Problems with People (4 page)

Normally in the course of a day, normally in the midafternoon, the bluest hours, when life felt—there was no right word—he would set out in his car to perform errands—plus on Saturdays make a good-son visit to his parents—but that was impossible given this crisis of bad weather: snow piling up through pallid hours. He stayed inside, looking out the window regularly to take the measure of the snow and monitoring television coverage of it. Midafternoon, his disheartening time, came, and lower temperatures to boot. He tried to nap—lay down, half slept—but sometimes it was the case, strangely enough, that lying down made his right-leg sciatica more buzzy. It did this time. He got up, checked the thermostat, sat in a Windsor chair—one with arms and a fairly plump cushion—and read
The Week
in a vexed state, then did something he often felt tempted to do but tried to control because it only made his sullenness worse: online investment research. And now that he was, against his better judgment, online—he was online too much—should he contact his new tenant? The sense of rigor he depended on to keep from making social errors was eroded and finally sufficiently compromised by a day without errands, and by the pressure of feeling snowbound, to warrant what, exactly? Writing her an e-mail. He wrote one nervously. Subject heading, “
WATER TURN OFF
.” Now the hard part. Dear Tenant? Hi Lydia Williams? Eventually he thought of a clever expedient. Once again he wrote “FYI” and his initials. The rest he sent attached, as if, by extrapolation from his prior communiqués, she should assume it was from the secretary of the BVHA instead of from him—a strategy of minor but not innocent misdirection—to wit, “A reminder
that if you are going to be away for an extended period of time, please turn off your main water valve. And it wouldn’t hurt to let one of your neighbors know how to reach you just in case there is a need to enter—you know, like for frozen pipes that burst and create havoc.”

Conceivably this might just prompt Lydia Williams to divulge personal information—when she would be away, where she was going—though that was jumping the gun, he knew; there was no reason to believe she was about to take a trip. But if, for example, she was driving for the holidays to a hamlet in Montana, well then, this ruse would give him search fodder: he could try “Lydia Williams Cut Bank” and see what happened. Maybe answer the question “Is that where she’s from?” Cut Bank or another hypothetical destination? Because so far his surf stalking had yielded about a goose egg; there were just too many Lydia Williamses; even when he’d plugged in her rental-application data, he’d come up with pretty much zilch. Yes, “
WATER TURN OFF
” was a foray with an invasive secondary intention. Who knew where it might lead? Maybe they would end up discussing this matter of his entering her/his—it was still his—apartment in the case of burst pipes and havoc. The point was, he could be turning a corner with this potential new e-mail. Nerve-racking. And then he hit on an even better stratagem. He wrote, after “FYI” but before his initials, “The main water valve is hidden behind the upper right corner of the washing machine.” Could he bring himself to click Send on that? It would be personal—outside of an attachment.

Poised over his trackpad, he looked out the window, where a very small bird was having difficulty finding a perch that
was not too cold—it kept fluttering around in a snarl of small branches, raising puffs of powder. Not the kind of thing he took an interest in—nature. But right now, entertaining in its wintry, desperate way. Should he click on Send? He should not click on Send. He highlighted and deleted “The main water valve is hidden behind the upper right corner of the washing machine,” but sent the attachment ostensibly from the secretary of the BVHA along with “FYI” and his initials. So no change in status. Safe.

She e-mailed back almost immediately with: “Hi. In case I need it—where’s the valve? Thanks—Lydia.” To which he replied, “Behind the upper right corner of the washing machine.” No initials.

There followed this exchange: “I don’t see it. L.” “It’s a little bit hidden, but it’s there. S.” “I still don’t see it.” “It’s a gate valve—red. Three feet or so off the ground. Right corner.” “Not there that I can tell.” “I am happy to come by the apartment on a day and at a time of your convenience so as to chase this down.” “You don’t need to do that.” “I have errands to do anyway.” “I’m here this coming Saturday morning.” “What about ten?” “See you at 10 on Saturday. L.” “Weather permitting. Roads being open.” “Maybe between now and then I’ll find it.” “Right back corner. Let me know.”

