara and Riley sat in the front room, their quiet conversation filtering through the door. When she turned out the light, the windowless room turned pitch-black, and she fell asleep, until—

She sat bolt upright.

It was quiet. The orange face of the digital clock read 3:20. Falling back into bed, she lay listening. Maybe it was an ambulance. The shrieking sirens used to bother, but after a few weeks, they blended into the night. She began to doze, and in half-sleep, heard knock-knock-knock.

A sound without image, the dream confused her and revved up her heart. Was someone at the door? The sound was close, intimate, something of her own.

Knock-knock-knock persisted and she opened her eyes to the dark room. The sound bounced off the walls. She watched the noise a few moments before realizing the source. She turned on the light, separating logic and sound, then pulled the covers over her head. Upstairs.

Knock-knock-knock tormented, sounding like murder by strangulation. She imagined thick hands pinning a neck, a body leaping in protest to the end of life, a low escaping moan its surrender. Her heart said violence never led to anything good. She thought of calling 911, but how to describe it?

A memory flashed into mind: a freak Southern California lightning storm, the deep rumble of thunder, a young girl racing into a motherly embrace and the comforting heat of her body. There’d be no such comfort here.

So she waited for the knocking to end, minutes seeming hours until she was exhausted. Then unexpectedly, it stopped. But in the silence, tension grew.

Would he leave right away? She prayed he would, well before she had to go to work, precluding a chance encounter in stairwell, elevator or lobby. Sharing close quarters with strangers was uncomfortable, but knowing one was violent would be unthinkable.

Sometimes the bus was so crowded she could smell the sour sweat on a man or a woman’s too sweet perfume or be forced to stand face-to-face with someone. She couldn’t presume anyone a killer but couldn’t rule it out either. In the daylight she didn’t think such thoughts. But this morning, any stranger coming down the stairs might be.

She heard a voice, and then a second one, and a low banter amplified by thin walls and heightened awareness. She ruled out murder, and was embarrassed—- Until fatigue caused her to doze. Later, when the alarm buzzed, she stepped out of bed, weary beyond the boundaries of flesh, blood and bone.

*

She called her mother later that day and was comforted by her voice. She was glad she called, but asked if anything was wrong. “No, just checking in.”

They spoke about relatives and friends and, beyond her mother’s voice, she heard a lawnmower at work, a barking dog and laughing kids, conjuring such pleasant associations, it pained her to be away.

She asked herself, “If that’s where I want to be, why did I leave?” As they continued talking, she was tempted to say, “I’m coming home”.

It would have been easy. But something held her back. After she hung up, she sat in the empty apartment. Mara and Riley wouldn’t be back for another hour, so she started working in the kitchen to make something special for dinner.

As she did, she tried to figure out what it was holding her back from going forward, with family, with Roger, returning to them. She could reach only one conclusion: pride. Pride had compelled her away from her loved ones and into a city of strangers. And stubborn pride kept her from conceding she had made a terrible mistake.



The persons and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.

The next chapter will be posted August 1.