Audrey's Door Part 23

"Im nadda tool. You cant useme. Not gonna kill my boyfriend I'll kill you!" Audrey mumbled, but by now they were too far away to hear.

"-My apartment is so full of red ants I had to move up to 14A. When are we getting a new super?" Now Galton.

"-I ate your G.o.dd.a.m.ned Frisky, and Toto too," Evvie announced.

Their voices trailed. The last to leave turned out the lights, and everything in 14B went dark.

36.

The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, III: Light Through the Keyhole At first, she chewed her lip to keep from falling asleep. Tasted salt. Tried to frighten herself by imagining Schermerhorn with her in the room. Knew logically that she had to escape but did not feel the urgency. Shaking too hard. Too tired: her chest was a tightened fist.

Insulin. She wasn't diabetic, and two hypodermics of the stuff didn't sound safe. What propelled her was the possibility that she might die. With some of the larger strips of her own torn clothes, she tied her kneecap into place to keep it from floating. She blacked out a few times as she tightened the cloth, but the insulin dulled the pain, and she finished the job.

Hands pulling, legs bent, then straightening, like a frog trying to swim on dry land, she dragged herself out of the den and down the dark hall. The pain in her knee was bad enough that she wished she had the strength to cut it off.

The floors began to hum. Momma? Momma? a child's voice called. a child's voice called. Is that you? Is that you?

"Stop," she whispered as she took another lunge.

In the bathroom, she heard the tub faucet glug. "Please, no," she said as the hall floor, at once carpeted and bare, soaked her (Clara's) sweatpants with bathwater.

Too tired to keep going, she stayed on the ground for a while. Twenty minutes. Kept her hands down over her head so she didn't have to see, and pretended it was quiet. When the shaking relented, and her heart muscles loosened enough for breath to come and go without a fight, she tried again. Crawled five more feet. Then took another break. Counted back from fifty. Wasn't ready. Counted back from one hundred, and started crawling again.

She remembered happier days, even as Clara's children gurgled. She thought about the itchy wool bedspread that Saraub loved, and the crumb-ridden remote control lodged within their futon's deep fold. The time she and her mother had robbed the 7-Eleven of Slurpies and hot dogs, then eaten them in the back of the Chevy. On an empty stomach, Ball Park Cheese Dogs make the best meal in the world. Of her work, and her desk, and the view from the top floor of Vesuvius, and all those pretty things she'd planned to build inside New York's holes.

In her mind, she was already scooting down the emergency-exit stairs on her bottom. Crawling out the lobby, unseen. Calling the cops on these f.u.c.kers and incriminating them for Jayne's murder. The hope was a bubble in her stomach, self-contained, unsinkable. That was all she needed, to make it those last five feet.

There was light through the keyhole. Light! Oh, how she loved light! She wanted to live so badly. To feel wet gra.s.s with bare feet, and build cities. To marry Saraub, and fill their house in Yonkers with children, and grandchildren, and tire swings. She wanted to run from here so fast that she flew.

She counted back from three, then ten, then twenty. With a grunt, pushed her feet against the slanted floor, and stood. Her knee screamed. "Ooooowwwwww," she whispered, as tears rolled, and her nerves came to life-a pinching, throbbing suit of skin. Still, she clasped the gilded wood trim, then the gla.s.s k.n.o.b. Breathing fast but quiet, she twisted the handle. It did not turn. She pulled it. Pushed it. But no. It was locked from the outside.

She looked out the peephole. A black eye with a thin layer of cataract peered back at her. Then the figure stepped away, and she saw that it was Loretta Parker. She waved her index finger back and forth.

"Dirty girl!"

37.

The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, IV: Katabasis Days pa.s.sed. The sun rose, then set, then rose, like a stop-motion camera. When she was thirsty, she slurped water from the sink. When she was hungry, she rationed the leftover Chinese food she'd ordered with Jayne, and when that was gone, just like back in Hinton, she got weaker.

The pile of boxes got smaller. The door got bigger. The humming walls lulled her into a place between sleep and waking life, where around one corner there was a pretty house in Yonkers, and around another there was Schermerhorn, leaning over a tub full of sleeping cherubs while his ghost wife, Clara, screamed.

The thing in her stomach filled the crevices of her body. When she looked in the bathroom mirror, she didn't see her own reflection. Only a black-eyed silhouette that did not quite stand erect. So she broke the mirror, and even broke the chrome toaster, too.

