They were at it again. A thud, then a woman’s muffled voice, with a crescendo at the end of her sentence. She wasn’t going to be interrupted. She wasn’t going to hear excuses. More thuds. Like steps, but awkward. Less rhythmic. Then, silence.
Cindy looked up from her dinner toward the ceiling. Were the couple upstairs at their own table? Apartments were stacked on top of each other with identical floor plans. Cindy often showered at the same time as her downstairs neighbor. His tenor cut through the wood frame and rushing water. The lady at the apartment office had mentioned once that he was with the opera before he retired to a quiet life, giving private lessons to only a very select few students.
Cindy minded her own business, kept her balcony clean, and only ran loud appliances during the reasonable hours of 10 am to 4 pm. She considered herself a good neighbor. She wished the couple upstairs would return the favor.
The fights weren’t often, but when they happened they were real knock-down drag-outs. Doors slammed, rattling the china in Cindy’s cabinets. The brawls seemed to take place on the weekend, on Sundays of all days.
When Cindy left for work the next morning, the woman had stepped out of her door and was leaning over the railing. She wore a loose, sleeveless top, no bra, and thin short-shorts. She had her arms crossed in front of her, her hip poked out. Not exactly Venus de Milo. Cindy turned and walked toward her car in the parking lot.
The woman shouted down a demand. Cindy heard the man, just a few feet behind her, door to his own car cranked open, call “Yeah, yeah.” Irritated, defeated. He got in his jalopy and slammed the door. Cindy had no doubt that whatever the man had just agreed to, he would never follow through. She knew the kind.
Cindy started her car and drove to work. She didn’t look in the rearview.
She came home that evening with groceries for a stew. She set the ingredients on the counter - roast, celery, potatoes, carrots - then went to retrieve her slow cooker from the back of the lower cabinet. When she stood, a fly was making jerking steps on the bloodied plastic covering her center cut roast. Disgusted, Cindy slammed the cooker down on the counter. She brushed a few curls out of her face in a huff. She prided herself on keeping a clean, secure home. How had a fly gotten in? She’ll have to take a candle to the windows, find the hidden entry point.
Cindy counted herself lucky that the fly didn’t appear again to bother her while she was preparing her roast. Her mother’s recipe called for two unusual spices, the identity of which was kept under lock and key. The mouthwatering result was the envy of every cousin she knew.
Before bed, she tossed in the roast and the vegetables she’d diced earlier. She set the cooker on low, went to the bedroom and called her sister LeAnn.
LeAnn was a meddlesome sort, and she liked to hear the latest gossip. Cindy suspected her sister imagined herself living a life of high drama akin to the characters on one of the soap operas she liked to watch. A waste of time, if Cindy had ever heard one.
Of course LeAnn was totally engrossed in the rantings and ravings of Cindy’s upstairs neighbors. Cindy never had the “juicy details” LeAnn requested, but she gave her the gist and tried to work out at what point she should call the police.
Just before Cindy hung up for the evening, her sister said, “What I wouldn't give to be a fly on that wall.”
Cindy woke the next morning to the savory smell of roast. She smiled and stretched, then felt a tickle on her nose. When she raised her hand, the fly flew for its life, landed on the bedroom wall out of reach. Cindy rolled her eyes and sighed. What a pest. A single fly, capable of so much damage. E. coli. Cholera. Disease.
Cindy rose to go to the kitchen. She cut off the cooker, then looked under the sink for a spray. Formula 409. The hard stuff. But by the time she went back to the bedroom, the fly was gone.
She kept the spray bottle on hand, just in case. She even sat it at the table like a centerpiece when she cut into her roast.
The rest of the week was a rush of deadlines and deals at work. Cindy considered herself an astute negotiator, and her colleagues seemed to agree. She’d been taking on more responsibilities lately, coming home extra achy and tired.
In the evenings, she chose to forgo her usual phone call to LeAnn and sit down with a book instead. If LeAnn wanted to speak with her, she was just as able to pick up the phone. It didn’t always have to be Cindy reaching out.
Each night the fly crawled, sometimes noticed, sometimes not, along the upper third of the bedroom walls. It seemed to know just how far it would need to be to stay just out of Cindy’s reach, and that of the caustic spray.
What Cindy didn’t realize was that it wasn’t always the same fly. Like child twins, the fly - or, flies - traded out with one another, never appearing at the same time. In fact, there were dozens. More.
By the time Sunday had rolled around, Cindy was starting to wonder about her sister. Maybe dropping the nightly phone call without warning wasn’t the most kind idea. She resolved that if she didn’t hear from LeAnn by that evening, she would draw a truce to the cold war and call.
Cindy didn’t hear from her sister by that evening. She didn’t hear from anyone. The neighbors upstairs were silent. Unfortunately, Cindy had barely noticed the peace.
Peace taken for granted is peace interrupted. Just as Cindy was raising the phone to her ear, her eye caught the flashing of lights, blue and red, behind her blinds. She went and peaked through. A funny lump caught in her throat. She lowered the receiver and closed her eyes. She imagined the knock at her door, but the knock never came. When she opened her eyes, she realized she was shaking.
