Chapters 1 - 9: Room to Choose

Since Riley mentioned it, Mara developed the unconscious habit of looking into the empty room. “Wouldn’t it be great,” he’d said, “if we could find the ideal roommate to help with the rent?”

Mara responded with skepticism, thinking of roommates at the dorm, who behaved like Girls Gone Wild. She wasn’t a prude, but what about quiet passion?

Still, he had a point. Another roommate would free up money. Her parents footed tuition and living expenses, but they had limits. And now, with cutbacks at State, she might have to stay a fifth year to get all her classes. Though she took the occasional job, like the summer internship at the TV station, she didn’t work regularly.

So she agreed and they put up a notice on craigslist, and mentioned it to friends. Last year, she and Riley became roommates when friends linked them up. She discovered he was a serious student, didn’t drink much and didn’t smoke. Plus he was sweet, like a brother. After the events of the summer, their relationship grew tighter. Maybe they’d get lucky and find someone good.

The room was small, which was why they didn’t think of renting it before. Overall the apartment had three bedrooms, two large and the small one, one-and-a-half bathrooms, living room and a large kitchen.

On the fourth of five floors on Pine, the living room overlooked the street and would have had an expansive view down to Market, absent the brick building across the way. Instead, they watched westward cars racing up the one-way street. They used the laundry room in the basement, but went to the laundromat on Bush when they had a lot to wash. Mara parked her yellow VW in the underground garage.

*

Three prospects responded. One was a businesswoman, another a student and the third a young woman vague about what she was doing.

Sheila Very toured the apartment like a real estate agent, though she was an event planner based in Dallas. She wore a blue dress suit, matching high heels and a silky red, white and blue scarf tucked into the collar of a white blouse. A brilliantly white smile was fixed to her face.

Afterwards, they sat at the kitchen table, Mara and Riley opposite her. She appraised them for a moment, then looked to Mara.

“What kind of household do you run?”

The question caught her off-guard. She looked to Riley, then back at Sheila.

“I like structure and order in my home. I won’t be here most the time, but I expect nothing less when I am.”

“It kinda runs itself,” Riley said. “We pick up after ourselves--”

“--And dust and vacuum when it needs it.” Mara added.

Sheila looked doubtful, then, addressing Riley, pointed to her own blonde coiffure.

“Did something happen?”

He rubbed his head, which looked like a fuzzy dandelion flower. “I shaved it over the summer but decided to grow it.” Her smile vanished under closed lips, then reappeared.

“One last thing. This is delicate, but I need to know…” Her index finger pointed back and forth between the two, like a metronome. Riley looked at Mara and she at him. They giggled and she stood.

“I didn’t think so. Now I’m sure.”

She thanked them and showed herself out. The two roommates looked at each other.

“We failed.”

“Thank god!”

*

Peter, who didn’t offer a last name, was a philosophy major at USF. He wore a black hoodie and jeans and ipod earplugs. His black hair dripped over his head, extending to sideburns to the bottom of his ears and a goatee.

“Do you think it’s large enough?” Mara asked when she showed the room. He nodded, though he seemed absorbed in music coming through his earplugs. She couldn’t be sure who he was listening to.

When the three congregated in the kitchen, he darted into his seat as in musical chairs.

“So what do you think?” Riley asked.

“S’okay.” He said, staring first at one then the other.

“Do you have any questions for us?” Mara asked.

He shook his head.

“We’ll let you know after we interview the others.”

He nodded. They were escorting him out when he turned to ask how many people responded.

“Five.” Riley said.

He thought a moment, then left. As they heard his footsteps descending the carpeted stairwell, she turned to Riley.

“You lied.”

“A white one.”

“What if the last one doesn’t work out?”

“She can’t be worse.”

Recalling the e-mail from the third prospect, Mara wasn’t so sure. She was a twenty year old woman who was a student in Southern California with a full-time job in San Francisco. The contradiction made her head hurt.

*

But Sherry Wood was a pleasant surprise. Unlike the confusing e-mail, Mara found her straightforward. She was plump, stood a few inches taller than she, with long blonde hair, earnest brown eyes and a tentative smile. She showed up wearing black slacks and a pink sweater, and carrying an overnight bag. She saw them glance at the bag and laughed.

“I just got in from the airport. Please don’t think I’d impose.”

Her manner put them at ease and, as they got to know her, they thought she might be the one. Riley, though, noticed she avoided his eyes.

She told them she was going to the UC in Riverside but that she was taking off a year, and, through a connection, got an administrative job at a law firm. When Mara asked why she came to San Francisco, she answered, “It’s far enough and still close.” Noting their puzzled looks, she continued.

“I come from a fundamentalist family and I love my parents dearly. This would have been my junior year and I was going to declare for PolySci, but--”

She glanced at Riley.

“—-There’s a boy. Roger.”