Hours, days, or maybe weeks later, Martin and Loretta returned. Wearing their dusty wool suit and Claudette Colbert silk, they were a mad couple in frayed finery, like ghosts from the t.i.tanic. t.i.tanic.

Marty carried a sandwich and gla.s.s of red juice on an antique pewter plate. He bent down and placed it at her bare, crusted feet. She didn't remember how they'd gotten here, whether she'd been sleeping or awake. She didn't know for how long they'd been standing over her, either.

"I don't know why we're bothering. We're not gonna keep her for a pet," Loretta groused, as Marty set down the plate. Her sausage-tight gown was slit down the a.s.s, revealing soiled satin panties full of holes.

Audrey smelled the food. Her mouth watered. She peeled back the bread. Tuna and stale mayonnaise. It had been left out, so its sides were yellowed. Still, she took a bite. It was the best sandwich she'd ever tasted. Her eyes shone with grat.i.tude. Her stomach gurgled, and for few seconds, stopped hurting. She ate slowly, chewing every bite again and again, to make sure it stayed down. The flavors-salt, tuna, sugar, fat-were so crisp that they snapped. And then, something sharp. She bit hard. The temporary crown in the back of her mouth broke in half.

"Ah! Wha-?" she cried, just as Martin coughed, and her tongue traced the outline of the thing that he'd sneaked into her food.

"What? There something in that? Martin did you put something in that?" Loretta whined as he bent forward to inflate the deflated mattress she'd been sleeping in and whispered in her ear quick and pleading with rancid dog breath: "Please!"

"Marty, did you put something in the food?" Loretta asked. "She thinks she's so pretty but she's not. I could dye my hair brown, too."

Audrey shook her head. Said something that sounded like the old, high-maintenance Audrey, before The Breviary. "I don't like Wonder Bread. It's all corn syrup."

Loretta narrowed her eyes. She bent down, and her dressing gown ripped along its side seam. Flesh bulged. Either she didn't notice, or she didn't care. "Well, la!" she said, pointing her hip to the left, "Di!" the hip went to the right, "Da!" the hip jutted back again.

They left. The sound they made as they clopped down the hall was peculiar. A clack-clacking, clack-clacking, like their bodies were becoming harder than flesh. They were changing into something spiderlike, just like Schermerhorn. like their bodies were becoming harder than flesh. They were changing into something spiderlike, just like Schermerhorn.

Audrey finished the sandwich, and felt the most grounded she'd been in days. The most like herself. She waited an hour. Maybe two. She couldn't tell. Was afraid to take Martin's present out of her mouth. She didn't want the apartment to see.

She limped down the hall. Her knee was better-the ligament had reattached, but it still wasn't healed. Same dirty clothes. Hair so greasy it was wet. She spit out half her crown, along with the small bra.s.s key. It fit into a knee-height hole at the edge of the door and unsprung the lock. Then she put the key back into the side of her cheek and opened the door.

In the carpet were sandy bits of ceramic and a lampshade. Jayne's ashes? No, Hula Girl's remains. Tears welled. Guilt gnawed. "Jayne," she whispered, then kept limping.

The fire door to the stairs creaked. She squinted, as if to diminish the sound, then began hopping. Cold metal against her feet. She leaped two steps with the left foot, then swung the right leg without bending it. Panting. Panting. The sound of her breath echoed in the metal chamber.

Slap-swing-slap-swing! How many floors? She didn't know. The farther she got, the more she allowed herself to hope. How many floors? She didn't know. The farther she got, the more she allowed herself to hope.

Slap-swing-slap-swing! The lobby! But then, she looked through the small wire window built into the fire door and saw the tenants. They were out there. Sitting on the antique couches in the former church altar where Schermerhorn's body had once hung. Chatting with each other in old c.o.c.ktail dresses and faded black suits. Was it Monday again already? c.o.c.ktail night for the unemployed? They were drinking Manhattans with cherries. Thirty of them. Maybe more. She was crestfallen, like needles in her stomach, poking holes in a thousand places, until she remembered: there had to be an exit through the bas.e.m.e.nt. The lobby! But then, she looked through the small wire window built into the fire door and saw the tenants. They were out there. Sitting on the antique couches in the former church altar where Schermerhorn's body had once hung. Chatting with each other in old c.o.c.ktail dresses and faded black suits. Was it Monday again already? c.o.c.ktail night for the unemployed? They were drinking Manhattans with cherries. Thirty of them. Maybe more. She was crestfallen, like needles in her stomach, poking holes in a thousand places, until she remembered: there had to be an exit through the bas.e.m.e.nt.