The flashing colors were still going at her window. She heard a thud upstairs. Not a thud, a crash. An explosion?
Curious now rather than worried, Cindy cracked the door to her apartment. She heard men’s voices, but couldn’t make out the words. The neighbor across from her stepped out of his apartment and shouted up at the men. One of them leaned over the railing to answer, and Cindy saw the patch on his arm. Police. Sheriff. They had knocked down the door.
Cindy stepped back inside her apartment to grab a shawl, then walked back out. More neighbors were gathering, their hands to their mouths, looking up.
The two ambulances that had arrived were useless. Eventually, the coroner showed, his thick mustache full of mentholated cream. Then down came the bodies, covered in sheets, carried carefully. Cindy gasped, thought she made out the curvature of breasts, the smaller figure.
As they passed, an odor. And a cloud of flies behind. Cindy covered her nose and mouth, ran back into her apartment, slammed the door.
Horrified, Cindy went once again to the phone. Surely LeAnn would take this seriously. She would offer comfort instead of pumping her for any awful details. Sobbing, Cindy for once needed her sister, instead of the other way around. She dialed the number. The line buzzed.
When the young man she'd been dating for two years applied for a scholarship to an out-of-state school, then got in the car with his packed bags, kissed his weeping mama and drove off to major in Economics without asking her to marry him first, Judy said, Fine.
She walked down to the pawn store to look at diamond rings. There were twelve. Several were three-stone, or trinity, as the shopkeeper explained. Those looked too extravagant. The few small marquise weren't her style, but there was one tiny, round stone ring that fit the bill. She bought it for fifty dollars and placed it on her finger. Sitting the neighborhood's screaming, teething children 3-4 evenings every week since she'd turned 12 had earned her that, at least.
She went to the grocery store and unzipped her wallet with her left hand. She filed through the bills there carefully, her fingers crawling like a drugged centipede. She pushed back her hair with her left hand when the wind blew at the bus stop. She tucked her hair behind her ear, letting her ring finger linger at her lobe.
She took a job at the five and dime as a cashier, where customers were treated to flashes of brightly manicured nails, a hypnotizing effect as her fingers flitted over the register's keys. One old woman complained of the immodesty: red color is for whores. Judy went out and bought a gold band.
Men tipped their hats lower, longer. Young girls gave deference. There was an embarrassment at the bank when she presented a check and gave her own name to open the account.
Eventually, the shine did wear off. Judy appeared at the pawn store again. This time, one of the trinity rings. At work, she received congratulations. Oh, how sweet! For your anniversary? I wish I were so lucky.
The trouble and the luck was that no one really cared enough about Judy to ask about her husband, or invite the couple over for dinner. Judy was one of those people others seemed happy to let remain unknown.
Aging didn't bother Judy very much. There was no shift for her, no loss. Other women panicked. That's when they noticed Judy, and came to her for advice. She seemed smart, happy, careless. For the first time in her life, Judy was able to play coy.
She settled into the role of mysterious sage. It was assumed that her husband died. Widowers flirted with her at the five and dime. A bouncy, bright-toothed reporter from the local station came to do a human interest piece on the "bejeweled" cashier who had worked at the same shop for over 30 years. Apparently, she was an attraction for small children who begged their parents to bring them in to see "the lady with all the rings." Judy kept looking down at the huge foam microphone held in front of her during the interview. On television, she looked like she was crossing her eyes. The pawn shop owner refused to comment for the story, or even confirm that Judy was among his regular clientele.
One haggard mother was interviewed outside the shop who said that when she brought her daughter in crying after a difficult dentist appointment, Judy took off an emerald and handed it to her, just to make her feel better.
Judy was generous, and trusted to be honest. It got to the point that, if someone lost, or sold, a valuable ring, and wanted to see if they could get it back, it was a toss up whether they would check with the pawn shop or Judy first.
Judy would stand at the door, smile, then disappear inside, leaving the visitor to wait on the stoop. You stood a 50/50 chance. If luck was in your favor, she would return with your ring, and ask nothing as payment. Not even the amount she gave for it.
Late in life, when her generosity accelerated to the point that she was known to strip an entire finger bare on a whim and drop it into a stranger's hand, or the collection plate at church, people around her would look at each other and shake their heads. She was a lunatic, or lonely.
Pity, either way.
It wasn't until after she passed away - peacefully, and in her sleep - that an attorney discovered among her possessions many lost items, including the class ring of a local veterinarian who often drove drunk, a known philanderer's military signet, and a ruby from a woman who repeatedly undertipped waitresses. There were dozens. All had been reported, and everyone claimed to have knocked on Judy's door. The thief in her grave, there was no explanation other than luck and punctilious piety. These qualities are often overlooked in light of a pickpocket's flashy fingers.
Mrs. Whitmire wore a cardigan for their walk together that evening. It was her favorite, and she wondered if Mr. Whitmire liked it, but he didn’t say one way or the other. Instead, Mr. Whitmire brought up his favorite topic of conversation: finances.