“Your parents don’t approve?” Mara asked.

“They approve too much!”

Roger, she explained, attended her church and was an assistant manager at a supermarket. In the last two years they’d become a couple and marriage was likely. “I love him, and I’m happy—“

“But?”

She sighed. “The world is closing in too fast. I mean I see my mother, so joyful and content. Will I be, too? There’s so much in the world. Our faith parcels it into good and evil, but I have trouble being convinced everything we call evil is evil. Take music and dancing--”

“You don’t dance?” Mara’s eyes bulged.

“I have. I am of the modern world.”

“Don’t you listen to music?”

“Sometimes.”

With a wide grin and a tattletale voice, Riley said, “Mara sings in the kitchen.”

“I don’t mind. I just--“

Mara put her hand over Sherry’s, looking kindly into her distressed eyes. “You don’t need to say more.”

She looked grateful. “I just need to step away.”

Mara and Riley glanced at each other, signaling they’d make the offer, and were about to, when a cloud crossed Sherry’s face.

“There is one thing…”

Her family, while supportive, couldn’t fully grasp what she was going through. Though they agreed to the time away, they might balk if they learned she had a man as a roommate. For the second time, a puzzled look came over them. As Mara began to speak, Sherry asked, “'Riley' can be a girl’s name, can’t it?”

After some discussion, they agreed they wouldn’t let on Riley was a man, if they could help it. Sherry would use her cell to communicate with her parents and give Mara’s cell number as an emergency contact. She would discourage visits by going down south to visit her family.

“It doesn’t feel good, though, starting with a lie.”

“A white lie.” Mara said.

“The white whale of white lies.” Riley riffed, as he and Mara laughed.

Sherry flushed, looking doubtful, but their laughter was infectious. Starting in her belly, it advanced upwards until she joined in, and laughter was bouncing off the walls.


...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.


...Mara strives to make a point...


As soon as they met, Mara vowed to introduce Sherry to the larger world. The right attitude was the difference between a rich life and a poor one, she thought. There were two types: “No” and “Yes” people. The No had to be dragged out of a routine existence, protesting all the while: “No, I can’t go. But if I do, I have to be back early.” That attitude was like a wall obstructing the imagination.

She considered herself a Yes. “Yes, let’s surf in the morning and fly to Las Vegas in the afternoon. Yes, let’s catch a show and gamble all night and see that movie when we get back.” Life was a series of connecting activities that, strung together, stretched into a rainbow arching to a pot of gold.

Sherry was rightly challenging the limits someone else had defined and yes she would help. Riley, though, thought she was meddling, causing Mara's eyes to narrow.

So, Mara observed the new roommate with interest and some amusement. Touching base at evening meals, she prompted her to tell what she’d been doing. One night over macaroni and cheese, she described her confusion at an overdue bus that passed without stopping.

“He just pointed behind him.”

“The hitchhiker thumb--reversed,” Riley laughed.

“But why?”

“He’s saying take the bus behind him.”

“There wasn’t one.”

“Typical Muni.” Mara said.

She shared a small victory when she found a smart wool skirt at the second hand. Happily showing it off, she told Mara how much weight she had to lose; she was almost there.

She mentioned going to a church meeting, but complained later that “They wanted to own her time”, and went less often. Mara nodded knowingly.

Once she brought a friend to a meal. Lola was tall, had pale skin, a crop of short cut brown hair and a gold stud in her nose. Her face was like a mask, hiding her emotions. Sometimes differences attract, Mara thought. Sherry confided Lola was going through a difficulty she was helping her through.

Sherry seemed to be making the adjustments all newcomers make, when discovery and acquired knowledge morph into delighted awareness or stoic endurance. All that was fine and good but Mara wanted to do something. Sherry’s upcoming 21st birthday gave her an idea: dinner and dancing. She agreed, but after she returned from celebrating with her family.

*

“I just want to shake her sometimes.”

Riley rested a hand on Mara’s shoulder. Then, standing behind her, he grabbed her other shoulder and started to shake her. The gray-billed cap teetered on her bobbing head.

“Like this?”

“Stop.”

“Does it make anymore sense?”

“Stop, I said.” He sat back down at the kitchen table, a broad smile on his face. Mara looked glum as she pushed the cap back down on her dark hair.

“She liked dinner. So what if she left after the dancing started?”

“She should’ve given it a chance.”

“But it wasn’t the dancing, she said.”

“Yeah, yeah, the atmosphere.”

“Twisting bodies in the dark and a glowing red background. She didn’t feel comfortable.”

“Yes, and will she spend her life running from things that make her uncomfortable?”

*

Early one morning, when Mara rose from bed for a drink of water, she gravitated to the front window to glance outside. When she turned she was startled to see Sherry curled into a ball on the couch and let out a cry.

“Oh!”

