Desperate Souls

Avenue in Brooklyn. Returning from church, where she served on a committee dedicated to serving the poor, she had stopped for milk at a corner bodega, where she had spent too much time discussing the sorry state of the neighborhood with the proprietor, Miguel Ruiz.

Now she found herself hurrying home and scanning shadowy doorways for signs of danger. After the Great Recession, New York City had seen its most dramatic crime increase since the crack cocaine epidemic of the 1980s. Lucile remembered those days well, and in her opinion, the current environment posed a far greater threat to senior citizens like herself. At sixty-seven, she had begun to give serious consideration to her sister’s invitation for Lucile to move in with her in Florida.

With swollen ankles and creaking knees, the retired bookkeeper crossed the street, passing a blockade constructed of graffiti-covered plywood. The plywood obstructed the entrance to a subway station that city officials had closed in a desperate attempt to help stave off impending financial disaster. A homeless couple covered in filth slept sitting up with their backs pressed against the blockade.

Cut the services and the cops,
Lucile thought as she passed beneath the construction awning that ran the length of the block.
You might as well cut our throats.
After Governor Raymond Santucci’s recent cutbacks, Mayor Myron Madigan had been forced to lay off thousands of police officers, which contributed to the crime wave, especially in downtrodden neighborhoods. Lucile had watched Flatbush Avenue rise and fall and rise and fall again.

A scarecrow, tall and gaunt, stood at the far corner, silhouetted by the dying light. Drawing closer to him, she discerned emaciated gray features. Dark, bulbous eyes that reminded her of a frog’s locked on her from within sunken sockets. She did not recall seeing him before, but the scarecrows all looked the same, regardless of race. Dangerous new drugs had created a dangerous new breed of criminal, driven to brutal acts by the all-consuming need to get high.

Pulling her purse tight against her bosom, Lucile stepped closer to the metal framework supporting the awning at the sidewalk’s edge. The scarecrow’s dull eyes followed her, although the addict’s head did not move. Lucile slipped her right hand inside her purse and closed her fingers around the cool metal of the tear gas canister.

Just try it,
she thought.
I’m ready for you.

She had been mugged three times in the last six months—once at gunpoint, once at knifepoint, and once with no weapon at all, just three wild-eyed young men with pallid skin and darkened eyes.

Never again.

Lucile would welcome death before allowing another one of these fiends to rob her dignity, let alone what little money she carried on her person. She kept her cash in a secret pocket on her dress, not in her purse. If the fiends demanded her money, she would surprise them with a gas blast from the canister, which she had purchased from a sympathetic pawnshop owner. It didn’t matter that automobiles traversed the busy avenue beside her; none of the drivers would stop for an old woman taking a beating. And any people with sense had already gone inside and locked their doors.

As she reached her block, her instincts told her to look over her shoulder. Sure enough, the scarecrow lumbered across the street behind her. Quickening her gait, she increased the distance separating them and reached her building’s entrance. Inside the vestibule, she withdrew her keys, making it harder to grasp the canister if she needed it, and jammed the longest one into the lock. Her heart thumped from her panicked rush inside, and she almost dropped the keys. If the fiend cornered her in the foyer before she opened the door, she didn’t stand a chance.

Entering the lobby, she closed the inside door behind her, making sure the latch clicked into place. The scarecrow stopped outside the front door and turned in her direction. She couldn’t tell if he saw her through both doors or not. Then he opened the outside door and entered the vestibule.

You ugly, godless son of a bitch!

The scarecrow crossed the tiled floor, and the first door closed behind him. Praying he didn’t have keys, Lucile stepped back as his shadow fell over her. The scarecrow pressed his face against the glass, his eyes locating hers.

He’s half dead.
She had seen this look many times.

The doorknob turned and she caught her breath, but the door didn’t open. Fearing the scarecrow might punch his fist through the glass, she climbed the stairs as fast as her beleaguered joints permitted. At the top, she glanced over her shoulder.

The scarecrow remained at the door but had stopped turning its knob. Stepping back, he turned and stood looking at the front door.

That one isn’t locked,
Lucile thought, willing the scarecrow to leave. She turned back just in time to see another figure bounding toward her from the shadows. With her heart jumping in her chest, her mind absorbed the teenage boy’s appearance: Hispanic, hair cropped close beneath a red hooded sweatshirt, hungry eyes blazing within sunken sockets.
Another scarecrow!

She heard the echo of his sneakers slapping the floor as he raced toward her, then saw him raise a pipe high over his head. In that instant, she forgot all about the tear gas in her purse. Instead, she wondered whether or not she would fall all the way down the stairs after he hit her.

He brought the pipe down onto her skull, and she never learned the answer.