Chapter 6: Asylum

...Mara crosses a line...

When she woke in the middle of the night, she thought she’d been dreaming. When she realized what it was, she became annoyed. When it persisted, she got mad.

She wasn’t some newcomer frightened by frisky goings-on. No, not Mara Ware. She knew what had to be done. Still, she didn’t feel like getting out of bed. She lay listening, hoping it would stop; not for lack of conviction but because she was so goddamn tired. When it continued, she cursed under her breath, pushed off the covers and hit the floor running.

Clad in t-shirt and panties and with eyes half closed, she passed through the hallway into the kitchen in search of the broom. It lay against the wall in the corner where her subconscious mind led. She wrapped fingers around the tool nearly as tall as she and escorted it back to her room

Leaping onto the bed and timing her jabs with the upward spring of the mattress, she thrust the fully extended handle three times against the ceiling, like a Jason attacking the underbelly of a dragon. She was putting arms to rest when thwack-thwack-thwack sounded in reply. She thrust the handle angrily but, the mattress having settled, managed only a feeble scratch.

Just then, Riley popped his head inside the door. “What’s wrong?”
Letting go the broom, it clattered against the closing door. “Get the hell out of here!”

She overslept that morning and would have missed class if Riley hadn’t woken her. As she drove them across town, she explained.

They knew Sherry hadn’t complained lately, looked rested and hadn’t been, from what they could tell, sleeping in the front room. The apartment above had the same floor plan, but they didn’t know who lived there. Did they change rooms, passing the problem to Mara, or did new tenants move in? The only sure thing was, despite being in the building for more than a year, they didn’t know much about their neighbors.

They had brief encounters at the mailbox: older men asking friendly but personal questions; young men, zoned out on music or drugs, eyes open but emotions closed to the world; and women, mostly older, who worked in offices downtown. They hadn’t met any students like themselves and were content to maintain their privacy and not get involved, except to stare at anybody scooting in behind them through the secure lobby door.

But Old Joe, the on-site manager, knew everyone. He lived on the ground floor, did routine maintenance and showed apartments. They could ask him.

Weeks went by without any disturbance and Mara didn’t think more of it. But early one morning, it happened again and she went through the cycle of awareness, annoyance and getting mad and she realized she was, as if watching herself in a mirror. Again, she knew what had to be done, again got the broom and again delivered three resounding thuds to the ceiling. This time there was no reply.

Later that day, she wrote a note: “Be considerate of your neighbors. Keep the noise down in the early morning hours!” She didn’t sign it. They disturbed everyone, she reasoned, and should consider the note from everybody they bothered. But, more, she worried about someone crazy coming to the door. She put the note in an envelope and wedged it in the crack between door and frame upstairs.

She saw Old Joe outside a few days later, pushing a heavy bristled broom across the pavement: Shhh, shhh, shhh. Trim, with gray hair and thick glasses, he stopped to listen, his foot propped on the broom, hands atop the handle, looking like a farmer talking crops.

He responded, “walls are thin… people complain… no, not about her… that’s how it is…” He said to let him know if she’s still having problems but he couldn’t do much unless she were totally out of line. Her name was Trish; worked a day job in an office, a night one as a waitress and was half way through a one-year lease.

Confrontation was an option, but it didn’t make sense to go up on any random day to complain. She could pretend ignorance. It’d been a few days so maybe, just maybe, the note did the job.

When it happened again, her anger, pursuing a well-worn path, exploded into action. She leaped out of bed, wrapped a light coat around her and stormed upstairs. There she pounded the door, shouting, “Quit making noise!”

She bruised the wood door and the white haze stillness under soft lights in early morning hours. When her ears began to ring, she knew she crossed a line to become someone with something to work out, someone people hoped would move along, like a muttering bag lady burdened with loads that only grew.

Looking down the hallway, she thought it her private asylum, sterile, empty, her voice the only sound. Somewhere behind peepholes people watched --- unless they didn’t. Wanting a response but unhappy at what it’d be, she slunk away.

She returned to a dark room and fell asleep. When she woke later that morning, she wasn’t sure; it might have been a dream.



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 September 19.