Sherry jerked awake, eyes wide with surprise and blinking awareness, pulling the blanket to her chin.

“Sorry,” she stammered, “I know I shouldn’t sleep here—“

Still half asleep, Mara sat beside her to learn what was wrong. At first Sherry leaned away, as if to curl back into a ball, but Mara rubbed her back, telling her she wanted to help. She loosened up and with averted eyes told her about the knocks in the ceiling. Mara stifled an inclination to laugh.

“Show me.”

She followed her into the room. It was quiet. Sherry frowned.

“Wait.” Mara went into the kitchen and returned with a yellow broom.

Speaking in a loud voice that unsettled the morning stillness, she said, “Here’s what you do.”

Moving a chair to the wall, she stepped onto it with bare feet, then jammed the broom handle into the angle between wall and ceiling.

“When they get noisy, knock back---“

She jammed it three times without any response. Sherry’s eyes widened at the boldness.

“---And let them know you’re here!”

Mara marched back to her room, fully satisfied with her demonstration of the right attitude.


...Sherry learns more about Lola...


One day Sherry realized that she and Lola were friends. She would not have predicted it, but as she got to know her, she realized they were on the same journey traveling on different roads.

The expense of lunch in the Financial District brought them together. Sherry had determined early on that she’d have to be frugal. So, every morning she prepared salad, which she carried in a plastic container in her bag. Dessert was usually sliced fruit.

She enjoyed eating at Jackson Square. A small park a few blocks away, it was about two-hundred steps wide in any direction and contained some tall pine trees, a fountain and a hillock of green grass. The pace of the day slowed whenever she entered its confines. Sitting by the fountain, she listened to the musical articulation of falling water and watched the treetops swaying in the wind. She might have been on a mountaintop for the sensations she felt.

While her routine rarely varied, she observed that Lola’s did. After payday, she took lunch at the sandwich shop across from the office, then, half way through the two-week period, disappeared. Her moods followed a similar pattern: happy and animated after payday, sullen and sluggish later on.

One day, she found Lola seated on a bench at the Square, staring into the screen of her cell. She sat without waiting for acknowledgment. Lola looked over and nodded and Sherry prepared her lunch.

After a while, Lola palmed her cell and gazed ahead. Sherry tried to draw her into conversation. When she didn’t pick up on it, she asked if she’d eaten. Lola didn’t want to talk about food, but Sherry offered some salad. When Lola declined, she pushed an apple at her, which she took. She admitted she’d rather sleep in than make lunch and didn’t eat much when money ran out. Sherry learned that was the least of her problems.

“I got into some really bad habits over the summer,” she said, tilting her head up at the sky. “The days were so long, it seemed you got off work early because there was so much time before dark.

“I’d meet friends at a place we went to and we talked and laughed over drinks. One drink led to more and, sometimes, when I tried to remember the night before, I counted drinks instead of time. Of course when the money ran out, it was time to go. Unless someone else was paying…

“As the days grew longer, they got drunker, too. And the nights! When I stepped outside, every light was winking. If I wasn’t just going home, and had money and friends, those winking lights were so alluring. Well, the lights weren’t the only things winking.”

Lola looked over to Sherry who’d stopped eating and was holding her breath.

“Have you ever been drunk?” Sherry shook her head.

“Sometimes you get to a point where every word sounds funny and every thought you think sounds funny. Everyone’s drunk and agreeing with each other, making everything funnier.

“When the group breaks apart, you’re still in that drunk funny agreeable mood and that’s when the winking is so seductive.”

“Winking?”

“Boys. Sometimes I can’t remember agreeing to it—- but it’s one thing to wake up beside someone you know and quite another when it’s a stranger.

“When I can reach over and touch him as he sleeps, and I don’t know his name or remember where we met, lying there, hoping I remember before he wakes, hoping he’s nice.”

“You have to stop!”

“I know.”

“What if he’s not nice? What if he’s—“

“Jack the Ripper. Yeah, I thought about it.”

Sherry sat on the edge of the bench, turning to face Lola squarely. As she did she felt she was filling a mold someone else had occupied.

“What steps have you taken?”

Lola crossed her arms and looked away, sliding down in the bench. Sherry held her position five counts before speaking.

“You have to think hard about what’s right, then draw a line. There you build a wall. On one side are the things you keep. Everything else, you toss over.”

Sherry started bringing extra salad and making a point of inviting Lola to lunch. At first, she resisted but then joined in, contributing to the meals by bringing things like bread or chocolate. Encouraged, but mindful of her diet, Sherry nibbled judiciously at the offerings.

She learned that Lola came from Red Bluff, about two hundred miles north of the city, where her parents and a younger brother lived. She had no religious beliefs, which disturbed her.