Saturday arrived. The temperature was much improved, the snow had melted almost entirely from the main roads—dirty water roiling toward drains—and sufficiently from side roads to allow for safe driving; there would be no excuse along
the lines of weather; he must go as promised to visit his parents but first to the Blue Vista. So be it. What did they say—what was the expression? The saying, he remembered, was “Time to man up.” He took along his faithful road companions—a stainless-steel travel mug filled with Earl Grey tea, his glasses, their case, a fine lens cloth, and a spray bottle of lens cleaner—but decided, this morning, not to listen to his radio; he needed to think; what would he say? He would say, Hello, I’m sorry you’ve had trouble locating the valve, it’s good to finally meet you, where did the time go, excuse me for failing to introduce myself earlier, I don’t want to be remiss or derelict in my duties as a landlord so if there’s anything you need, some way I can help you, please don’t hesitate to e-mail, text, or call, did I put both my home number and cell in the rental agreement, you might have one but not the other. Have both now. I’m at your disposal, of course, when it comes to maintenance, repairs, and questions about the condominium complex or about your apartment and garage, and also, before long it will be time for me to come through and lightly sand and then re-oil the butcher-block counter, the process is intrusive, I know, but necessary unfortunately, because otherwise unsanitary food stains work their way into the wood and then you have to sand even more deeply to get them out again, plus proliferating mold; better to sand and oil on a regular basis, about every four months although the intervals lengthen as you build up a bit of a surface and get ahead. And while I’m there, every four months, I check the lint trap and maybe do a few other things, just make sure the drains are clear in the bathtub, shower, and sinks, one matter I’ve been meaning
to talk to you about and that is that under the kitchen sink the plumbing is fragile, this is the name of the game these days—cheap materials—so it just helps to be a little bit delicate under there, not move things around too much and therefore cause the pipes to rotate, or they eventually loosen and a drip starts; all of the pieces in that system relate to one another, so when you tighten one you loosen its neighbor, by which I mean the adjoining coupled piece; it can be frustrating; the next time we—you, or me—have or has a problem with those pipes I’m going to bite the bullet and just go ahead and replace everything with stainless steel and that should be the end of it, I can’t tell you how many times leaks from under the kitchen sink have caused the cork flooring to warp and buckle, cork was such an unfortunate choice for wet areas and it’s a mistake I’ll never make again—in this manner he got to the Blue Vista parking lot, where slush and debris—fallen branches, old snow—were heaped in his appointed slot. A pile of wet dross and slop was in the way, storm detritus, wrack and wreckage of the sort that might exacerbate depression.

He knocked on her door at 10:01. At last: Lydia Williams.

