Fishbowl (14 page)

“I know what you mean.” Garth thinks of the truth of that statement, the momentary loss of balance, the missed step. “That’s all it takes,” he adds.

She nods, but he can tell the meaning is lost on her. Maybe he endowed too much significance in his words. He feels an embarrassed flush rise on his cheeks from being so melodramatic. He can tell she is distracted and hopes she won’t notice.

“I’m Garth,” he says when she reaches the landing where he rests. He holds out the water bottle for her to take.

“Faye,” the woman says, contemplating him for a moment before taking the bottle. She offers a hand for him to shake.

Garth takes her delicate hand in his ham fist and pumps it twice with short, awkward movements. He holds his elbows tight to his sides while he does so she won’t notice the rings of sweat soaking his shirt. He’s sure he stinks, and he’s sure she doesn’t.

“Quite a climb,” he says and laughs. “This is my third rest break.”

“Hell of a thing, hiking up this many stairs to get to an apartment,” Faye agrees. “Or hiking down so many to get away from one,” she adds, glancing up the stairwell behind her, as if to check she’s not being followed.

“You live here?” Garth asks.

Faye laughs. “No, I don’t. I was just visiting.” Then she adds, “Working on a class assignment with a study buddy.”

Faye and Garth look at each other for a moment. Faye’s eyes size up Garth’s plastic bag. Garth assesses the mess of Faye’s hair. They appraise each other silently and decide there are secrets being withheld, intimate secrets that make the other untrustworthy. When neither speaks, Faye steps past Garth and carries on down the stairs without looking back.

“Good to meet you, Garth,” she says with a flick of her hand over her shoulder. “You take ’er easy.”

“You too, Faye,” Garth says. “Watch your steps going down.”

There comes an “Uh-huh” from Faye’s direction. She nods.

Garth watches her until she disappears around the corner half a flight down from the landing. Then he bolts up the last five floors to his apartment. He’s elated to reach the little sign on the wall that reads “Floor 25.” Exiting the stairwell feels like being reborn, like a pall being lifted from his mood. The excitement he felt earlier percolates within him again, and he steps into the twenty-fifth-floor hallway with lighter feet than those that climbed the building. It’s a homecoming, and as the stairwell door latches with a click behind him, Garth feels his spirits rise. He has made it. He’s close to home now. He catches himself walking toward his apartment with such jaunty steps that he’s almost skipping.

At the end of the hall, in front of the door on the left, he fumbles with his keys and then successfully navigates the lock, the knob, and the door. Inside, he slips his backpack from his shoulders and tosses it into the hallway closet. It lands against the wall with a loud thud. His hard hat. Garth kicks his work boots off on top of the backpack and then closes the closet door. Down the hall and into the kitchen, Garth pauses to give the room a once-over.

There’s a glass in the sink into which the faucet drips. He left it empty this morning, but now it’s overflowing. The dripping sound turned from a flat smacking noise into a more full-bodied plunking sound at some point during the day. There’s a toaster in the corner of the counter and a few crumbs near it, but all in all, Garth thinks, everything is pretty tidy but not so tidy it seems staged.

Garth puts the package down beside the sink and then checks the cabinet underneath. When he opens the door, a short piece of dental floss falls from where it was wedged between the cabinet and the door. Garth shakes his head, tweezes it from the floor with his thumb and forefinger, and puts it in the garbage can. He closes the cabinet door.

He snatches the package from the counter and makes his way to his bedroom, pausing for a moment to admire the view through his sliding balcony door. It’s an expansive view of the buildings across Roxy and as far as the eye can see. It’s one of the reasons he agreed to pay two hundred dollars a month over his budget when he signed the lease for the apartment. It’s the one thing he can never walk by and not pause to take it in because it is different with every second. The light always changes, and there is always something moving out there. It is living artwork.

Garth continues to the bedroom and draws the curtains closed. The room is plunged into near darkness; only a sliver of light sneaks between the wall and the curtain. He then flicks on the bedside lamp. He pulls the package from the plastic bag and places it on the bed, admiring how the brown paper forms a pleasing contrast to his light-blue comforter. He straightens the package, squaring it to the bed, and steps back to admire the new aesthetic. His admiration only lasts a short while before his excitement wins out. He’s waited this long and shakes with anticipation now the wait is over.

