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The Letters

By C. Kevin Thompson

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Chapter One

West 173rd Street
Washington Heights, NY

I slammed the car door shut and dropped my car keys onto the cold pavement. Shuffling the grocery bags from one hand to the other, I crouched in a pretzel-like fashion, trying not to keel over in my high heels.

Stupid keys.

Picking them up, my thigh muscles burned as I rose and fumbled for the one I needed, attempting not to crush the eggs or shatter the glass jars of spaghetti sauce clanking together in
revolt.

A stiff winter breeze battered my face as I trudged up the four blocks of sidewalk to the entrance of my five-story apartment building.

No bigger than a wide alley designed to look like a courtyard, the entrance led to eight fractured, concrete stairs, eroded by years of ice-melting salt in the winter, blistering heat in the
summer, and a million trudging feet.

The steps spread wide under two forty-year-old doors. Their glass panes, arranged in nine squares and each framed in wood, had a slightly melted, made-in-the-seventeenth-century look
about them.

Multi-colored Christmas lights, designed to be festive and joyous, stretched around the main entrance like an archway. Even they twinkled in a melancholy, exhausted manner. Every third light or so, burned out.
Definitely the entrance to the abode of paupers, not princesses.

I looked over my shoulder at the street.

You know, I could stumble and fall down these stairs. Bust my head wide open. Cracked eggs everywhere. Broken jars of spaghetti sauce adding to an already gruesome scene…

And would anyone care?

I lifted my face toward the sky. Little spits of icy rain raced past the spray of light from the lamppost and pelted my face and coat. The stiff breeze flowing down the street suddenly changed direction and chased me inside the courtyard, assaulting my senses with the smell of cigarettes.

A nameless, foreign-looking man I’d never seen before stood on the third-floor fire escape to my right, leaning over the railing. An occasional flick of his half-spent smoke sent ashes cascading down like snowflakes. His tattered wife-beater, low-riding jeans, and exposed boxer briefs, depicted a picture of self-imposed misery.

I glanced in his direction for a few, lingering seconds.

Just look at that dude. Isn’t he cold?

I turned away when our eyes met. Feeling a sudden vulnerability, I scooted up the steps and jammed the key into the lock.

Instead of offering to help, he’d probably rob me while I was on the ground, sprawled out, unconscious in a pool of Ragu.

I scurried inside, veered right into the mailroom, snatched my mail from its box, and hurried up the stairs.

Slipping through the front door of my apartment, I forced the door shut and locked it with a tad more fervor than usual.

I hate living here.

With my hand still on the dead bolt, I allowed my forehead to thump against the door casing as I tried to slow down my breathing.

“I hate living here! Did you hear me?” My lament echoed off the walls into a sea of silence.

I slogged to the kitchen with a sigh, tossing my keys, my purse, and the mail on the couch.

Opening the refrigerator door and depositing the eggs into their normal station, I noticed that except for last night’s paltry leftovers, a couple of beers, and a few condiments, the fridge was barren.

I stared into it, leaning on the door for support. Its contents a
ready commentary on my life.

Worthless.

Paltry.

Desolate.

I looked heavenward. “I can’t do this anymore.”

After changing into some sweats and grabbing a glass of water, I flopped down on the couch and thumbed through the mail. Junk mail got flipped to the floor. Bills got opened, examined, and remanded to the coffee table. Due dates were noted. How each one would be paid on time became the question of the hour.

It was then that an envelope, sandwiched between a department store flyer and an advertisement for a local pub, caught my eye. I plucked it from the stack and turned it back and forth, examining both sides. I held it up to the light.

Handwritten. Addressed to me. But no return address.

Then, I saw something inside.

Looks like a folded piece of paper.

I started to open it when my cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Girl, you sure are hard to reach.”

I smirked. “No, I’m not hard to reach. I’m just always at work. If I’m not at the bank, I’m at the restaurant. If I’m not at the restaurant, I’m at the bank. I have no life, Joanie.”

“You’re not the only one. I just picked up my third job today. That’s why I called you.”

“Third jo—” I couldn’t even complete my thought. All I could do was exhale.

“Where?”

“Goldman’s Gifts and Cards. In the mall. It’s just on Sundays and Mondays during the holidays.”

“What? Those are our only nights off.” I huffed. “See what I mean? You already work during the day at Manningham’s. Then you leave straight from there and tend bar. Now, you’re working our nights off too?” I hurled the remaining mail across the living room. “It’s hopeless.”

“Did something happen today? You seem more intense than usual.”

I forced out an exasperated sigh. “It ain’t just today. It’s every day. Look at us, Joanie. I’m thirty-five years old. You’re thirty-seven.”

“Yeah. Don’t remind me.”