Later—opening a little journal he kept sporadically—whole months were missing—where to start? With her or with what she’d done with his apartment? With her, of course, Lydia Williams, five foot five approximately, 115 or 120 pounds, age in the range of thirty-five to forty, black hair in a crocheted beanie skull cap, eyes about halfway between hazel and auburn but, a moment later, closer to green—he thought maybe green
on the eerie order of honeydew-melon flesh when she moved to her right so he could cross the threshold while they maintained the right culturally ordained distance. Dressed like, it was impossible to say, just that she was wearing baggy drab sweatpants underneath this, was it called a shirtdress? With buttons down the front. And a bold leather belt that drew it together in—he was taking a chance here using this word because he had so little clothing terminology—was it pleats? And down booties with hard soles. What was her look? Did it have a name? Mix and match? Potluck medley? Vintage anarchic? Intentional clash? She made him think of politically activated peasants from the era of Tolstoy—minus the tall boots—in this case a Tolstoyan with an air of only partial political zeal, a comrade with some poetry and whimsy and those parts of her stronger than her politics; either all of that or Maid Marian dressed for bow pulling. Lydia Williams was a little bit pale, not on the side of faded or blanched, not along the lines of ghostly and wan, more sort of north of Irish, or south of Icelandic, but maybe this vagrant ethereality of hers was just a trick of his canned lighting scheme coupled with the snaring of her hair in that clingy beanie, leaving a considerable forehead tract to catch not just the forty-watt recessed halogens but also what still seemed, to him, like snow light coming through the windows, even though snow was, for the most part, past. The staying-in look—the staying in on Saturday a.m. to drink tea and read look, not PJs and a robe but not going-out clothes; he added to this rapid, first-impression assessment her “natural” approach when it came to makeup, she had something or other on, he didn’t know what to call it,
but not very much of it, almost none, still, her skin had a layer of something or other which was meant to, he thought now, deepen her paleness, probably a contradiction in terms when he thought about it—a deeper paleness? The point was, after getting up this morning she’d put something on, the better to greet him, maybe feeling that without it, what—but now that they’d passed along the short entry hall and into the great room he wasn’t sure any longer; maybe she wore no makeup at all; light changed everything; in the great room, even though the light was cleaner and more telling, he decided Lydia Williams could be under thirty-five; after all, a cold, full, and naked light didn’t reveal more forehead furrows, laugh lines, crow’s feet, or other signatures of late-thirtysomething aging, no, she didn’t have as many time-related skin flaws as he’d guessed, fleetingly, would be revealed here when, a few seconds before, he’d made some initial but not perfunctory observations about her in the less well-lit foyer. Though he hardly had time to think about that now, overwhelmed as he was by her style of apartment decorating/furnishing in all its density, color, texture, and vivacity—he didn’t recognize the great room; was this really his apartment? It looked like a curio shop and an import emporium—a phantasmagoria or multicultural souk—paper lanterns, prayer flags, tapering vases, wicker baskets, lucky cats, mounded throw pillows, whatnots, gewgaws, knickknacks, tchotchkes, a naked mannequin, a sombrero, some gourds, a divan on wheels, strings of twinkling Christmas lights, it was all too much to take in with any depth in the context of this, his introductory visit, there were just so many horizontal and vertical planes of product
and incident—streamers, pendants, hung crystals, strung beads—though it did occur to him to wonder how everything was attached, fixed, arrayed, pinned, to what extent his perfect surfaces were now compromised by tacks, tape, stains, and picture hooks, how much work it might be one day to repair this gaudy and shimmering bazaar, to put things back to how they’d been before—clean, unmarred, easy to maintain, four white walls and a ceiling. Plus the cork floor. A landlordish consideration—the sort of thing he had to think about. For example, these very large portraits on the most proximate, the east, wall, framed and hung—he hoped the drywall could handle them without fissuring. They were all of multi-armed goddesses derived from Hindu mythology, including Kali, blue and bloodthirsty, stepping as she was on the throat of a dead man and wearing as she was a belt of severed heads; this he would have liked to look at more closely—a girdle of amputated arms, a necklace of skulls, some cobras, some she-demons, a sickle, a sword—but right now, the thing was—Lydia Williams. Lydia Williams and the question between them of the apparently missing, or at least hard to find, water shut-off valve. Time to come to that. Especially because, throughout his observations—both of her and her created world—they’d been engaged in dialogue. She’d said—at the door—“Hi,” he’d answered, “Can I come in?,” there’d been the few short steps between the foyer and the great room during which he’d thought of the terms “shirtdress” and “pleats,” they’d reached the great room, she’d turned back toward him—a little ripple of the sub-belt, or was it midriff, “shirtdress” fabric—at which point he’d said, “The mysterious water valve,” this prompting
from Lydia Williams no smile or laughter, as he’d thought it might—it sounded wry in his ear—but instead just the words “I’m Lydia.” “Shawn.” “Sorry you had to come here.” “I had to go to the store today anyway.” “Where do you shop?” “Different places.” “That’s Kali. You probably know that. That one’s Green Tara, the giver of prosperity.” “How are things working out for you here?” “Perfect.” “You like the apartment.” “I love the apartment.” “You’re the first renter I’ve had here, you know. Before you, I lived here myself.” “Where are you now?” “In a different place.” At which point he felt it had gone too far in the direction of intimacy. Not landlordly. So he didn’t tell her—he held back—about his parents’ moving out of their house—the house he’d grown up in, in Shoreline, two blocks from Interstate 5—and into an apartment, or his return to the house of his childhood—paid for but a terrible maintenance miasma—or that he owned two other apartments, both in this complex, with reliable, long-term renters installed, both male, who rarely bothered him about anything—that he was Mr. Modest Landlord and Mr. Good Son. “Well,” he said instead. “The water valve. I’ll let you lead.” All business.