As Bright as Heaven(34)
My quiet companion is with me as always, but I sense indifference as Maggie and I walk nearer and nearer to our destination. It is a strange disinterest in my task that is both welcome and disconcerting. After all this time, I should know Death’s ways and wiles, shouldn’t I? But I can’t explain the apathy I’m sensing.
We turn into the long, narrow street by the barbershop. It is lined on both sides with brick-and-wood storefronts and row houses, three and four stories high, all of them tattered and in need of paint and window washing. There is presently a little alley off to our left as we make our way up the block, and I can see little dwellings even more dilapidated than the ones in front of us. And then there is another little alley, and more tumbledown residences, laundry lines linking them together like Christmas garland.
I find the narrow, multistory house of Mrs. Abramovic, and I knock on the door, hoping there is someone inside who will let me in, since she is sick with the flu and surely won’t be answering. The rheumy-eyed old man who responds to my knock coughs when he swings the door open. It could be an innocent attempt to rid his lungs of a scattering of dust, but there are no harmless coughs anymore. I instinctively take a step back and I turn to Maggie on the bottom step and hold up a finger.
“Don’t come into this one. Wait right here for me,” I say quietly.
I turn back to the man. “My name’s Mrs. Bright, from the Methodist church up the boulevard. And I’m here to see Mrs. Abramovic. I’ve some medicine and soup for her. May I come in?”
He says nothing and steps aside as he coughs again, this time into his collar. I tighten my mask around my nose and mouth and glance back at Maggie. She has moved away from the bottom step and is now eyeing a skinny striped cat strolling toward her.
“I’ll be out soon,” I call to her.
The foyer I step into is chilly even though it is a relatively warm day for October.
“That one,” the man says, pointing to a door with the letter B nailed to it. He unlocks it with a key from his pants pocket and then ambles away. I had assumed this man to be Mrs. Abramovic’s husband, but apparently he is just the landlord in the crumbling house. I knock on the door as I turn the knob.
“Mrs. Abramovic?” I push the door open as I peek inside. The front room is sparsely furnished and smells faintly of roasted onions, garlic, and spices I can’t name. Little bits of lace lie about on the end tables, and faded antimacassars hang on the backs of the sagging sofa and an armchair. A cracked window above a tiny sink lets in a welcome draft that is probably not so welcome on cold days. “Mrs. Abramovic?” I call again as I make my way down a narrow hall that leads to the only bedroom.
I find the woman in bed with a faded quilt pulled up tight to her chin. I can’t guess how old she is; her skin is so pale and drawn. She is perhaps my mother’s age, late fifties. She opens her eyes and looks at me with such terror I realize I must look like I mean to do her harm with my face covered the way it is.
“I’m Mrs. Bright from the Ladies’ Aid at Broad Street Methodist,” I say, in as reassuring a tone as I can muster. “Mrs. Arnold was here the other day? I’ve brought some soup for you.”
The woman stares at me blankly and I wonder how much of what I’ve said she understands. I approach the bed with my basket and lift out a jar of soup. It is still slightly warm. “Can you eat something?”
Her gaze shifts from me to the soup and she slowly nods. I don’t know if she is in the beginning stages of the illness or if she’s survived it and is now slowly making the trek back to the realm of the healthy. I hold my breath as I lean over her to help her to a sitting position against her pillows.
She is light as a feather and weak from illness. Perhaps I am meant only to leave the soup for her and go, but I wonder if she has the strength to even open the jar.
“How about if I help you eat a little? I have everything all right here,” I say, glad I don’t have to rummage through her tiny kitchen for a spoon. I ladle some of the soup into a small bowl from my basket.
I pull up a rickety chair next to her bed and take a seat, wondering what I should say as I help her eat. I still don’t know if she speaks any English. But conversation is not needed. Mrs. Abramovic is so weak she lies back against her pillows after only five spoonsful of soup.
“Can you not manage a couple more bites, Mrs. Abramovic?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “Thank you,” she murmurs, in heavily accented English. “You are very kind.”
“Is there no one to take care of you? No children or siblings?”
Again, she shakes her head. “My brother die last week. His wife, day before. Only me now.”
I help her take a couple aspirins and then settle her back against her pillows. I am sad to think of leaving her, but I can’t stay with Maggie waiting for me outside and three more names on the list.
“I will try to come again tomorrow, Mrs. Abramovic.” I rise from the chair and put my things away, except for the half-finished soup. I set the bowl on her bedside table next to a worn Bible and a pair of misshapen spectacles. “I’m leaving the soup here for you. You try to eat it later today, all right?”
“Your dish,” she says. It sounds like deesh. “Your spoon.”
“I can get them next time I come.” I pull up her coverlet. The woman is as helpless as a little child, and she looks up at me with eyes glistening with gratitude.