The morning clouds were breaking up, revealing enough blue sky that reminded me of the opening credits of The Simpsons. The light breeze that stirred Winnie’s hair made the air feel more like it came from the beach rather than the city.
As Winnie and I walked toward her apartment I resisted the urge to take her hand. She seemed vulnerable and wounded, even though it was me who got slugged in the face. I thought that my overture could be startling to her, and might also start something that I wasn’t sure I could finish. I had plenty of experience in writing checks, so to speak, that I couldn’t cash.
“Thank you for walking me home, Maxwell. But you can’t really do this everyday, you know. I’m sure that Alan will leave me alone now.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Alan appeared to be a man who didn’t give up easily and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him emerge again. At the same time, I knew that Winnie was right: Accompanying her on a daily basis was probably not sustainable.
“We’ll just do this for a while, Winnie,” I said, annunciating carefully so that I wouldn’t sound like an old boxer on cheap booze. After a few days, we can reassess the situation.”
Winnie’s apartment was on street level in an old three-story brownstone. As we approached the building the sound of a telephone ringing caused Winnie to hurry to the door and fish in her purse for her keys.
“Wait just a minute, Maxwell. It might be my mother.”
She found her keys and ran inside. I stayed on the sidewalk and watched the birds flit through the trees that lined the street, judiciously avoiding the places where they would most likely drop their poop. I once got nailed on the top of my head just as I was ready to get onto a bus. No one would sit by me.
I heard Winnie’s voice rise, and the thank-yous that she squealed as she ended the call suggested that it was good news about something. She appeared at her front door, her face lit up like the neon Budweizer sign that used to adorn my college dorm room.
“Maxwell, that was Mr. Taylor,” she said. “He gave me back my job, and said I would even get a pay raise. I can go there today!” She ran to me and threw her arms around my neck, hugging me tight. I hugged back, and liked it very much.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, stepping back. “I didn’t mean to be so forward. But I’m so excited! I need to change. Can you wait? Would you walk with me to the bus stop?”
I said that I would, and she disappeared inside to prepare for her renewed workday. I positioned myself in a non-poop area of the sidewalk and waited. It occurred to me that the vile habit of smoking would be handy in a situation like this. Instead, I watched the street to mine inspirations for next week’s column. It was a quiet neighborhood and didn’t offer much dramatic hope for a blocked writer.
My knowledge of Winnie had expanded rapidly in the course of a couple of hours. I learned where her apartment was located, that her job was in tact, that she had a mother, and that she was very nice to hug. I decided to ride with her to her office and obtain her phone number—two worthy goals for the day.
I hadn’t spoken to my own mother or father in a month or so. Maybe two. Or three. Thinking of Winnie anticipating a call from her mother caused me to add call parents to my list of things to do. They had plenty to occupy them in the retirement community in Tucson, but maybe they would remember their son when he called.
I wondered if my blossoming relationship with Winnie was a sign that I might be actually growing toward responsible adulthood. I was only in my mid-thirties, I had a reasonable job as a writer that paid my rent and left enough for food, I had two unfinished novels in my laptop, and the future looked . . . foggy.
Winnie’s phone rang again. It seemed funny to hear a real land-line telephone ringing on a kitchen wall, since I had long abandoned such old school technology for a cheap cell phone. I heard Winnie’s muffled voice as she picked up the phone. I figured it was her boss calling again, until I heard her cry out and drop the phone. I cast off my awkward sense of propriety and went inside.
The tiny kitchen was immediately to the right of the front door with a window that faced the street. Winnie had her back to the kitchen counter and was covering her face with her hands, stifling sobs. I went to her and put my hands on her shoulders.
“Winnie, what’s the matter?”
She pulled her hands away and looked up at me, tears dispersing her light mascara down her cheeks.
“It was my aunt, Maxwell. My mother had a heart attack. She’s dead.”
Winnie buried her face in my chest and wept. It still felt good to hold her, but in a different way. For a guy who earns his living as a wordsmith, I couldn’t find anything to say.
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