display sat idle, a faint sound of white noise in the background. Then a whining sound turned into a throaty grind. I shut the monitor off, then back on. Nothing but white noise. When I inserted the key into the lock and pushed open the door, I realized the sound was coming from behind the tarp: carpenters sawing wood, framing walls, or working on the hardwood floors.
The two-thousand-square-foot apartment’s floors were solid cherrywood, native to upstate New York. The distance from the front to the back was an impressive forty feet. The hallway led through two parlor doors into the living room, which took up the entire back of the building. There were two rooms on the left; the kitchen and the dining room, eventually leading into the parlor. There were three rooms on the right; the first one the bathroom, the other two bedrooms.
My footsteps echoed through the rooms and the light flooding through the windows was harsh and uncomfortable. The walls were bleak, painted in an abrasive white. I inspected the doors and windows. A double-cylinder dead bolt on the front door, a type of auxiliary lock that required a key to project or retract the dead bolt from either side. There was also a mortise lock, usually found in older buildings, making any attempt to break in practically impossible.
Suddenly the monitor unleashed violent static and then went silent again. I manually switched over to the second channel. Again, nothing but white noise. I switched back to the initial channel and heard a man’s voice. Before I reached the car, baby monitor in hand, the monitor changed to a gentle buzz, then to a protest, and finally an eruption. Mia’s stuttering gasps interrupted by attempts to fill her lungs with air.
I dug into my purse for the car key, and when I looked up, the man with the steel-toed boots, whom I’d seen earlier, stared at me. His eyes went from the car—echoing with screams—back to me, to the monitor in my hand. My cell phone rang and the moving company confirmed the address. When I turned back around, he had gone.
—
A week later, I stood by the window, parted the curtain with my hands, and looked out into the fall night. It was almost dark and the streets were deserted except for a few people taking their dogs for a last pit stop before they’d curl up on couches or on kitchen floors. Leaves tumbled about like discarded paper, following their destinies into storm drains, iron window grates, and curbside puddles.
I pulled the curtain, layered it midway where the panels met, and shut out the dark. Night falling on New York City was not my favorite time of day. The outside noises—the traffic, the hurried voices, and the screaming children in the school courtyardacross the street—never completely stopped but slowed down like a clock that needed winding.
Later, I jerked up from a half-sleep state, a buzz echoing in my head. I listened but it was quiet. I shut my eyes again. Three more buzzes sounded and I realized it must be the doorbell. I peeked through the hole but all I could make out was a shadowy outline of a man.
“Yes?” I said through the closed door.
“Mrs. Paradise?”
“Yes?”
“David Lieberman.”
At first, the name meant nothing to me, and then I remembered Jack and the property manager mentioning the name of the upstairs tenant who was overseeing the renovations. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to go away unless I talked to him.
“Just a minute,” I said, ignoring Mia wailing in her crib. I opened the door, chain still engaged, and looked at him through a crack in the door.
“How’s the pressure?” Lieberman checked his hands and proceeded to clean the fingernails of one hand with the nails of the other.
“What?” I wanted to tell him to leave me alone but he’d probably tell Jack, and Jack would call and scold me for being rude. After all, according to Jack, Lieberman was here to help.
“The pressure. The water pressure.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The water
The two-thousand-square-foot apartment’s floors were solid cherrywood, native to upstate New York. The distance from the front to the back was an impressive forty feet. The hallway led through two parlor doors into the living room, which took up the entire back of the building. There were two rooms on the left; the kitchen and the dining room, eventually leading into the parlor. There were three rooms on the right; the first one the bathroom, the other two bedrooms.
My footsteps echoed through the rooms and the light flooding through the windows was harsh and uncomfortable. The walls were bleak, painted in an abrasive white. I inspected the doors and windows. A double-cylinder dead bolt on the front door, a type of auxiliary lock that required a key to project or retract the dead bolt from either side. There was also a mortise lock, usually found in older buildings, making any attempt to break in practically impossible.
Suddenly the monitor unleashed violent static and then went silent again. I manually switched over to the second channel. Again, nothing but white noise. I switched back to the initial channel and heard a man’s voice. Before I reached the car, baby monitor in hand, the monitor changed to a gentle buzz, then to a protest, and finally an eruption. Mia’s stuttering gasps interrupted by attempts to fill her lungs with air.
I dug into my purse for the car key, and when I looked up, the man with the steel-toed boots, whom I’d seen earlier, stared at me. His eyes went from the car—echoing with screams—back to me, to the monitor in my hand. My cell phone rang and the moving company confirmed the address. When I turned back around, he had gone.
—
A week later, I stood by the window, parted the curtain with my hands, and looked out into the fall night. It was almost dark and the streets were deserted except for a few people taking their dogs for a last pit stop before they’d curl up on couches or on kitchen floors. Leaves tumbled about like discarded paper, following their destinies into storm drains, iron window grates, and curbside puddles.
I pulled the curtain, layered it midway where the panels met, and shut out the dark. Night falling on New York City was not my favorite time of day. The outside noises—the traffic, the hurried voices, and the screaming children in the school courtyardacross the street—never completely stopped but slowed down like a clock that needed winding.
Later, I jerked up from a half-sleep state, a buzz echoing in my head. I listened but it was quiet. I shut my eyes again. Three more buzzes sounded and I realized it must be the doorbell. I peeked through the hole but all I could make out was a shadowy outline of a man.
“Yes?” I said through the closed door.
“Mrs. Paradise?”
“Yes?”
“David Lieberman.”
At first, the name meant nothing to me, and then I remembered Jack and the property manager mentioning the name of the upstairs tenant who was overseeing the renovations. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to go away unless I talked to him.
“Just a minute,” I said, ignoring Mia wailing in her crib. I opened the door, chain still engaged, and looked at him through a crack in the door.
“How’s the pressure?” Lieberman checked his hands and proceeded to clean the fingernails of one hand with the nails of the other.
“What?” I wanted to tell him to leave me alone but he’d probably tell Jack, and Jack would call and scold me for being rude. After all, according to Jack, Lieberman was here to help.
“The pressure. The water pressure.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The water
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