Apartment Seven (6 page)

Two dark, dirty staircases and an equally unpleasant hallway later, I stood knocking at the apartment door. It opened almost immediately, as if the person inside had been expecting me.

The drawn face of a man with thinning hair and a closely cropped beard peeked out at me. Alan was only a few years older than me, which put him somewhere in his early fifties, so it didn’t seem possible he could’ve aged to such a degree in just over three years. But he had. The lines in his face were much deeper, the bags under his eyes much blacker, and he’d lost quite a bit of hair since I’d last seen him. But his devilish smile hadn’t changed a bit.

“Well, look what we have here,” he said in a gentle voice I remembered fondly. “The Ghost of Christmas Past, I presume?”

“Afraid not,” I said. “But I think I may be on the run from him.”

“Aren’t we all?”

I couldn’t help but smile a little too.

“Charlie Cerrone,” he said, as if speaking my name might make me real. The door opened wide, and he reached out, placed a hand on my shoulder and guided me toward him. We hugged. There was less of him now, his body more fragile than before, and he smelled vaguely of pleasant cologne. “My God,” he whispered, “it’s so good to see you.”

“You too.”

We released each other, and Alan ushered me in. The apartment was similar to what I remembered but it no longer looked as lived in. He and Gary had been something of an odd couple, in that Gary tended to be a bit of a slob and Alan was always the neat and organized sort. Though funds were never in abundance Alan always decorated with an understated, classic style that made the small space warm, vibrant and inviting, and he kept a clean, tidy home. But the apartment had become so orderly and maniacally clean that it possessed the lifeless, antiseptic feel of a museum. The only thing wildly out of place was his tiny tabletop Christmas tree. Though pretty, it had seen better days, and looked like something he’d found in a Dumpster.

“I’m sorry to come by after all this time without calling first,” I said.

“Don’t be silly, what a wonderful surprise.” He motioned for my coat.

I pulled my knit hat off, stuffed it into my pocket then slipped out of my pea coat and handed it over. Alan hung it on a freestanding rack just inside the door. “I just put water on for hot chocolate—I know, how Donna Reed of me—would you like some? Or I can make tea or coffee. Unless this is a vodka visit, in which case I can break out a bottle.”

“Anything warm, thanks.”

He stepped closer, crossed his arms over his chest. Alan had always been thin, but the weight he’d lost in the last few years left him looking frail and spindly. His tired eyes searched mine and I could tell he was surprised at the changes in me as well. Rather cautiously, he asked, “How’s Jen?”

I stood there like a moron, unsure of what to say.

He brought a hand to his mouth. “Please tell me she’s all right.”

“Yes, it’s nothing like that, she’s—well—we’ve split up.”

He seemed relieved, upset and shocked all at once. “Oh, not you guys.”

I nodded.

Alan pointed to a nearby couch. “Sit.”

I did and he took up position on the edge of a comfortable chair across from me. Outside, the wind howled, as if to remind me I couldn’t stay and hide here forever. Sooner or later I’d be out there again at the mercy of night and those things that moved within its shadows.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Never mind me. Are
you
all right?”

I thought a moment before answering. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Fair enough.” He nervously straightened a stack of already straightened magazines on the immaculate smoked glass coffee table between us.

I gave him a condensed version of what had taken place. Surprised and saddened, he remained quiet for some time. Finally, he said, “I’m so sorry. But Jenna was always crazy about you. She’s made a terrible mistake, that’s all. She’ll see that eventually.” He scratched delicately at his beard and sighed. “Why do we hurt each other so?”

“Why not? The whole goddamn world’s burning down.”

“Try not to be so cheery, would you?” Just then the teakettle whistle emanated from the kitchen. Alan rose from his chair and headed toward it. “Back in a jiff.”