Sliding a trembling finger under the tape that fastens the paper together, Garth releases the hold it has.

With eager hands, he unwraps the package.

24

In Which the Tripod Petunia Delilah Goes Door Knocking

Petunia Delilah lets the wet fabric of her nightgown slip slowly from her fingers. By pleats, one length at a time, it falls heavily in fits and starts back down to her knees. The fabric feels cool against her skin, for which she’s thankful because her body burns with stress. She watches the hem of her nightgown fall to place in the bathroom mirror. Her hair is matted flat with sweat; bolts of it cling to her forehead and cheeks. Her skin is pale, but her cheeks are flushed pink. Dark-purple rings hang under her eyes.

I need help right now, she thinks.

I can’t do this on my own.

I can’t get help in here, and I need it, she thinks.

I have to leave the apartment to find it.

Slowly, bracing herself with arms to doorframes and walls, she turns her back on her reflection and waddles to her apartment door. By the time she reaches the door, she knows there’s more than a foot protruding from her nethers. There is a limb, one she fears to inspect but knows is there because it swings with her movements and hits the inside of her thigh. Once, the little leg moved on its own, giving her a kick. Each time she feels it, she grimaces in terror. She wants her baby to be okay more than anything.

At the apartment door, she slides the chain from its track and undoes the dead bolt, opens it, and steps into the hallway. The door swings shut and locks behind her. The handle locks automatically. She hadn’t thought about that before the door closed. Hopefully she won’t have to go back in because the key is hanging on a key-shaped hook just inside the door.

The hallway is dimly lit. The bulb in the sconce beside her apartment door is burned out. It has been like that for weeks, and she intended to put a service request into the building superintendent but never got around to it. She hasn’t left the apartment in as long so was never reminded that it needed to get done. The hallway is quiet save for the subdued hum of the vents circulating air from either end. Often, in the hallway, she could hear people talking or a television set babbling behind a door. Right now, there are no such noises.

She looks down the length of the corridor and it seems so much longer than it ever has, as if it became elongated as soon as she needed it to be short.

With one forearm sliding along the wall for balance, Petunia Delilah takes her first tottering steps toward the neighbor’s apartment door. Her other arm is crook-elbowed and tucked against the side of her belly. It seems to take an eternity, but she puts her head down and shuffles along, concentrating on anything but her pain and her predicament. The carpet is gritty. The occasional pebble sticks to the soles of her bare feet, only to be brushed off again a few steps later. Then her forearm rests on a doorjamb. She looks up. Above the spy hole, bolted to the brown painted door, are tarnished brass numerals spelling the apartment number: 802.

Petunia Delilah squares herself to the door and then leans forward against it, arm against doorframe and forehead to arm.

“Hello,” Petunia Delilah says, her voice a raspy gurgle that bounces down the empty hallway.

She knocks on the door and says “Hello” again.

Petunia Delilah waits for a moment. There’s no answer.

Why would anyone be home? she reasons with herself. It’s still too early for people to be home. They’re probably just packing up their desks or hanging their tool belts, getting ready to leave work. Nobody with a day job would be home yet; just pregnant ladies suffering from hyper-what’s-it are home at this time of day.

Petunia Delilah is scared and alone. A mounting contraction forces her to suck air sharply between her teeth. She clenches the breath tightly in her lungs when it peaks and exhales slowly as it ebbs. It wasn’t a bad one. There have been worse.

She pounds on the door with the heel of her hand. It rattles in the frame.

“If you’re home, please, open the door.” She turns her head, holds an ear to the door, and doesn’t hear anything.

“I need help,” she says quietly, to herself more than anyone.

The paint is cool and soothing against her cheek, so she rests there a minute, listening to the whooshing of her pulse in her ears. She’s exhausted, but she knows she has so much farther to go before she can rest. This is just starting, and she’s already so tired. The baby needs help, and she’s not sure she has the strength to make it. She’s terrified that she will fail this, her first real test of motherhood: bringing her baby into the world. She isn’t sure she could live with herself if she fails.

There’s no one else but me, she thinks.

It takes effort to focus, right herself to stand, and continue on her way.