Sherry became Lola’s companion, directing her to less destructive pursuits, like the low cost activities she’d discovered. She took her up on a few, but shied from church meetings and lectures. Their lunches were the routine. They even met on weekends. That’s when she realized they’d become friends.

*

Lola was on her mind when she went home to celebrate her 21st. She’d taken a first big step by deciding not to drink. She believed her presence made a difference and worried about a relapse, but maybe that was pride; maybe Lola would be all right. She wanted to tell her mother about Lola, but wouldn’t share everything.

Her birthday was a festive event. Not only had immediate family been there, but streams of aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces and Roger. She felt the warm, happy emotions she’d anticipated.

She hadn’t expected, though, comments about her physical appearance. She had lost weight and dressed differently, mostly because her old clothes were looser. She was paler, too, she was told. It amused her, because everyone acted as if she’d accomplished something. All the while, she thought how much more she was changed inside.

Roger hovered on the edges. She could read the anxiety on his face. He thought he might be losing her. For her part, she worried he was unhappy. She calmed and unnerved him when she kissed him on the lips. The younger people whooped and he blushed. She reveled in her boldness, though felt, from somewhere, her mother’s eyes.

After the party broke up, she and her mother were alone and she felt the weight of what must stay unsaid. She thought her mother sensed it, too, and realized that for all her honesty she hardly spoke of unpleasant things, and didn’t dwell on them when she did. She liked to cite good moral examples in the world, leaving a lot unsaid in between. Their eyes searched each other for clues. But when she asked about her roommates a crush of unhappiness descended.

“Are the girls treating you well?”

“Girls?”

“Mara and Riley.”

Her eyes darted left then down. Again, she wanted to fess up. But a confession would put everything into doubt. Unhappy at the wall between them, she answered.

“They’re fine.”


...the new friends consider what's missing...


Lola didn’t think it’d be a problem. But when quitting time came Thursday, she felt the empty space where Sherry had been. She was the only one she told about not drinking and so served as constant reminder and excuse. When friends said to meet at Stephen’s Place, she’d say she was going to dinner or a movie with Sherry. They wouldn’t question when you had something else. Neither would she.

But Sherry flew out Wednesday and was to return late Sunday and she didn’t have any place she needed to be. Her mouth felt dry as her mind raced. This was, she realized, her first true test alone.

Once, twice and three times she considered dropping by Stephen’s, because having one wouldn’t be the same as being drunk. But it wasn’t not drinking, either. She picked up her pace, walking quickly, hoping to tire herself. The March weather helped. Gray clouds and gusty winds chilled her and she wanted to be warm. She could turn on the heater as soon as she got home, she thought as incentive. But she couldn’t help thinking, while crossing Taylor, where she’d end up if she went right and who’d be there. She kept walking straight to her apartment.

A small studio on Polk, it overlooked the busy street of shops, restaurants and bars. None of her friends drank there, but the loud boisterous two a.m. talk outside sounded familiar. She shut the blinds and turned on the TV and tried not to think, because when she did anxiety for the next few days competed with thoughts of the summer ahead.

Since she stopped drinking there’d been more money and more time. The money was like a miracle. She could afford to eat out, make a dent in her credit card bill and still have something left. The extra time was more a burden, because it proved she hadn’t been doing much besides working, going out and sleeping. Was that a life?

Friday, she woke early and felt rested. Sherry sent a text message to boost her spirits. “Be Strong,” it read. She repeated the words throughout the day. It wasn’t hard to be strong on payday when she was happy. She joined a group for sandwiches at lunch. Everyone had plans for the weekend. Hers was to “Be Strong”.

Early that evening, Sherry called and suggested a movie. Maybe tomorrow, she told her, not wanting to go out alone at night when she might be in a dangerous mood. She tried reading a book but the antics in a Friends rerun captured her attention before drifting off to sleep.

She woke early the next day and, anxious to do something, quickly dressed to go for coffee and a walk. Sherry’s text that day read “Stay Strong!” She asked about the movie and mentioned her birthday party was that day. Lola wished her the best.

Not finding a movie she liked, she spent the day walking and testing the adage that San Francisco had more bars than laundromats. (It was true). Saturday night was like the night before and she was growing restless.

The next day Sherry’s message read “Forever Strong”. If forever were as long as the last few days, she was in trouble because Sunday was a repeat of Saturday. Monday found her glad to go to work, a very strange sensation indeed.

*

Soon after returning from Riverside, Sherry witnessed a fire not far from Lola’s apartment. Orange and yellow flames engulfed the building and lit the dark night, searing her mind and leaving an impression days afterward. Thick python-like hoses extended from fire hydrants and trucks and streets were wet with water. As firefighters sought to contain the blaze a crowd of onlookers gawked, like people watching the sun set on the ocean horizon. Some, though, reveled as at a bonfire.