She climbed down one more flight and shoved open the fire door. The bas.e.m.e.nt stank something terrible. Red ants, everywhere. Scampering things, too. Her feet got wet on the peeling, gray-painted cement floors. But at least the lights were on. In her dark apartment, she'd missed light so much. You imagine such terrible things in the dark.

She scooted through the hall, leaning against the wall for balance. There were doors on all sides. A pile of garbage bags lay straight ahead.

She looked for EXIT signs, but didn't see any. Ants scampered each time she stepped. In her mind she dissected them; pulled their chitin inside out, then made them disappear. Made the place smell like roses. Made the air sweet as hash. The visualization worked, and she kept moving.

She pushed open a door on the left. No window to climb through, just a cot and green wool blanket. A dresser with a photo of Edgardo and a portly, brown-haired woman. His wife? And next to that, a photo of a green-eyed brunette standing knee deep in snow. She looked like Audrey, only younger and angrier. Stephanie. So, none of it had been a lie. And where was he, Edgardo? Even if he'd been fired in a hurry, he wasn't the type to leave his things behind.

She tried the next door. Locked. The next. Locked, too. The next, storage. Three rusted bicycles. The old-fas.h.i.+oned, reclining kind from the 1800s. A weathered Genus edition of Trivial Pursuit. A moldy cigar box. A pair of wooden skis. And in the corner, the trappings of the old Episcopalian Church. Crucifixes, chalices, wooden idols of Madonna and Child. Stone carved Archangels Michael and Gabriel. The former banis.h.i.+ng Lucifer from heaven, the latter heralding the joyous news of man's redemption. Full of cracks and missing limbs, they were heaped together like junk, and covered in more than a half century of grime.

She shut the door and kept walking to the end of the hall. The stink was overwhelming. She swallowed down her bile and gimped farther. Yes, this place was awful, but at least it wasn't 14B.

She got to the end-the source of the stench: garbage. Grocery bags filled with kitchen offal, black Hefty bags, white toilet-room bags, and random c.r.a.p piled fifteen feet high. Up above was the opening for the trash chute. A nest of red ants swarmed above the dross. Over the last few days or weeks or months, the tenants must have tossed their garbage as usual, but no one had carried it to the curb. It figured that behind the mess, she could see the red gleam of an EXIT sign.

"Oh," she moaned. "Oh, screw you," she said to G.o.d, or herself, or, most likely, the tenants of The Breviary. Then she did a strange jig. Her hands flailed limp wristedly, her head shook back and forth, and she hopped on her good foot. Rats! Literally! Rats! Literally!

When she was done, she sucked up her courage, along with her bile, and lifted the first bag. It made a wet, slapping sound as she separated it from the pack and flung it to the side of the hall. When she lifted the second bag, something squeaked. She would have mistaken the sound for a human scream if she hadn't seen the big-eyed brown rodent. (Rat or mouse? She hoped the latter, but guessed the former, judging by its thick, ribbed tail.) She scooped five more bags. She was getting there. She smiled at her accomplishment, and imaged the tenants' faces when they discovered that she was gone. Or better yet, when the cops showed up.

But then, something brownish pink peeked out from two plastic West Side Market bags. She took a double take. A triple take. A human hand, and on its fourth finger, a copper ring.

"Oh, no," she cried. She took a breath, turned away, then turned back and pretended that it was not Edgardo at all. It was a mannequin, the kind you use to sew clothes. But even as she lifted another bag, she remembered those tears in his eyes, and the way he'd tried to keep her from moving into 14B, all as penance for Stephanie, who would never know how much her father had loved her.

The smell was coming from him. His body had rotted. Ants chewed. Other things, too. With a few more grunts, she lifted the rest of the bags in her way. The path to the door was almost clear. Only one thing left to move.

"Sorry about this," she said, then closed her eyes, and pretended he was a doll. Shoved him with her bare foot. His skin made a splatting sound, but didn't give. Full of gas and rot. So she bent down and dragged him by the underarms. His neck rolled, and she gagged, then swallowed fast, because she didn't want to lose the only lunch she'd eaten in a week.

