Patients keep their stays in the clinic as short as possible. The people of Washington Heights have many secrets. They don't like all of the questions the medical staff asks. It's a shame that they think that even us could be out to harm them. Many just don't understand that those specific questions are necessary for thorough diagnosis and understanding of why he or she ended up at the clinic. Those prying questions are important, because we treat the physical injuries as well as the mental.
Unfortunately early this morning one of my patients, Mr. Jefferson, came by for treatment for some major bruises and cuts that needed stitches. I asked him a few questions such as if he had a home, any insurance, and a way to contact him. He answered those questions without difficulty, but when I asked him how he got them he didn't answer. I tried explaining to him how important that information was. I left the room to give him his space, but when I returned to clean and stitch up his cuts Mr. Jefferson was nowhere to be found. "Hmmmm...what a shame. Another one gone."
People in this town have to deal with so much. They have to be cautious about their every move, whether it's what route to take to get home safely or even what clothes to wear to avoid getting shot or robbed. In Washington Heights too much crime happens and too little is done about it. The people have no other choice but to look out for themselves, nobody else will.
My own personal experience in Washington Heights has definitely helped me in more ways than one, but even though I'm a beneficiary of it, I still cannot and will not stay much longer. Mark and I have really done some thinking about where we want to be in the future, and we concluded that staying in this dump will not help us get there. We're moving away to the same town, maybe even living together, so we can get on the right track.
RING!!... RING!! The phone on my desk echoed throughout my office.
I answered, "Hello?"
"Dr. Evans?"
"This is she. How can I help you?"
" Hi, this is your real estate agent, Mrs. Johnston. I wanted to call you to
notify you and Mark that I have found two affordable apartments that match your
descriptions."
"Well this is wonderful news." I tried to hide my excitment. I almost
screamed. "Thankyou so very much Mrs. Johnston, Mark and I will look into it."
"Thankyou, Ms. Evans I'll email the pics to you tonight"
"That would be great, I'll talk to you later."
I hung up the phone probably with the biggest smile on my face. I called Mark and let him know the news. He was more animated than me if you can believe it. It was six o'clock. Almost time for me to go home. I reviewed all my paper work and checked up on every patient before I prepared to pack up and go. Today was a quieter day than usual and it was nice being able to get out on time for the first time in a while. I couldn't get my the news Mrs. Johnston divulged to me off my mind...Well that and of course Mark himself. He makes me so happy just thinking about him. He's my angel, the answer to my prayers.
"Well, I'm about to leave now. Is there anything else anybody needs before I do
so?"
The only response I recieved was a shaking of heads. I smiled, grabbed my breifcase, put on my goat, and started my journey out the door and made my way down the streets of the town. As I was on my trek home, Mark called...
"Hey sweetie, what's up?" He said.
"Oh nothing much besides the news I told you earlier. I'm just walking home at
the moment. I'm going down Baker Street, did you know that Washington Heights
has an ice cream truck now?"
Of course he was aware of that fact. He's always aware of changes and figuring stuff out, Mark is the guy to go to if anyone wants to know anything. Me and him talked about what a nice addition to the town it would be if it wasn't for drug deals. Haha! Why is it that evil takes every opportunity to tarnish this place? The possible good is supposed to prevail over the bad! We continued our conversation as I walked up the stairs. I noticed the heavy steel door of the second floor open then shut. A young guy still in his teens stumbled down the stairs. I stopped and waited for him to pass me. We made eye contact. He had red glossy eyes. His hair was everywhere. As I stood on the side, I could see that he carried a glass that appeared to contain orange juice. The odor from the cup and his breath reeked of alcohol. I would have done something for Barnheart, but from past experience, my interferrance doesn't do any good. The only thing left to do is let him be. Allow him to do what he wants. Brone is a kind, funny guy. He keeps his wits about him even while intoxicated. "I JUST WISH HE KNEW HOW MUCH POTENTIAL HE HAS."
I made it to the rickety apartment I call home, put my keys in the bowl sitting on my coffee table, and went straight to my computer. I accessed my email and quickly searched for the message from the real estated agent. I looked at them and smiled.
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3 comments:
I like it, although I am 28 for real.
