The Reluctant "I" Exercise

It was late. Fading fast to sleep, a noise jerked me out of slumber and to the window. A woman’s screams permeated the cool night air. Her hair was frazzled and unkempt – blood dotted her forearms. Her light blue summer dress hung from her body in casual disarray. The scream echoed in the silent evening.

Only her backside was visible, but the scream was so chilling that her unseen eyes pierced my vision. Frail, frozen. Terrified.

She was watching her house burn down.

Flames curled around the apartment complex across the street as the acrid smell of smoke reached the parched cobalt sky. An ugly brick building, it was an embarrassment to the community. A cracked slab made for an unstable foundation and an almost constant influx of ants and cockroaches. The tilted foundation contributed to leaks in the roof, and completely split open floors, where the tile had just branched off to create its own pattern. To enter the apartment was to encounter a spiderweb’s dreamland, thousands of splits and splinters in the arches of the roof. The tenants often complained to the realtor, but the expense to fix the foundation numbered in the millions. Better to leave the tenants to rot than to close down the complex for years of repairs.

Mrs. Matheson had no children, no husband or lover. The Mrs was merely incidental – no one knew her well enough to call her anything else. As a sign of respect, it was a pretty pathetic attempt, but it was all that was offered. She was 52 years old, black as coal, poor as dirt, and neighborhood gossip had it down cold that she was a lesbian. Her clothes were obviously mended, her hair was unpermed. Most days she wrapped her hair in a bandana, while she sat outside in a surprisingly elegant rocking chair, sipping black coffee and reading the bible. We exchanged greetings on the way to work, but a stark hello was my only answer. Her eyes followed me in the mornings – her loneliness scratched at my conscience. Those yearnings were ignored.

Too busy to see anything beyond my own life, scraping by to carve out troubles which always seemed so important. Nothing else mattered but to tend to a life hardly worth living.

She had only moved to the block a year ago, carrying her most prized possession, a black labrador named Jessie, in her arms. Into the neighborhood with one suitcase and an empty birdcage, for birds from decades past. Perhaps a white dove, or perhaps just a facsimile of a bird, a stuffed bluejay purchased for five dollars at a novelty shop. Jessie was friendly and licked every person she met, but her eyes were haunted.

The landlord didn’t usually allow pets, but he took one look at her weathered physique and let her in without comment. Everyone gathered to watch her enter the apartment, bringing by welcome to the neighborhood cakes and pastries just to get a look at the new meat.

She didn’t disappoint. She was caring and friendly to everyone who visited, and very appreciative of the food. She particularly enjoyed the pecan baked by a friendly neighbor who never bothered to visit after that. Wrapped up in her own troubles, she just went about her business as usual. Yeah, you know who I’m talking about.
As the flames raged, her screams faded to disbelieving gasps. The knowledge hit, a thunderbolt booming through the brain. Jessie was dead.

Shocked into movement by the relevation, went downstairs to comfort the neighbor.
Stumbling down the stairs, screaming fire at every opportunity, finally there. Hand on her shoulder, and spoke softly, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

“Mrs. Matheson?”

She turned to face me, and her eyes were as feared, beautifully destroyed.

“Gracie,” she murmured, as she crumbled into my arms. “Oh, Gracie.”

What a pickle. Doing nothing now seemed a horrible thing. Hugged her, tried to grab the loose material of her gown in a comforting gesture.

It was bullshit.

She felt that immediately, and pulled away to look at the eyes.

“It’s over,” she murmured. “It’s all over. You can go home now. I can take care of this.”

“But I can help you.” An empty protest – we both knew it.

“Just go. You can call the cops if you like.”

Let go of her dress, tried to swallow my pride.

“All right, Mrs. Matheson. I’m going to call the cops. Then I’m coming back. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Made my grateful escape, sailed back into my apartment to notify the authorities.

What was that? Did she say something?

The whisper of a phrase tickled the ear, but it was easily ignored. Went back inside.

“I’m always alone.”