His skull was cracked from temple to jaw. The cut was uneven, and the skin around it was torn as if by something barbed. A rebar, she guessed. Her rebar. The tenants. They'd murdered him, then tossed him in the garbage. What a bunch of s.h.i.+ts.

She heaved him aside, then lifted one more bag. Then free! She twisted the handle. Didn't believe it. Tried again. Had enough energy, this time, to slam herself against it. Then pulled the key out from her mouth. It didn't fit.

The steel door was locked.

Could she go back and get the rebar, bash the dead bolt? No, the door was metal. The echo would carry through the trash chute and send the tenants charging.

The stench prevented her from wallowing. She started back. Climbed the stairs. Up one flight. Quiet as a mouse.

She considered making a run for it through the lobby, but with her weak knee she wasn't fast enough. Better to wait until they were gone and sneak out. So she waited by the fire door as the hours pa.s.sed. One? Two? No watch by which to tell. The tenants danced and drank. And drank some more. Spilled their booze on the old altar, laughing gaily, maniacally, like the lone survivors of the Third World War.

She counted them: forty-seven. Wondered if any had left their apartment doors open. Remembered-yes!-some of them might have phones. She climbed the stairs. Up, up, up. Thought the best way to start would be on fourteen. Easier to hide if she heard someone coming. She crept up the stairwell to fourteen and saw that her luck was in. The doors all down the row were open.

She started with 14C-Loretta. She walked down its long hall. Slip-slide was the sound her feet made. On her way, she stopped and peered inside the master bedroom. Stacks of china dolls lay on the queen-sized, canopied bed, their cheeks dotted with red circles of blush. Period costume cowgirls, Spanish dancers, Victorians with watching eyes that might goggle closed if you laid them down to sleep. She quick counted seventy-two dolls, which probably meant that they, and not Loretta, slept on a proper bed.

She didn't see a phone, so she kept walking. Into the den. More dolls. This time they hung from fis.h.i.+ng-line nooses nailed to the ceiling. Their bodies made a curtain between the den and hall and she had to push them aside to get through.

In the center of the den, she found a half-built door made out of broken white porcelain that had been glued together and covered with blinking dolls' eyes. The door was only three feet tall, and pieces of it had fallen and shattered.

Next to that was a pink princess phone. She picked it up. "Huh!" she sucked in a breath of awful surprise. No dial tone, just ringing, and then a message. "The customer needs to contact accounts payable. Thank you.... The customer needs to contact...No emergency services in this area..."

She hung up.

And then, she hadn't seen. How hadn't she seen? Loretta was sitting at the turret. Drool caked her chin. Her bare feet were b.l.o.o.d.y, and beneath them were the crushed porcelain faces of more dolls. "Wrong apartment," she said, then resumed crus.h.i.+ng, like an Italian peasant stomping grapes. "You live in 14B. Don't forget, stupid."

Slip-slide. Audrey headed back where she'd come. Into the main hall, the kind old doctor who'd shot her full of insulin now lay on the red carpet, nude. His hand covered his privates like a fig leaf over a statue until he waved at her and revealed the h.o.a.ry mess. She looked away. Was he there at all, or was she mad? Audrey headed back where she'd come. Into the main hall, the kind old doctor who'd shot her full of insulin now lay on the red carpet, nude. His hand covered his privates like a fig leaf over a statue until he waved at her and revealed the h.o.a.ry mess. She looked away. Was he there at all, or was she mad?

14D. Evvie Waugh. Slip-slide! Slip-slide! The hallway walls were mounted with dead animal heads. Only, they hadn't been treated with chemicals, and were slowly rotting. The order went like this: moose, bear, badger, panda, bald eagle, gorilla, chimp, and the shrunken African head of a human being. Their skin had all been stuffed, and their eyes replaced with black aggie marbles. The hallway walls were mounted with dead animal heads. Only, they hadn't been treated with chemicals, and were slowly rotting. The order went like this: moose, bear, badger, panda, bald eagle, gorilla, chimp, and the shrunken African head of a human being. Their skin had all been stuffed, and their eyes replaced with black aggie marbles.

In the middle of the den was a claw-foot tub, in which Evvie, wearing a green velvet dressing robe, reclined with a pile of pillows and a copy of Decline and Fall. Decline and Fall. The tub was Clara's, of course. Propped against its side was Edgardo's cane. So many trophies. The tub was Clara's, of course. Propped against its side was Edgardo's cane. So many trophies.