She recalled there’d been a mom-and-pop grocery, dry cleaners and other shops on the street level and apartments on the upper ones. A group of people, faces filled with terror, clustered nearby. Some were barefoot and wore jeans, shorts or whatever else they had on before escaping. One trembling woman clutched a calico cat as though it were the only thing she had in the world.

Those people lost their home, Sherry thought, through no choice of their own. She felt blessed for never having been put in such need.

She went out of her way to go by the fallen structure, which smoldered for days. Contractors erected a chain link fence and where strollers once glanced through doors and windows there was nothing but debris. What had been home and business to so many was now an empty space. The contrast fascinated her and she felt guilty. Was she like those revelers, thrilled despite the pain to others?

One day when passing she studied the bare foundation whose concrete insets and buttresses were like the contours of a giant cookie cutter. When she raised her gaze to the building behind, with walls like skin newly exposed to the sun and windows climbing one over the other to the top, a movement caught her eye.

A white cloth fluttered right to left across a pane, starting at the top and progressing to the bottom, removing film and restoring clarity. A woman’s face popped into the frame and looked in all directions before disappearing.

There was a spring in her step when Sherry walked home.


...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.


...Roger pays a visit...


When she heard the voice through the intercom, Sherry thought someone had rung the wrong apartment. But when he said “Roger” she knew he had it right and instantly felt like someone found out at last. Alarmed, Riley asked if he should go to his room.

“No. I’ll bring him up.”

Riley and Lola waited as she went downstairs to admit him. When she saw him through the beveled glass in the lobby door, she thought how strange he looked, like a puzzle piece from the wrong box.

She didn’t have to ask. Her parents were curious, too, and kept informed through the family friend who got her the job. They knew she went to work and lived nearby. But it irked her that he didn’t tell her he was coming. Not that it was a big deal. Not anymore.

She pulled open the accordion gate to the elevator and, as they stood cramped in the small space, scrutinized her boyfriend. He had a crew cut and sunburned face and wore jeans and a long sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck. He looked tired. She was glad she’d changed after work into jeans and a gray sweatshirt. She pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail.

She led through the apartment door and into the front room. Riley and Lola turned toward them and she made the introductions. Riley stood, extending his hand.

“Riley?”

“Mara is my other housemate.”

Roger crossed his arms and Riley took back his hand.

He growled, “Is Mara a man, too?”

Lola laughed and covered it in a fit of coughs.

“She’ll be home soon.”

“Do your parents know?”

Sherry shook her head.

He didn’t think so. Ever since Sherry announced she was going away, a shadow stalked him. The whole thing struck him as odd. People went away all the time: to college, new jobs, the military, and on yearlong missions from church. But her trip wasn’t any of those. He believed when something doesn’t fit, you pound on it till it does. But no matter how he shaped it, it didn’t make sense.

He couldn’t persuade her from going, and her parents were all right with it. Though she called and e-mailed, he didn’t feel he was getting the full picture. And when she came back for her birthday, the changes surprised him and raised more questions. He wanted to see for himself, so he took a few days off work and drove to San Francisco.

He looked at Sherry, dropped his gaze into his hands and then scanned the ceiling. He looked at her again.

“You lied. It’s not like you.”

“I wasn’t completely honest.”

Riley flushed red, feeling like the punch line to a bad joke.

“Riley, I’m sorry.”

He stood and pointed at Roger. “You didn’t do anything. No matter what he thinks.”

Roger stood and thrust out his chest, hands at his hips. Sherry rose, too, and embraced the glowering man.

Lola, who’d been sitting on the edge of her seat, leaped up, grabbed Riley’s arm and followed him into the kitchen.

“They together?”

Sherry shook her head.

Just then Mara came into the apartment. Seeing Sherry embracing a man she didn’t know and Riley and Lola huddled together, she quickly assessed the situation. When Sherry introduced them, Mara brought her hand to his stone face and gave his cheek a playful slap.

“Lighten up.”

The apartment seemed all of a sudden like a very small space. Wanting to be alone with Roger, she took his hand and led him to her room.

It looked much like it did after she first moved in: single bed, dresser, chair and nightstand. She avoided collecting things, aware the year would pass quickly. One addition, though, was a picture of the silver moon shining through the gray towers of the Bay Bridge. She’d clipped it from the newspaper and taped it to the mirror on her dresser above the framed pictures of her parents and Roger.

She guided him to her bed and overcame the resistance of his arm pulling away. She sat him down, undid the laces on his running shoes and took them off. Then, she pushed him back so he lay on top of the covers, face toward the ceiling, and took her place beside him.

In the soft glow of lamplight, their breathing leveled off and wordless thoughts of past, present and future filled the room. He brought his arm across her shoulder and she nestled her head on his chest and, sharing a mutual heat, they fell asleep.