I'm wondering if you are confusing the two of us? We do work together...
The sun exploded through the small window and draped itself haphazardly across Delilah's spotless bedspread. Delilah wasn't usually a fan of haphazard, but she made an exception. It was Sunday after all.
Sunday. Her five fat fingers began to tremble slightly as she thought of a torn seal and the familiar red lettering inviting her back to a better life.
She had to get ready.
The day was still young as Delilah hopped gingerly out of bed and almost skipped to the bathroom. She straightened all her various toiletries before starting her morning routine. Her teeth sparkled to match her eyes as she scrubbed them gently with her professional-grade toothbrush five times. Her cheeks shone as she slowly lathered her face, and her long brown hair felt silky to the touch after 50 strokes of the boar bristle brush. And then she did something different. The drawer resting peacefully for so long under the sink creak slightly as Delilah pulled it open. The dusty drawer was sparsely populated with eyeliners, mascara, lipsticks, foundations. She pulled them all out, lined them neatly on the counter, and, for the first time since arriving at Washington Heights, Delilah Plunk tried.
Back in her room, Delilah opened the door of the closet. She was startled by a single moth as it fluttered right past her black, stiffened eyelashes. She fingered through the clothes hung on wire hangers, searching for the splash of color amidst the blacks, browns, navys, and grays. Finally, in the extremities of the small space, Delilah found what she was looking for. She pulled the deep red dress off the hanger and shook it slightly before pulling it over her head. Her five fat fingers negotiated the small buttons up the sides before smoothing out the full skirt that brushed against her knees. This dress that had been her mother's was the only article of clothing Delilah brought to Washington Heights that let on the fact that her fingers might not be the best indicator of her general figure.
After eying the vacant space on her vanity, Delilah made her way back the bathroom. In the mirror, she did not see the woman who sat at her window and watched pigeons and people go by in fives. She did not see the woman who toppled coffee displays in seedy grocery stores and ran. She did not see the woman she had become. She saw instead the woman she used to be. The woman who was privileged. The woman who was loved and loved silently. The woman who was worthy of opening the envelope that lay expectantly on her kitchen counter.
Delilah was ready.
Her long-unused heels clocked across the hardwood as she walked to the kitchen. She stopped in front of it, taking her time. But as she finally reached and held it in her five fat fingers, she knew something was not right.
Not here.
Delilah plucked her coat from the hook by the door and put the envelope in its pocket. She turned the doorknob five times, opened the door, and made for the elevator. She made her way across the dingy lobby carefully and pushed open the front door into the blazing sunlight of late morning, headed for the park.
But almost immediately she stopped. She peered curiously at the throng of people crowded around the park's tallest tree, the gray newspapers fluttering aimlessly, and the silent ambulance that threw its red light across the pavement. Fingering the corners of the letter in her pocket, Delilah crossed the street.
"...just a goddamn kid. Goddamnit. Just a goddamn fucking kid..."
A woman Delilah did not recognize as a resident Washington Heights sat on the park bench beside the ambulance, her back to the scene unfolding before Delilah, muttered softly to herself, dabbing at her eyes.
Oh no.
Delilah meekly pushed her way through the crowd of people, craning her neck to see what she knew she didn't want to see. She finally pushed her way through enough to see Dr. Evans kneeling at the head of a small, skeletal frame, looking at him without the urgency of a doctor trying to save another's life but with the solemnity of a woman who kneels helpless before death. Delilah's five fat fingers covered her mouth as she stared at the impossible contortions of the small boys feet which had stood just days ago on a stack of soggy newspapers. The pool of blood that circled the little boy's placid face like a halo made Delilah's stomach lurch, and she forced her way more violently out of the throng than she had come in, coughing and sputtering, needing fresh air.
She put her fingers to her cheek.
Dry.
Disgusted with herself, Delilah started walking.
She crossed the street without waiting for the light to change in her favor. She neared the door of Washington Heights and felt a decision pressing upon her chest greater than the one that presented itself in front of her eyes – go inside or keep walking.
Delilah walked.