Forearm to wall, sliding along the paint with the sound of a talkative snake, Petunia Delilah works her way down the hallway. Ahead of her, another apartment door, the stairwell door, then more apartment doors. Right now, one foot, the other foot, then back to the first one. She hopes the next apartment is the one, that someone is home, and that the someone is an obstetrician on her day off who won’t mind dealing with a breech-birthing lady pounding on the door to her inner-city, one-bedroom apartment.

And here it is, a brass 803 bolted to the door. Again, Petunia Delilah leans on the door, her feet spread shoulder width apart, slightly alleviating her discomfort.

A knock, knock, knock and a quiet “Hello.”

Nothing.

Petunia Delilah pounds on it with her fist. She wants to knock the door from its hinges, push it right out of the frame, whether someone is home or not. She wants their phone. She wants help. She wants this to be someone else’s problem too. One way or the other, she wants this baby out of her body and safely into her arms. She wants it all to be over, and she wants that to happen right now. Then she wants a fucking ice cream sandwich.

She pounds and yells, “Hello. Anybody in there? Open the fucking door.” And by the end of the sentence, she’s sobbing.

The sconce next to the door shines a lonely light in the dim hallway. It quivers as Petunia Delilah lays into the door. She cries and pounds and makes a noise that she finally notices she’s making but doesn’t know for how long. Her mouth hangs open, her lips wet, her cheeks wet, and a hoarse exhalation escaping from her.

And there’s no answer.

She feels like sitting down with her back to the door of Apartment 803, just for a few moments, just so she can gather her strength. But no, she knows the baby’s life, and maybe even her own, are in her hands alone. She will not give up. Down the hallway, not far but too far for her, glows a red “Exit” sign, illuminated on the ceiling and pointing at the stairwell door. Beyond that, the door for Apartment 804.

“Onward.” She laughs as she cries. With one hand, she pulls the hem of her nightgown above her knees, making it easier for her to walk. Her legs are so heavy, but she moves them regardless.

One foot, the other foot, back to the first one.

Forearm to wall for support, whispering as her skin slides along the smooth paint, halfway between Apartment 803 and the “Exit” sign, the stairwell door explodes open. Petunia Delilah freezes where she stands when a small body flops through the doorframe and lands on the carpet, dead still, unmoving, maybe not even breathing. She can’t tell.

She watches.

It’s a boy.

Is he breathing?

He isn’t moving.

Is he even alive?

The hydraulic arm hisses, and the door clicks shut, sparking her into motion.

The boy’s chest rises and falls with a breath. He is alive.

“Hello?” she says. “You there. Boy on the floor, are you okay?”

The boy doesn’t move.

Petunia Delilah shuffles forward a few steps and asks the boy again.

He lies there, face to carpet and limbs akimbo.

The leg between her legs twitches, tapping gently against the inside of her thigh. It sparks her to cry again because it reminds her of the situation she’s in.

When she reaches the boy, she pokes at him with her toe. He doesn’t move so she kicks him in the shoulder. He still doesn’t move, and Petunia Delilah takes a step around him, intending to leave him there. She takes another step, and the boy burbles pathetically. Petunia Delilah stops. It’s obvious he needs help, and if he were to die there on the floor, she would never forgive herself. So she squats, an arm on the wall to steady herself on the way down and the other outstretched to grab the boy by the leg.

“Okay,” she says. “We can do this. Come on, little unconscious kid. All three of us. Off we go.”

And she takes a step toward Apartment 804, dragging the boy by the ankle behind her.

25

In Which Claire the Shut-In Loses Her Job, Gains Some Groceries, and Calculates How Horny the City Is

The oven chimes. It’s preheated and awaiting quiche.

Claire blinks and then bustles across the kitchen, scoops the quiche from where it rests on the counter, and puts it in the oven. She takes a roll of paper towels from the drawer beside the oven and grabs a spray cleaner from under the kitchen sink. She busies herself to distraction by spraying and wiping and scrubbing the flat surfaces of the kitchen, rubbing them vigorously into cleandom. She spins and sprays and wipes repeatedly, every corner, until the countertop shines. Afterward, she washes her hands again, sits on her stool at the island, and pours herself a glass of wine.