She woke in the middle of the night and observed the sleeping figure beside her. She wondered what he was dreaming and was glad she knew his name. When he stirred and opened his eyes, he saw her smiling.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

*

Roger wanted to get an early start because he had to get back to work, so Sherry was making him breakfast in the early morning privacy she’d come to expect. She imagined it as a gift she could share and was happy. But it also recalled her mother making meals for the family, and she was sad. She was hundreds of miles away, and Roger would drive away and be far, too. She teetered between the two emotions as she scrambled eggs and Roger looked outside the window.

Having private space was important, but being able to share it, she realized, was important, too. She had her privacy, in a modest way, in her room. But until Roger’s visit, she’d never shared it. The thought made her feel empty.

At home the lines of what was hers were never as distinct as in the apartment. Her parents restrained themselves from entering without her permission, but they still had the right. Maybe that chaffed unconsciously and compelled her on her journey. But now she saw it differently.

She served the meal and Roger took his place at the table, his hair lopsided from the pillow and his eyes still sleepy.

“Do you want to shower?”

“I’ll wash my face.”

He didn’t want to get too comfortable. Though encouraged by Sherry’s reception, he considered himself in foreign territory and didn’t like the idea she liked it there.

He could never get used to living in a box with cars racing on the street below. It was like living on a freeway. He wanted a green lawn and trees outside, not another building.

Things were like she said, except Riley being a man. Mara was bold. When she patted his face like she did, it fit her. She never did talk much about Riley; now he knew why. It bothered him and should bother him still, he told himself. But he could tell there was nothing between them and he wouldn’t make a big deal about it, unless he had to.

Everything he saw --- including her soft brown eyes across the table --- her behavior, her words and the time they spent together the night before, suggested she was true about coming home. He wanted her to say it, but didn’t want to plead.

After they ate and he washed his face, she walked him to his car that was parked a few blocks away on a steep hill. When they arrived, they faced each other.

“You like living in an apartment?”

“Not like in a house.”

She invited him to visit again and then they kissed, each attaching a greater significance to it than might occur to any passerby.


...Sherry prepares a special dinner...


It was the Thursday before the Memorial Day weekend and the roommates gathered for a meal Sherry prepared. Riley helped move the dining table into the front. Sherry struck the shades and opened the windows to evening and neighboring lights. Above a white tablecloth and the table set for four, she lit two candles.

She wanted it to be special because she’d been getting hints the end was near. At work, her boss delivered her six-month appraisal and offered a permanent job. She declined the offer --- which made Lola unhappy.

At home, Riley and Mara were prepping for finals and planning summer trips: Mara to Europe for a few weeks before returning to L.A., and Riley to spend time with family in Kansas and Florida. She didn’t know if they were aware that she’d be leaving by the time they returned to San Francisco. The dinner was her way of marking the occasion.

The scent of food wafted through the apartment. The menu was tomato bisque, beef brisket, red potatoes and asparagus. Dessert was ice cream, vanilla or chocolate, and for drinks, sparkling cider or soda.

Mara and Riley had stayed in the background during much of the preparation, but at eight o’clock they met in the hallway and took the few short steps to present themselves.

“Beautiful!” Mara exclaimed.

A knock at the door diverted Riley who admitted Lola and a flame fluttering draft. She stepped into the room and met the winking of lights, reflected off silverware and the lips of glasses, and through the windows from the street lamps outside.

“Nice.”

Her bracelets jangled as she ran to kiss Sherry. She wore a tight black skirt accentuating her long legs, ankle boots and a silky blouse with a plunging neckline. Thick black mascara and long lashes framed her brown eyes. Sherry had suggested everyone dress up, but she thought Lola might have overdone it.

Riley wore a long-sleeved white shirt and designer jeans; Mara tan slacks, a teal blouse and earrings fashioned like bluish-green globes. Sherry wore her gray skirt and a lavender blouse and a fake pearl necklace. She balanced herself on a new pair of black leather shoes with one-inch heels.

Taking her place, Sherry sat opposite Riley on the end of the table with Mara to her left and Lola on her right.

As soon as she sat, Mara sprung up, pointing to the squat water glasses. “Not those! I’ll get the wine glasses.”

“We’re not having wine,” Sherry said.

Mara collected the glasses and carried them into the kitchen. Sherry fidgeted as she contemplated the substitution.

“You can have cider in a wine glass,” Riley said diplomatically.

Mara set a thin-stemmed wine glass before each person and placed a bottle of red wine next to the cider. Sherry’s contemplation became a frown. The two bottles looked similar but led to different consequences. The wine glasses were more stylish but so was temptation.

Sherry began to ladle out the soup when Lola added, “I want wine, too.”

Sherry paused, a bowl in her left hand and the ladle in her right. “You don’t drink.”

Lola nodded, a small smile on her lips.

“Wine with food isn’t drinking.” Mara said, snatching the dish from Sherry.