“That’s my point.” I sat up and wiped my face. “We’re not getting any younger. Our rent is almost two thousand dollars a month. We have seven hundred square feet. That’s it. Seven hundred.” I stood and plodded over to the front window. “Your dad’s new place in Lincoln Park has a kitchen bigger than this apartment.” I pulled apart the front curtains. The dreary sky
matched my mood. “He’s got closets bigger than our bedrooms. And, on top of that, we live in this horrible part of the city. Why? Because that’s all we can afford.”

“Hey, speaking of working nights, aren’t you supposed to be at the restaurant tonight?”

Yeah…about that… “I called in.”

“Called in? What’s goin’ on? You never call in.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Listen, I’m taking you out. I don’t work at the bar tonight, some issue with the liquor license, so we’re gonna celebrate. And that’ll give us some time to chat.”

“Celebrate what?”

“My new job, for starters. That’ll be an extra hundred dollars a month we’ll be able to throw at a bill. Maybe more. And if I do a good job, they said they might keep me on after the New Year. So, we are gonna celebrate. And just maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll meet some guys, get drunk, who knows? What do ya say?”

I let the curtains fall back into place. “Woo. Hoo.”

“Well, okay, then. If you don’t want to come, that’s fine. I’ll invite Ginger and Lacey. I’m sure they’ll be happy to celebrate with me.”

I walked over to the couch and flopped onto my back. “You go ahead. I’ll just ruin it for everybody anyway.”

“Rachel, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I covered my eyes with my left arm.

“You’ve been depressed for a long time, Rach. You know it. I know it. And they say the holidays make it a lot worse. And like I keep saying, you really need to see someone. Somebody that can help you get through it.”

“With what? We just got the electric bill. It’s a hundred dollars higher than last month. So, good thing you got that extra job, I guess. But someday, we’re gonna run out of hours in the day and days of the week. And we don’t have the room for another roommate.”

Joanie didn’t respond right away. “Look, I’ve known you for over half your life, and we’ve been friends the entire time. That means I probably know you better than you know yourself. So, just spit it out. What’s really bothering you?”

I puffed out a grunt. “Everything.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

I stalled, stifling a tear. I don’t want to talk about it.

“Rachel? You still there?”

She’s not gonna give this up.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“I got laid off today. Okay?”

“From the bank?”

“Yes, from the bank. Restaurants don’t lay people off. They just keep cutting your hours until you quit.”

“Well, excuse me for caring.”

I pinched my eyes together, squeezing out a tear. “I’m sorry.”

“Is that why you called in tonight?”

“Yep.”

“Did the bank give you a reason why?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, pinning the phone against my shoulder. “They said they ‘hated to lose me,’ and ‘what a great employee I’ve been,’ and ‘if the economy was better,’ they would have kept me, and blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.”

“But why did they lay you off?”

“I really don’t know, but I’m supposedly getting a small severance package for being such a good employee.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“None of it does anymore.”

“They didn’t give you a reason?”

“All they said was they needed to cut back. They laid me and two others off. Said they’d give me good references, though.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, I guess.”

“Not really. It doesn’t matter if you’re a good employee anymore. Doesn’t do any good to try. Being good, doing the right thing, it’s all a joke.”

“Now, hold on, girl. Don’t be talkin’ like that. You know we’ll get through this. We always do. And anyway, Justin said he would help if we ever needed it.”

“Oh, wonderful. Ask your old boyfriend for money.” I laughed. “That’s a great idea.”

“What are old boyfriends for?”

“Nothing, Joanie. Absolutely nothing. That’s why we dump them.”

“Maybe for you, but for me? I always keep the lines of communication open.”

“You string them along?”

“No, I just call them from time to time, and when I ask, they come runnin’ with smiles on their faces and cash in their wallets.”

“That’s so not cool.”

“But it works.”

“So does robbing a bank.”

“Well, that would be dumb. Robbing a bank is illegal. But, using old boyfriends who have no sense? That’s what I call smart.”

I could envision Joanie tapping her temple as she spoke. She always thought she was “smart like that.” I sat up and twisted my frame, pulling my knees close. “Nobody on this planet calls using your old boyfriends smart. What they do call it is psychosis. We learned about it in Psychology 101, Professor Dietrich’s class. Remember? City College?”

“Oh, I remember. Worst two-and-a-half years of my life.”

I wiped my eyes with my shirtsleeve. “Look, I know you care about me, but I’ll be fine. I just need to be alone.”

Joanie paused again. “There’s more, isn’t there? It’s not just the bank job that’s got you all upset, is it?”

I sniffed. “It’s nothing that concerns you.”

I could hear shuffling in the background. The sound of keys jingling, doors opening, and little chiming bells filled my ear.

“Rach, you’re freakin’ me out a little.”

I inhaled deeply, but I couldn’t contain it anymore. I finally broke down and sobbed.

“Hey, I’m comin’ home. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Okay?”

I didn’t argue. “Okay.”

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