The Whitmires lived in the most modest house on a street of decidedly immodest houses. Luxury was flaunted in every way possible: extravagant architecture, shiny cars, exotic and intricate landscaping. Mr. and Mrs. Whitmire had lucked up on purchasing their way into the neighborhood, but just barely. “A steal,” Mr. Whitmire repeated, at random intervals, for the first six months of their occupancy.
The house may have been a theft of fortune, but everything else was at cost. Mrs. Whitmire struggled to find her way with the neighbors. They were lithe, competent, ambitious. She was older, quieter, plain. She liked it that way. She felt no need to run two miles when walking one would do.
In fact, while Mr. Whitmire stomped beside her, crackling twigs under his feet, Mrs. Whitmire began to notice how her ankles ached, and her calves already burned. They hadn’t even climbed the first hill yet.
She was considering whether she should speak up and cut the walk short when something caught her eye. In the shadow of dusk, feathers. White belly. Descending.
Slow. Ground.
“Robert, is that a hawk?”
Mrs. Whitmire made the mistake of asking a question to hide a command: Look! Look at that! Mr. Whitmire had warned her to work on her confidence, to be more assertive, especially over the phone, with customer service. But truth be told, Mrs. Whitmire preferred her shy, roundabout ways.
Ask a question and you get an answer, however. Especially of Mr. Whitmire.
In the dimness, Mr. Whitmire said to his wife, “It’s a cat.”
Maybe it was the quick dark of the oncoming night, or the warmth of the cardigan, but Mrs. Whitmire felt something strange to her. She felt sure. Her mind clicked smoothly.
She answered, “I watched it fly down from the sky.”
The triumph of this statement cannot be overestimated.
Mr. Whitmire was silent. He was no longer interested in the animal if it wouldn’t be a cat. Mr. Whitmire was annoyed by things that weren’t as he said they were.
Mrs. Whitmire, however, was fascinated. Her pupils expanded as if she were prey, her survival dependent on assessing the size and shape of all around her. Finally, she decided the bird was an owl. The body was too small, and the head too large, for a hawk. A calm, feathered professor, perched high and quiet on a thick limb, rather than shrieking, darting sharpness.
Mrs. Whitmire declared her determination to her husband. Mr. Whitmire jerked the leash as their large mutt, Maximus, yearned toward a stalk of hyssop, his snout quivering.
They walked on, Maximus sufficiently heeled, Mr. Whitmire back to the topic of interest rates, and Mrs. Whitmire mulling her secret enchantment.
They had gone half a block when Mrs. Whitmire heard the frothy beat of feathers a few feet above their heads. She looked up, but saw only branches, black against periwinkle. A few more steps forward, and she felt a rush of air against her skin. More ghost than animal, but there was a beating heart to it. The threat of substance. Mrs. Whitmire felt the horripilation of a weak beast in an open field, under attack.
She was about to call out to her husband when suddenly he was lifted from the ground, dropping the leash he’d yanked. As he rose, his little pink paws searched the air, and his tail curled weakly.
Mr. Whitmire was a mouse of a man.
As the owl’s wings expanded, Mrs. Whitmire studied. She marveled at the soft white of their undersides. Mr. Whitmire let out furious, frantic squeaks of terror, but they faded to a pinprick of sound, swallowed up by the owl’s swooping ascension within the troposphere.
Any that are safe, tame and fed may feign the repose of Buddhists. Maximus stood at Mrs. Whitmire’s side, no more alert than he would be watching a squirrel in a distant yard. Mrs. Whitmire bent and claimed the loop of his leash. The owl, and her husband, were gone.
First, scent was restored to her. Or, remembered. Or, noticed. There was a fire burning three houses down. Early leaves. Somehow she heard the neighbor’s rake, a talon gently scraping and gathering. Mrs. Whitmire closed her eyes. She imagined, she re-imaged, all that was around her, in the dark. She let herself float in a sea of unseen creatures. Peace with them. Peace with herself. All animal.
Mrs. Whitmire walked on. Maximus trotted easily alongside her. When he stopped, Mrs. Whitmire stopped, too. She closed her eyes or kept them open. She focused on one sense, then another. Life. Miracle. Gratitude.
Rounding a corner, she heard a rustle in the brush to the side of the walkway. The rustle took on a start-stop pattern. Footsteps, searching. Hesitant.
Mrs. Whitmire waited. Maximus laid himself back on his haunches.
Out from the brush, Mr. Whitmire burst forth, his mouth open to a deep breath of air. His knees were skinned. He held one arm close, lame. His thin hair was sweaty, and mussed. He reached for the leash with his good arm, but Mrs. Whitmire held it back.
They were understood. Mr. Whitmire took his place alongside his wife and, after lifting his glasses and pinching his nose bridge, took a look around as if gazing up from a profound map. He noted the hour to Mrs. Whitmire, and the pace of the night. He asked if she would like to return home.
Mrs. Whitmire, refreshed, replied, “Yes, Robert, if that is what you would like.”
Bonus: Listen to this...