within sight of building, so I let Tony do it up here on the terrace. I feel bad for the kid. He used to be what you’d call “fresh-faced.” First-generation Hispanic American, he had teeth like a toothpaste ad. Looking out my window, down over my gargoyle, I used to see him run up the block to help ladies with their shopping bags. When it rained, he’d run with an umbrella. When it snowed, he’d shovel. When the twin towers were hit, Tony enlisted. The war ruined his smile. He came back from Afghanistan a hollow, shifty smoker.
Then there were drugs: marijuana and heroin made him fall asleep at his post. PTSD gave him that thousand-yard stare. Then he stole: he told wives our husbands forgot to put cash in his Christmas tip envelopes, so we tipped him again.
The board knew we all couldn’t have been so careless, but there was no proof. They wanted Tony let go and they wanted my husband, their president, to get rid of him. But it’s hard to turn a veteran out onto the street.
Tony flicks his cigarette butt over the terrace wall and watches it fall fifteen floors to land in the private courtyard, where John landed it seems like yesterday.
“Heights.” Tony shudders. “I don’t know how the old dude did it.”
“He did it quickly,” I say. “My husband offered him a retirement package and John walked toward the terrace like he was going for a cab.”
“Because you held the terrace door open for him?”
“You should have seen him, Tony. His face was so sad—sadder than yours ever was. He’d never married. He was married to his job. When he lost that, he lost his reason to get up in the morning. He was devastated. What he did, he would have done eventually.”
“Except no one would have found him until he stank like an old peach.”
I say, “It was cleaner for him to jump. Quicker. Quicker to clean.”
“Says you.”
“John’s happy now. Everybody’s happy.”
“Yeah,” says Tony, “I’m a regular laugh riot.”
He picks up my lunch bag. He always takes it when he leaves. I don’t know where he takes it, but he takes it because it’s part of our deal.
He says, “When you’re alone around here, you’d be smart to bolt your front door. Stick a chair under the knob. That dude your husband’s got on the agenda for the meeting tonight, that Eddie Chang, can get through your locks with the building’s set of keys.”
I say, “I’m the last woman Eddie Chang wants to seduce.”
Tony says, “Seduce is a nice word for what he did.”
“If he did something so bad, wouldn’t he be fired by now?”
Tony says, “Thank the doormen’s union for that. Before a guy’s canned, he’s got to be suspended, then put on a different shift, then switched to your side of the building so he won’t bump into 10B no more.”
“My husband’s done all that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Tony, “but you and me both know how it works around here.” He pats the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. Winks. He says, “You make us too comfortable.”
Years ago—when my husband found out from the super that Tony spent lunch breaks on our terrace— he questioned me. When I told him that given the space and opportunity, Tony—depressed and unable to be rehabilitated—would finish himself off, my husband got out of my way and let me do the board’s dirty work.
I helped Tony overdose and held his hand until he died.
When Tony came back, I felt relieved. Every time Tony visits, I know I did the right thing.
————
For a week I’ve watched Eddie through my peephole when he delivers our mail. He steps off the elevator and stands in the foyer that services only our apartment. Our door is to the right of the elevator, and opposite it are a mail table and mirror. Eddie studies his reflection and mumbles. He points at himself. He makes a fist. He pouts like a fern. He holds envelopes addressed
Mr. & Mrs.
up to the light. Today, he turns and stares at my door.
He says, “Hello?”
Eddie is
Then there were drugs: marijuana and heroin made him fall asleep at his post. PTSD gave him that thousand-yard stare. Then he stole: he told wives our husbands forgot to put cash in his Christmas tip envelopes, so we tipped him again.
The board knew we all couldn’t have been so careless, but there was no proof. They wanted Tony let go and they wanted my husband, their president, to get rid of him. But it’s hard to turn a veteran out onto the street.
Tony flicks his cigarette butt over the terrace wall and watches it fall fifteen floors to land in the private courtyard, where John landed it seems like yesterday.
“Heights.” Tony shudders. “I don’t know how the old dude did it.”
“He did it quickly,” I say. “My husband offered him a retirement package and John walked toward the terrace like he was going for a cab.”
“Because you held the terrace door open for him?”
“You should have seen him, Tony. His face was so sad—sadder than yours ever was. He’d never married. He was married to his job. When he lost that, he lost his reason to get up in the morning. He was devastated. What he did, he would have done eventually.”
“Except no one would have found him until he stank like an old peach.”
I say, “It was cleaner for him to jump. Quicker. Quicker to clean.”
“Says you.”
“John’s happy now. Everybody’s happy.”
“Yeah,” says Tony, “I’m a regular laugh riot.”
He picks up my lunch bag. He always takes it when he leaves. I don’t know where he takes it, but he takes it because it’s part of our deal.
He says, “When you’re alone around here, you’d be smart to bolt your front door. Stick a chair under the knob. That dude your husband’s got on the agenda for the meeting tonight, that Eddie Chang, can get through your locks with the building’s set of keys.”
I say, “I’m the last woman Eddie Chang wants to seduce.”
Tony says, “Seduce is a nice word for what he did.”
“If he did something so bad, wouldn’t he be fired by now?”
Tony says, “Thank the doormen’s union for that. Before a guy’s canned, he’s got to be suspended, then put on a different shift, then switched to your side of the building so he won’t bump into 10B no more.”
“My husband’s done all that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Tony, “but you and me both know how it works around here.” He pats the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. Winks. He says, “You make us too comfortable.”
Years ago—when my husband found out from the super that Tony spent lunch breaks on our terrace— he questioned me. When I told him that given the space and opportunity, Tony—depressed and unable to be rehabilitated—would finish himself off, my husband got out of my way and let me do the board’s dirty work.
I helped Tony overdose and held his hand until he died.
When Tony came back, I felt relieved. Every time Tony visits, I know I did the right thing.
————
For a week I’ve watched Eddie through my peephole when he delivers our mail. He steps off the elevator and stands in the foyer that services only our apartment. Our door is to the right of the elevator, and opposite it are a mail table and mirror. Eddie studies his reflection and mumbles. He points at himself. He makes a fist. He pouts like a fern. He holds envelopes addressed
Mr. & Mrs.
up to the light. Today, he turns and stares at my door.
He says, “Hello?”
Eddie is
Similar Books
