The Woman in the Window(15)

thedoctorisin: I’m Anna.





As I prepare to log out, a last message pings on my screen.

GrannyLizzie: Thank you, Anna.

GrannyLizzie has left the chat.





I feel my veins rushing. I’ve helped someone. I’ve connected. Only connect. Where have I heard that?

I deserve a drink.





14


Tripping down to the kitchen, I roll my head against my shoulders, hear the crackle of my bones. Something catches my eye overhead: In the dim recesses of the ceiling, at the very top of the stairwell three stories up, there’s a dark stain glaring at me—from the trapdoor of the roof, I think, right beside the skylight.

I knock on David’s door. It opens a moment later; he’s barefoot, in a wilted T-shirt and slouched jeans. I just woke him up, I see. “Sorry,” I say. “Were you in bed?”

“No.”

He was. “Could you look at something for me? I think I saw water damage on the ceiling.”

We head up to the top floor, past the study, past my bedroom, to the landing between Olivia’s room and the second spare.

“Big skylight,” David says.

I can’t tell if that’s a compliment. “It’s original,” I say, just to say something.

“Oval.”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t seen too many like that.”

“Oval?”

But the exchange is over. He eyes the stain.

“That’s mildew,” he says, hushed, like a doctor gently breaking news to a patient.

“Can we just brush it off?”

“Not going to fix it.”

“What will?”

He sighs. “First I need to check out the roof.” He reaches for the trapdoor chain and tugs. The door judders open; a ladder slides toward us, screeching; sunshine bolts in. I step to one side, away from the light. Perhaps I am a vampire after all.

David drags the ladder down until it bumps against the floor. I watch him as he mounts the steps, his jeans taut against his rear; then he disappears.

“See anything?” I call.

No response.

“David?”

I hear a clang. A plume of water, mirror-bright in the sunlight, pours onto the landing. I draw back. “Sorry,” David says. “Watering can.”

“It’s fine. Do you see anything?”

A pause, then David’s voice again, almost reverent. “It’s a jungle up here.”

It was Ed’s idea, four years ago, after my mother died. “You need a project,” he decided; so we set about converting the rooftop into a garden—flower beds, a vegetable patch, a row of miniature boxwoods. And the central feature, what that broker called the pièce de résistance: an arched trellis, six feet wide and twelve long, thick with leaves in spring and summer, a shady tunnel. When my father had his stroke later on, Ed placed a memorial bench within it. Ad astra per aspera, read the inscription. Through adversity to the stars. I’d sit there on spring and summer evenings, in the gold-green light, reading a book, sipping a glass.

I’ve scarcely thought of the roof garden lately. It must be wild.

“It’s totally overgrown,” David confirms. “It’s like a forest.”

I wish he’d come down.

“Some kind of trellis over there?” he asks. “Tarp covering it?”

We’d sheathe it in its tarp every autumn. I say nothing; I just remember.

“You should be careful up here. Don’t want to step on this skylight.”

“I’m not planning on going up there,” I remind him.

The glass rattles as his foot taps it. “Flimsy. Branch falls on that, it’s gonna take out the whole window.” Another moment passes. “It’s pretty incredible. Want me to take a picture?”

“No. Thanks. What do we do about the damp?”

One foot drops to the ladder, then the other as he descends. “We need a pro.” He arrives at the floor, slots the ladder into place. “To seal the roof. But I can use a paint scraper to get rid of the mildew.” He folds the trapdoor back into the ceiling. “Sand down the area. Then put on some stain block and some emulsion paint.”

“Do you have all that?”

“I’ll get the block and the paint. It’d help if we could ventilate in here.”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

“Open some windows. Doesn’t have to be on this floor.”

“I don’t open windows. Anywhere.”

He shrugs. “It’d help.”

I turn to the stairs. He follows me. We go down in silence.

“Thank you for cleaning up the mess outside,” I say, mostly to say something, once we’re in the kitchen.

“Who did that?”

“Some kids.”

“Do you know who?”

“No.” I pause. “Why? Could you rough them up for me?”

He blinks. I press on.

“You’re still comfortable downstairs, I hope?” He’s been here two months, ever since Dr. Fielding suggested that a tenant would be useful: someone to run errands, dispose of the trash, assist with general upkeep, et cetera, all in exchange for reduced rent. David was the first to answer my ad, posted on Craigslist; I remember thinking his email was terse, even curt, until I met the man and realized he’d been downright chatty. Just relocated from Boston, experienced handyman, nonsmoker, $7,000 in the bank. We agreed on a lease that afternoon.