Life Through the Wall
Brendan heard her
life through the thin, plastered wall that separated their apartments.
She walked quickly
around. Her feet were rarely slow. Sometimes she paced, but
hurriedly. Staccato.
She set her table for four. Plate.
Plate. Plate. Plate.
Silver-ilver-ilver-ilver-
ilverware. But she ate alone. There were no other voices but hers. From the sizzling and whistling and clanking
he could tell she sometimes made elaborate meals for herself. The thought had crossed his mind before that
she might be fat, but he had dismissed it.
She had a light step.
Sometimes she spoke
to herself, but usually too low for him to hear. Sometimes,
especially early in the morning, she
scolded herself like a broken record.
“You’re late you’re late you’re late you’re late you’re late you’re
late—you are late!” The door slammed
behind her. She locked herself out with
gusto. Sometimes, especially late at
night, she sighed heavily as she flopped down on her couch. It was old and creaked when she moved.
She often hummed
to herself, little snatches of eighties’ songs he did not recognize.
Her washing
machine was the noisiest thing in her apartment.
She had conversations
on the phone. He tried to piece things
together from the one side he heard, just her voice.
“Hello?”
.
. .
“No.”
.
. .
“Yes,
I’m sure. Thank you.”
.
. .
“I’m
hanging up now, Ken. I’ve already said
everything I can say. You need to talk
to someone else. I can’t deal with this
anymore. Don’t call here again, please.”
.
. .
“I’m
hanging up. Goodbye, Ken.”
Click.
She
was rather quiet for a while after that call.
Another
call was apparently from her mother.
This one came late at night when Brendan was laying on his back in bed
staring at the tiny bumps in his ceiling.
Her
voice bled soft and muffled through the wall.
He could not catch all the words.
“Hi Mom. Why are . . . late?”
“Mom?
. . . okay?”
.
. .
“Slow
d . . . what’s going . . .?”
.
. .
“Okay. Alright.
I’ll be right there. I’m leaving
right now.”
.
. .
“Yeah. . . . hold tight Mom and . . . don’t move
more . . . have to. I’m coming right . .
. .”
He
heard her striding through the house. He heard the tinkle of keys and then the
slam of her front door. She forgot to
lock it.
Brendan lay still in the quiet dark. The
unlocked door began to bother him. What
if someone was waiting for just such an opportunity to get into her apartment
and take her stuff? Or worse, wait in
ambush for her? What if a murderer got
in? Maybe she would remember. He counted to ten. She did not come back to the door. He heard her car start and pull out of the
driveway. What could he do? She had completely forgotten to lock her
apartment door! There was nothing he could
do. He always locked his door. It wasn’t his fault—he had been a good
example if she had ever noticed. But of
course she had not. Who would notice
something like that? Who would notice
someone like him? Brendan did not make much
noise. He was careful and quiet, having had long experience with how easily
sounds traveled through the paper thin walls of the old apartment complex. He had been there for years. She had just recently moved there—what was
it, two months ago? She had not had time
to learn. And now anyone in the
apartment block might know she was gone by the racket of her departure, might be
ready to sneak in and take what they wanted, might already be starting to do
so.
He
could not let that happen. She did not
know the danger she had exposed herself to.
It was his responsibility.
He
slid lightly and silently out of his bed, his feet landing perfectly in his
slippers, which made almost no sound as he moved across his thinly carpeted
floor. He opened the small, concealed
drawer of his bedside table and took out his sidearm. He flipped the safety off.
He
walked purposefully across his apartment, eased his door open slowly and just as
carefully shut it and locked it, as silent as he could make himself.
He
stepped into the hallway, and for a moment, he felt terribly vulnerable. Anyone could see him there. His silhouette against the dim, flickering
lights in the hallway, would be stark—perfect posture but pistol all too
obvious. Anyone all down the narrow
hallway could see him, would have a perfect shot at him.
He
strode to her door quickly. He reminded
himself that it was midnight, that few would be awake, that they all worked
long hours and came home exhausted, that to the best of his knowledge he was
the only tenant who had a gun. He knew
he shouldn’t be so concerned about such things.
He
tested her door. It was indeed
unlocked. He began to turn the knob, but
his hand froze. What if someone had
already been here? What if they had
booby-trapped the door, intending the explosion to kill her when she
returned? He gently released the door
knob and looked under the door. He could
see nothing. He straightened back up,
and the shifting of his weight made the hallway floorboards creak. There wouldn’t have been enough time to rig
something like that anyway, he told himself.
Nonetheless, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing
up.
He took a deep
breath and pushed her door open quickly.
No one was in sight. All
clear. Maybe he had worried for nothing. Still, better safe than sorry. And there was no easy way to lock her door
without a key. He wondered if there was
a spare somewhere. No, that would be too
dangerous. She wasn’t that stupid.
He looked
around. He was in a small entryway,
perhaps eight feet long, which led into the spare living/dining room. He saw the table which she sat down to dinner
at every evening, four chairs around it.
It was shabbier than he had imagined, covered in old, blotchy
stains. Off to the left was the bedroom,
small and square, with a low doorway and a slight step down. The layout of the apartment was exactly the
same as his. He supposed he should not
be surprised. It made sense. But he had never been inside any of the other
apartments before. He could see the bed
jammed up into the corner of the bedroom, to allow space for a small upright
piano. He stared at in
incomprehension. He had never heard
music. He had never heard her play. And yet the piano took up most of the rest of
the small bedroom. It could not be
practical. She must be extra careful not
to bump it every time she got out of bed.
What was it doing in there? There
was no chair on bench before it. There
was not even really room to comfortably stand in front of it. It would be difficult to play.
Suddenly he heard
a noise. Someone was walking down the
hallway—soft, careful, insinuating steps, approaching her door, which he had
left slightly ajar. He closed it
quietly, and readied his gun. He would
have the advantage of surprise against the intruder. They would not be expecting resistance. He would shoot first. He would shoot to kill. The leader first, and the rest would scatter
like flies at the swat of a hand. But he
would not let them get far. He would
keep one alive for questioning, find out their motive, what motive they had for
attempting to abduct . . . her. His love. He did not know her name. It didn’t matter. They had tried to assassinate her and he had
saved her.
He
heard them right behind the door now. He
could not wait any longer. He fired three
times, putting three perfect holes in the door.
The shots echoed enormously.
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