“Cider’s good, too,” said Riley, his hand hovering over the two bottles. Manners restrained him from filling his glass first, so he lifted the wine and filled Mara’s and was setting the bottle down when Lola held hers up.

Again Sherry paused in mid-action, her eyes willing Lola to change her mind. But she gazed at the red liquid filling her glass. Riley poured and continued to pour when she prompted him. Then he set down the wine and picked up the cider to fill Sherry’s glass and his own.

Lola anticipated the flavor and the warm feeling she’d get as she admired the way the candle flame backlit the rose-colored glass. She was hardly aware that Sherry had stood and reached across her shoulder to set the glass of cider down. She turned to see her go into the kitchen, fetch a water glass and stand by Riley as he filled it.

Now Lola had two glasses, one rose-colored and the other sparkling amber that glowed like incandescent gold. The colors dazzled but she grew uncomfortable; she was being forced to choose. She didn’t want to be disloyal to her friend, but had doubts about total abstinence. And the wine looked so good.

Sherry bowed her head to say grace and when she looked up everyone was still focused on the glasses. “Eat your soup before it gets cold.”

Mara took up her glass.

“Wait!” Riley shouted. “I want to propose a toast.”

Mara took a healthy swallow before anyone could join in. Seeing the surprise on their faces, she said, “There’s plenty of wine.”

Sherry lifted her glass, as did Riley, but Lola was paralyzed, staring at the rose and the amber.

“Is it a pretend toast, if I’m pretend drinking?”

“Not if you’re sincere,” said Riley.

“Toasting is toasting no matter what you drink.”

Annoyed, Mara said, “If she wants wine, she should have wine.”

Resolution flickering across her face, Lola seized the cider. Three glasses of cider were raised, one of wine.

“To Sherry.”

Sherry took it as a small victory, but Mara saw a challenge. She was happy that Sherry seemed more settled in her own skin and watched as she tilted her head in quiet consul with Lola, like a mother to a daughter.

True, Sherry cast doubtful looks at her at times, as if she were an alien; like when she suggested taking trips or going out. Maybe it was the money holding her back, but she suspected Sherry of being provincial and distrustful of anything new.

Yet she was impressed with how she handled her boyfriend and his surprise visit. She didn’t go into detail, only saying it turned out all right. Since then, she projected a confident glow. Mara had to give her credit; she was deeper than she thought.

She’ll go back to Riverside and live her life, but Lola will stay. If she wants to live the life of the city, she should do it without inhibition. She could help.

When they finished the soup, Riley collected the bowls while Sherry brought out the brisket in a serving dish.

Meanwhile, Lola had the sensation she was in a fishbowl: everyone was watching. First Sherry, when she said she wanted wine, which led to their hushed conversation about being strong. Now Mara. Or was it her imagination? Every time Mara took a drink the wine pitched about in her glass like red waves in a stormy sea, then she tipped the glass in her direction before pulling it back to her lips. Her unblinking blue eyes gazed over the glass and, below her ears, the globe earrings spun and dangled. Was she trying to hypnotize her?

She considered the glasses. The cider was three fingers less than the wine now and the earlier anticipation was becoming an urgency. She tried to put it out of her mind by shifting her attention to Riley, who was retaking his seat. She smiled. He smiled back, and she admired his straight white teeth, the sparkle of blue eyes and the blond wave of hair cresting over his brow. She inched her chair closer and whispered.

“Did Sherry tell you? I stopped drinking.”

He shook his head.

“I did.”

Riley nodded cautiously, wary of where the conversation might lead. He didn’t want to tip the balance by choosing sides.

She continued to whisper. “Why aren’t you having wine?”

He shrugged and positioned knife and fork over the brisket. Lola moved even closer, her face nearly over his plate.

“Have you tried this one before?”

He shook his head. “Maybe later.”

Lola reached back for her glass and brought it to him. She inched it to his lips. Afraid it’d drip onto his shirt, he set down his silverware and grasped the globe while she held the stem. He sipped as she maintained the pressure until his panicked eyes said, “Enough”.

Returning the glass to its position beside the cider, she noted that the wine was only a finger higher now.

Sherry pressed her lips into a thin line. Mara grinned mischievously. Riley, blinking with embarrassment, looked into his plate. And Lola, joyfully, brought a forkful of brisket to her mouth.


...the dinner continues...


Her gesture opened the door to possibility. To Riley, she was the friend Sherry brought to dinner, who always wore jeans and a t-shirt and was often sullen and not given to conversation. They joked she was Sherry’s little sister: there because she had to be, but not present in spirit.

He thought she might be pretty, but wasn’t convinced. She tended to hang her head and, even when looking his way, hide her eyes beneath her brows. The gold stud in her nostril intrigued him but he never felt right about asking.

