Proxy
Re:Fiction, September 2019 Writing Contest, Honorable Mention
Proxy
She’s probably about twenty. Stein scratched his chin, relieved to see the woman outside his window pull out a book and not a phone from her backpack as she settled on a bench in the park across the street. His head ached from holding things in. Distracted by the jangle of keys, he heard one of his tenants entering the decrepit building, trudging up the dark stairwell.
The Stein’s shop window remained empty; he hadn’t sold jewelry in years. His mother’s ghost appeared before him, standing as she used to before his father, in this very office. Then, the business thrived; the building, their home, glistened, smelled of cooking onions.
Harry, that can wait. Come to the table. His father emerged and faded as Stein’s
mind wandered back to his last conversation with Sylvie, just on Wednesday.
Busy? He jibed at her, purposely sarcastic, pretending to fix a pipe and passively criticize Sylvie for her horrific apartment packed with stacks of newspapers, books, piles of clothes. Checking on her.
What do you care? She sniffed, shoving twisted fingers deep inside pockets in her stained pink robe.
Stein remembered a different Sylvie, young, and, at least to him, pretty. Back then, her apartment shone, neat as a pin. Her hair fell in brown curls to her shoulders. Stein sometimes asked her out for a drink, a show, a cup of coffee.
Gerry, you will not believe this.
Her South Philly accent. Touching his arm and laughing. She could do impressions of anyone she met, twisting her face into an old man’s grimace or sour Mrs. Sherwin who owned the dry cleaner around the corner.
There were other tenants, of course. People on the fringe. His rent was cheap. It had to be. The place deteriorated to dump status. He barely knew who lived there. They were all just monthly checks, hunched shoulders carrying paper bags scurrying in and out. But he put Sylvie in a different category. For one, she was his longest tenant; for another, she hadn’t paid rent in years; for another, he loved her.
He’s after me. He’s been chasing me for blocks, Gerry. We need to call the cops.
But Stein also hated the newer Sylvie. His face reddened thinking of how she often answered the door naked. She wasn’t funny anymore, no more stories.
Sylvie! Back! He screamed at her when she wandered out in the hall, half dressed, screaming herself.
You get back! She shouted at him like a stranger.
Sometimes her door wouldn’t open because of all the newspapers. He’d have to push with all his might to move it. The couch and bed and table were all hidden under piles of junk. The refrigerator door opened to a persistent science experiment, full of moldy blobs. And that smell that permeated the place. He knew Sylvie couldn’t clean herself anymore.
Oh Gerry, I’ll miss you when I am gone. That last time. He didn’t know if she was being mean or not.
Where are you going? That’ll be something. How’d we get you out of here?
Heavy with Sylvie’s absence, he observed the woman in the park. She bit her fingernails as she read.
Doctors. You’re prolonging the inevitable. She’s not even breathing well on the ventilator.
Stein stood stiffly and reached for his wrinkly trench coat on the hook behind his office door. He crossed the street and approached the young woman, wondering what he would say. She looked up with a start; annoyance darkened her face. Stein felt worse for a second, desperate, fearful she would run away.
“Can you help me?” he said. The woman moved one hand on her backpack. “My Sylvie. She’s in the hospital on life support,” embarrassed, relieved, he began to speak, at last, “I don’t want to kill her.”
The woman swallowed. “Oh. I’m…”
At the sound of her voice, Stein broke down, hacking and slobbering. The woman put an arm around the old man, stiffly at first, then more softly. Minutes later, she pulled away, and stood. Stein walked slowly beside her in silence, relieved.