She walked past the abandoned lot save the taxidermist's stand, feeling the unusually kind breeze brush against her bare knees. She walked past the decrepit warehouse, the austere bakery, the flower shop. And as she walked something changed. Her throat tickled as she felt the sunlight pouring over her and the little boy lying dead in the park. She listened to the clocking of her heels and watched them as, out of habit, they avoided the cracks in the pavement.
She hesitated slightly before slamming her left foot across an epic crack.
Then again and again and again, every step was greeted with another break in the dreary asphalt speckled with sun. Delilah brought her speed to a slow gallop as she continued down Baker Street, her upper lip curled genuinely above her sparkling teeth. She ran across the street again, seeking out any small cracks in the black tar she could find, settling for yellow painted lines to lay her feet haphazardly across. She crossed over onto Barton Street, her eager feet suddenly coming to an abrupt halt beside a set of familiar cement steps. She turned to face the large wooden doors and reached her hand into her pocket.
Here.
The sounds of the chorus booming from any and all crevices in the run down chapel gave Delilah the strength to lift the leaden envelope and hold it gently in her hands. She looked once more at the red ink, the unmistakable penmanship. Delilah was nearly unable to remain standing as her index finger carefully began breaking the seal with unrivaled precision.
Mr. and Mrs. Luke Josephs
Request the honor of your presence
At the marriage of their daughter
Sarah Ruth Josephs
To
Mr. Samson Paul
Sunday the fifth of Decem
At that moment the heavy doors to the chapel flew open, and Delilah's carefully primped hair blew backwards in the force of the countless voices bellowing from within. Unable to think, unable to feel, Delilah's feet slowly climbed the cement steps. Up the cement steps.
Up.
The beautiful black figures in the red robes stood swaying like the flowers in His garden. The moon teeth glowed just like before, and Delilah could not stop herself from walking down the aisle.
But He was not waiting at the altar. Only the massive preacher standing before his congregation awaited her, dripping sweat despite the season, completely overcome by the song echoing off the tall ceilings. Delilah's bare knees grew weaker with every step until she crumpled half way down the aisle. The old women with paper fans and young boys in suits that were too large did not even glance her way to say, "Crazy white girl." They only sang.
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home
Delilah's lips trembled as she felt the plush carpet beneath her thighs. Her thoughts floated aimlessly, a silent accompaniment to the zealous voices of the red chorus. She thought of the dead boy in the park, the forgotten ice cream truck, the filthy grocery store, the suspicious butchery, the seedy bar, the elevator that smelled like piss, the singing from the stairwell, the dirt on her palms, the unexpected wedding invitation she clutched at her side.
She began to cough. But soon the coughs turned into smiles and the smiles turned into laughs and Delilah lay down in the aisle, laughing like a little girl. She held the elegant letter to her chest.
What am I doing here.
A few members of the congregation finally began to take notice of the well dressed white woman splayed across their chapel floor, but not one of them could appreciate the rarity of the words that creaked their way quietly through Delilah Plunk's smiling lips.
"S-swing low, sweet chariot
Coming f-for to c-carry me home
Swing low, sweet chariot
Coming for to carry me home"
A fountain of butterflies burst forth from Delilah's open mouth as the tears streamed steadily down her face. She laughed loudly and quieted only when the song ended on a last, resounding, glorious note. Her cue passed, Delilah rose quietly, invitation in hand, and walked out of the door. Hundreds of eyes followed the beautiful woman in the beautiful dress, smiling through countless tears, humming softly to herself.
Delilah shut the heavy doors behind her.
Delilah replaced the invitation in the envelope. She licked the broken but unharmed flap and resealed it. The last salty tears fell onto the creamy paper as she looked at the letter one last time. Blinking slightly in the bright sunlight, Delilah held the envelope above her head. The breeze was too weak to even rustle her wrinkled dress, but as soon as she let it go the envelope danced in midair as though carried on the wings of invisible butterflies. Delilah watched it dance out of sight as she stood tall on the steps of the chapel. She turned to face the tall silhouette of Washington Heights flanked by sunlight, a defeated sentinel of a soundless, sunless sarcophagus. Humming softly to herself, Delilah Plunk descended the church steps and made her way to the only apartment building in Baltimore with the fifth room on the fifth floor available.
The next morning she was gone.
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