Alone in the room, all my old memories of this place came rushing back. Jenna and I had spent countless hours here, and Alan and Gary had hosted some epic parties back then. For years we had movie night, where we’d all get together, have dinner and drinks then settle in with a huge bowl of communal popcorn and watch a classic film. Other nights we’d play cards or board games or head out to one of the local theaters for a movie or a play. But the nights we stayed in were my favorite. Alan and Gary were only a few years older than we were but we were all so young then, just starting to find our way. I noticed a framed reproduction of the cover of Alan’s first published novel hanging on the wall, and remembered when it had been accepted. He’d been so happy and Gary had been so proud of him. We’d all gone out to dinner to celebrate. I assumed Alan was still writing full-time, but fondly recalled the days when he worked a day job and wrote when he could, often pounding away furiously on his old typewriter late into the night. In the years since, Alan had sold several novels, and while he’d never achieved best-seller status, he did earn a decent living. Even so, he continued to live in this neighborhood when he clearly no longer needed to. Jenna had once asked him why, and he’d told her this was his home, had been his and Gary’s home, and he saw no reason to abandon it simply because he could. “It helps me remember,” he’d said. “And I need that, I need to remember.” I hadn’t understood then, but now I knew exactly what he’d meant.

It was nice and warm in the apartment. My chill had nearly left me and my hands were no longer quite so red and sore. Feeling a bit better, I stood up and strode across the room to a bookcase on the far wall. On the middle shelf, a framed photograph of Alan and Gary sat center stage amidst several others, including a shot of Jenna and me. I picked up the photograph of our old friends. Taken during a get-together at our apartment across the hall, they were laughing, dancing cheek-to-cheek and mugging for the camera. They were so young, so invincible. We all were. I felt myself smile. I not only remembered the day the photo was snapped, I was the one who had taken it. Looking into Gary’s eyes, I tried to remember his voice, tried to remember him exactly as he was in the photograph—witty and smart and kind—rather than as he’d become once he’d fallen so deathly ill.

“What are you doing?”

I looked back over my shoulder to find Alan standing next to the couch holding two mugs of hot chocolate. “Remembering,” I said.

“That’s my favorite picture of us.”

“I miss those days. I miss you guys.”

“So do I.”

“I’m sorry we lost touch.” I returned the photograph to the shelf. “Truly.”

“Don’t be. It’s no one’s fault.”

“I feel like we abandoned you when you needed us most.”

“I asked to be abandoned. Remember?”

I joined him by the couch. He handed me a mug and this time we sat side-by-side. I took a sip and embraced the warmth as it spread through me. “I’ll ask again. How are you?”

“Still taking it one minute, one hour, one day at a time.” He drank some coco. “As you can see, I still clean. A lot.”

“Are you still writing?” I asked.

He crossed his legs and looked at the floor. “It amazes me how people feel compelled to ask writers that question. Do they ask plumbers if they’re still plumbing, teachers if they’re still teaching, or salespeople if they’re still selling? Has anyone ever asked you if you’re still an accountant? Writing is, after all, what I do. It’s my chosen profession, has been for years. Yet people still ask me that question all the time, as if they’re asking if I still enjoy a hobby, like the occasional game of tennis. Just once I’d like to say, ‘yes, I’m still writing, are you still doing your job?’ Instead, I usually just smile, nod and suggest they find something shiny to play with.”

“You’re right, it’s a moronic thing to ask. Of course you’re still writing, I—”

“No, I—Christ—I’m sorry, that was rude of me.” Grimacing with remorse, he reached over and quickly patted my hand. “You didn’t deserve that. Living like a hermit has its advantages, but keeping one’s social skills honed clearly isn’t one of them. I’m an absolutely insufferable bitch. Forgive me.”

“Done,” I said, feigning humor but still flushed with embarrassment.

Alan put his mug on the coffee table and sat back as silence fell over the room for what seemed forever. “Have you guys considered professional help?” he finally asked.

“She’s seeing two different guys, and now she frequents this strange building and…” I lost my voice and couldn’t seem to get it back.