"Wrong apartment. Party isn't until tomorrow night. 14B. You're the host of honor," Evvie p.r.o.nounced, then returned to his book.

"Thanks," she mumbled, then turned and started out.

14A. Slip-slide. Slip-slide. Down the hall. All the doors open. Everything empty. Everything dingy. Dried, b.l.o.o.d.y handprints marred the hallway walls. The low ones belonged to a child, but they got bigger the higher they went. It occurred to her that the prints might all belong to the same person, over a span of fifty years. Down the hall. All the doors open. Everything empty. Everything dingy. Dried, b.l.o.o.d.y handprints marred the hallway walls. The low ones belonged to a child, but they got bigger the higher they went. It occurred to her that the prints might all belong to the same person, over a span of fifty years.

Slip-slide. Into the den. The walls were adorned with red smiley faces, and she didn't think it was paint. Not a stick of furniture, except for an old rotary phone. She picked it up. Heard the sound, and at first did not believe it. Into the den. The walls were adorned with red smiley faces, and she didn't think it was paint. Not a stick of furniture, except for an old rotary phone. She picked it up. Heard the sound, and at first did not believe it.

A dial tone!

She reached into the pocket of her sweat suit. A piece of paper. Her instincts told her to do this: she no longer remembered why. She dialed the number on the card. An answering machine. She didn't listen to the message, or remember why. Just spoke after the beep. "Hi. They're trying to kill me, and I found this card. My name is Audrey Lucas."

Hung up. Dialed a number from memory, didn't know whose. Machine picked up. Was it late? Early morning? "Hi. They're trying to kill me. My name is Audrey Lucas."

Found a Post-it in her pocket. Dialed the number written there. Behind her in the hall, she heard the click-clack click-clack of high heels. Ringing, ringing. The phone picked up, but no one answered. "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?" she called. "Please help me. I'm-" then she remembered, "At The Breviary-510 West 110 of high heels. Ringing, ringing. The phone picked up, but no one answered. "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?" she called. "Please help me. I'm-" then she remembered, "At The Breviary-510 West 110th Street, fourteenth floor. Please!" Street, fourteenth floor. Please!"

But no one answered. Far away, two people talked on the other line. They didn't hear her!

Behind her, the tenants had arrived. Galton, unmasked. His lone eye glared. Loretta. Marty. The naked man. Evvie. The party, too. Still holding c.o.c.ktails. So drunk they swayed, staggered, and crawled.

She watched, panting. Her breath was as heavy as syrup.

On two, three, and four legs, they advanced. They clogged the hall with their bodies. Arms and legs and torsos, indistinguishable as clumped insects. Their eyes had all gone black. It was The Breviary coming for her. The Breviary never lets anyone out.

She squeezed the receiver. Someone spoke on the other line: who is this? who is this? The tenants got closer. "b.i.t.c.h! b.i.t.c.h! b.i.t.c.h!" Loretta clapped. The tenants got closer. "b.i.t.c.h! b.i.t.c.h! b.i.t.c.h!" Loretta clapped.

This was happening...This was happening?

"Who let her out? Marty, did you let her out?" Loretta asked. Her feet were a puddle of blood. They clacked as she walked, full of doll shrapnel.

Audrey remembered the key in her mouth. They'd take it if they could. But, two inches long and jagged on one end, was it too big to swallow? Then again, if worse came to worst and she died, at least she couldn't build their d.a.m.n door.

She swallowed. It got stuck. Swallowed again. It tore her throat and lodged inside the wound. She breathed, and air whistled.

They came closer.

And then, on the phone: Tell me who you are! Tell me who you are! It was Jill. She'd called Jill! It was Jill. She'd called Jill!

She swallowed and lifted the phone to her ear. The key went down, cutting its jagged way along her esophagus. "Hh-hh-help!" she cried.

Loretta pulled the phone from her hand. "I'm Audrey Lucas. I need help!" she shouted, just as Loretta ripped the wire from the jack.

38.

The Sound a Trap Makes as It Closes, V: Build the Door With hands reaching high over their heads, they played light as a feather. Carried her back to 14B and in their fine, tattered clothes, filled her den.

"Build the door!" Loretta screeched. Clop-clop! Clop-clop! Her feet were porcelain castanets. Her feet were porcelain castanets.