Tonight, she was pushing hard to engage him. Her clothes, demeanor and straight-on look were different. She was pretty. Though tempted to believe she was thinking of him when dressing up, he knew that was silly; and as for her attentions, she’d rather talk to him than be scolded by Sherry at the other end of the table. Still, he was giddy and responsive to her fluttering brown eyes. But as he looked into her face, he saw Mara and Sherry beyond, reading his reactions. He wanted to put them off, especially Mara who was taking a special delight.

Sherry steered the conversation to the meaning the dinner had for her. Though her departure was four months away, she told them, it seemed closer because they’d be gone for half that time. Her words raised awareness that the four might never again sit together at that table, causing a reflective mood to settle momentarily, until pushed aside by more immediate events.

Mara enthusiastically told details about her upcoming trip to Paris and the Rivera, the candle flames seeming to gild the images of those glamorous places. Riley couldn’t match it, but mentioned the wheat on his grandpa’s farm and driving on the beach in Daytona where his parents lived.

“I’m not going anywhere,” scowled Lola, calling Sherry back from thoughts of far-off places. She’d be alone most of the summer.

“Stay here.”

Lola’s eyes lit up as she looked around the table for confirmation.

“Use my room,” Mara offered.

Riley jabbed. “If you want noisy.”

Mara’s face grew fierce with memories of a disturbing night she’d rather forget. She hadn’t told anyone. He couldn’t know. The upstairs neighbor, though, was common knowledge.

Taken aback by her look, he was about to speak when Lola, in a husky voice, asked, “Are you offering yours?”

Mara hooted and he recoiled. Caught up in the excitement, Lola reached for the wine and drank. Only when her insides glowed was she aware of what she’d done, bringing a hand to her mouth. Mara scrutinized her like a mad scientist and Sherry cast down her eyes.

“Oopsee!”

Pretending to ignore the transgression, Sherry said, “Mara’s would be more appropriate. Girls should be in a girl’s room.”

Mara needled. “Riley, do you have anything to be ashamed of?”

“Nothing like that. It’d be nicer. A woman lays her room out differently.”

“That’s it?” Mara probed. “Maybe you think men and women shouldn’t be together. You know what I mean.”

“When they’re married---”

“You had a man in your room,” Lola challenged.

Sherry’s head snapped. No one had questioned her about that night, though she reassured everyone in general terms. But that, she realized, hadn’t stopped people from thinking. What people see, people think about. Sometimes what they don’t see, they think about even more. She didn’t have any second thoughts about taking Roger to her room and objected to Lola’s insinuation that she had crossed a moral line.

“Nothing happened.”

“Nothing?” taunted Mara.

They were ganging up. Lola, whose life choices she tried to influence, acting like a little sister calling out contradictions; and Mara whose do-it-all attitude existed somewhere outside her own world.

“Nothing.”

“Why so happy then?”

“I was glad to see him.”

“You’re too strict,” Lola whined.

Riley, who’d been watching them flank and push Sherry, inserted himself back into the conversation.

“Use my room, if you want.”

Lola hopped in her seat and fluttered her lashes. “See!”

Sherry shrugged and gazed at her thoughtfully. “It doesn’t matter. Compare them and take your pick. Later, if you think you made a mistake, move. At least you have a choice. As for being too strict, I’m not---for me. You’ll have to decide where you want to be, between strict and not strict enough."

Lola nodded. Mara and Riley listened, feeling there was a meaning they didn’t fully comprehend.

They cleared the table to make room for dessert and, as they ate, the reflective mood reasserted itself.

“Once you told me,” Lola said, “‘draw a line’. Do you remember?”

Sherry nodded. “And there you build a wall.”

“What’s it mean?” Asked Riley.

“It means to choose. Keep what’s good on your side, toss what’s bad.”

“I want a catapult,” said Mara.

“I’d like a window,” Sherry said

“And a door,” added Riley.

Looking doubtful, Sherry watched his fingers walk across the table and tap the back of Lola’s hand.

“And I have the key!”

Lola jumped, as if shocked by electricity. Mara clapped. At first Sherry was quiet, but when everyone turned to gauge her reaction, she laughed. Beginning as a rumble in the pit of her stomach, it shook her body, escaping through her mouth. Soon all of them were laughing and stomping the floor.

*

And in September Sherry moved back home to be welcomed by her loved ones. Granted a fresh perspective through the room she had to roam and think, she stepped into her future.

Lola suffered the loss of her close friend but planned to attend her wedding one day. Meanwhile, she raised a mound on the good side of the wall.

Mara and Riley were so content they posted another ad, but turned the candidates away. Somehow, someway, they stepped across a line, which people, walls and spaces help define.


* * *


I will be taking a break from posting stories, though I will continue to write. My next story will begin January 2011. Thanks for reading. You may send me comments using the Post A Comment feature below or by sending an e-mail by going to my profile.

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