“Do you know who these other men are?”

“I have names and addresses, that’s about it.”

“Will she talk to you about any of this?”

“She kept lying the night I caught her, and tried to convince me to stay. Since then I haven’t heard a word. I haven’t been to work in a long time, so I’m sure I no longer have a job to go to. I’ve been staying in motels and rooming houses, living like some vampire, asleep during the day and roaming the city at night. I left her and haven’t looked back.”

After a few sips of hot chocolate he said, “Do you want my advice?”

I nodded.

“Look back. Look back long and hard as you can, no matter how frightening it may be.” His eyes grew moist. “Kafka once said, ‘
my fear is my substance, and probably the best part of me
.’ And I think he was right. It is the best part of us, if only we can embrace it as such. Don’t spend the rest of your life asleep, Charlie, drowning in nightmares of regret. If we find one person in this god-awful life, one special human being who makes us laugh, who makes us feel alive and loved and complete, they’re worth everything we have to go through, good and bad. They’re worth it to us, and we’re worth it to them. I’d give anything…
anything
…for even five more minutes with Gary. You’re deeply wounded right now, as you should be. Jenna’s done wrong, but she’s hurting too. Have you been perfect? Haven’t you made bad decisions too? Find her, get to the bottom of whatever this is that’s haunting her, and do whatever you have to do to fix it, to help her fix it, before it’s too late.”

I finished my coco and placed the mug on the coffee table. “When I was a boy, I had a cat that I was very close to. Sounds pathetic, I know, but I was a lonely kid and that cat was my best friend. He followed me everywhere. If I went out to play, so did he. Every day when I got home from school he’d be waiting at the bus stop for me. If I went to bed, he did too, slept curled up next to me every night. As the years came and went the cat got old and his health started to fail. One day, when I came home from school, he wasn’t waiting for me like he always was. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find a trace of him. A few days later there was a terrible smell coming from under the porch. My father crawled under there and found my cat’s body. He’d gone under there to die. Why not in my arms? Why down there, all alone? I buried him in the backyard. Next day, I crawled under the porch to try and see why he’d chosen such a place to die. Once I was under there, in the cool dirt, I understood. I was alone. Really, truly, completely alone, just as he’d been. Just like we’d both been right before our births, just as we’d both be at the time of our deaths. I was alone down there, and then I was no more. I closed my eyes and pretended I’d died too. And I understood. No one had to see me go. In fact, it was better that they hadn’t. I was just gone.” I looked at Alan. His eyes were still filled with tears. “That’s how it feels now. Like it’s already done, already gone away while no one was looking. Like she’s already taken my life from me and I’ll never get it back.”

“What’s worse?” he asked. “Taking someone’s life, or taking their soul?”

I stood up, drifted over to the window and looked out at the street. I didn’t want him to see that there were tears in my eyes too.

Down on the street, a haggard woman stood at the corner. A car pulled up and she leaned over, had a quick exchange with the driver then hopped in. Had I not known better, I would’ve sworn it was Jenna.

“Charlie,” he said from behind me. “I’m under that porch. I’ve been down there for some time now and I just won’t die, so I’m trying to find my way back out. Don’t come down here with me if you don’t have to. You don’t want the cool dirt, not when there’s even a chance at still having the sun. Go home.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“No, you wanted to see the old Alan. The Alan I used to be, in the hopes that maybe you could find the person you used to be, the Jenna she used to be. But it doesn’t work that way. I wish it did but it doesn’t. Those days are gone. All that’s left are the days to come. One or one thousand, they’re all we have.”

Down on the street the wind was growing angrier, blowing city debris about as somewhere beyond my scope of vision what sounded like a large sign of some kind banged against a wall. “Are you sick, Alan? Are you dying?”

“We’re all dying.”

Something moved in the shadows across the street, stepping up and almost to the reach of the streetlight before darting back into the safety of darkness. “You know what I mean.”