ab.iii
His calloused hand intertwined with hers. What was the
message of the breakwater, of the lighthouse, of the waves? His hands felt like
a language she couldn’t begin to understand
She pushed the mop bucket into the mop room and called
for Barry’s wife, Kathy (Barry had left an hour ago) to check her work, to give
her the green light to go. Her work was always solid, so everything was as it
should be – all the floors clean and drying, the “slippery
when wet” sign set as it should be in the middle of the floor. She was finished. Kathy
gave her a smile and a little wave before heading back to the front of the
store. She was free for another afternoon.
It was a quick change from her baking whites to her
jeans and blouse, then a walk down a quiet street in the overcast humidity, trees
casting ineffective shadows that couldn’t possibly cool the mugginess of the
day. She tasted salt on her tongue, sweat slipping between her lips, but a
nicer sweat than the sweat of baking from the early morning to the early
afternoon, this was the sweat of the sidewalks and trees and summer heat and
exertion. That taste of moist salt told her where she was headed in the attic
apartment she held at Mrs. Braddock’s. This walk she walked every day, twice a
day, once in the earliest morning dark and once in the brightest afternoon light,
was the walk her father had warned her about all her life, the walk of
predators looking for the likes of her, the walk of creepy men hiding beneath a
tree, the walk of cars jumping the curb, the walk of horror hiding in the branches
above. Yet it all went well. It always did. There was nothing to fear despite
what her father had tried to make her believe. Which was a lucky thing, since
her mind was on cool waters and a rare return to the man on the breakwater in
the middle of the day, so there was no way she’d have been able to avoid a
danger if it had appeared.
She passed between the hedges that marked Mrs.
Braddock’s walk, touched the leaves of the right bush with her right hand, took
the three steps to the front, then stopped abruptly and listened.
The old woman’s
shrill voice wasn’t yelling at her cat, nor was it yelling at her forty-something
son down in his basement retreat. If her luck held, she could safely navigate
this return to him. She grabbed the knob of the door and leaned backwards as
she turned it, pulling the door towards her, using her body weight to adjust
the way the door swang open, realizing as she did that the metal of the knob
was cool. How odd, she thought, when it is as hot as it is today. Her precautions
ensured a silent opening. No clicks, no creeks. The door was opened, then
quickly closed without a sound, and all she had left to traverse was the stairs,
looking in the dusty sun streaks from the second floor landing window.
