Story: A Friend (part two)

A Friend

(part two)

Carefully, carefully, Mrs. Leonhardt wiggled the pulling end…the claw, was it? Back when she nailed it up, she propped the mirror on a stool. Anton better help. Better do the whole thing, now he was in the house.

But god, he took forever to explain to. The bell rang.

And in that same way.

The caller leaning on it, letting a long summons rattle the hall. Mrs. Leonhardt ran pell-mell to the landing, looked down for a package, raised her eyes from the empty stoop. A soldier at the street put his phone away. He walked up, his scalp shaved under a yellow beret, his jacket with a brass-snapped lapel fastened at the neck. And if he was the same one, the angel, she wouldn’t know it.

“Ma’am. Mrs. Leonhardt?”

“You oughta know that. See whose name’s on the bell?”

“I’m Corporal Herward. Do you live in this house alone, ma’am?”

“No, I couldn’t, could I? I mean it’s mine. My house. They made four apartments, I only get this one up-and-down, this one corner. When’s the G.R.A. fixing what they took? I was telling them from the start I hate Jocelyn and I’m not a troublemaker. And the guy said they were gonna keep me on a special list. When…”

As to living alone, if Anton got sane, he’d take up following that woman Palma. Palma had come to say it in person (thinking with this sort of news, an approach mattered), that Anton was in prison.

Mrs. Leonhardt, still speaking, lifted her chin to this inner narrative, recalling the lies.

“One of the sergeants came already and told me Anton is dead.”

“A G.R.A. sergeant? Did he give identification?”

“Oh, get out.” She slammed the door on Palma, who had started, “I have other information…”

“So Anton wasn’t dead.”

The corporal, his tone of voice no different, said, “And he lives with you now, ma’am?”

“Are you asking to come in?”

“I will if I can help with anything. We’re checking the neighborhood, that’s all. Food rations are bumped to Green Level One for these houses. You need to visit the District Council and get your chip updated.”

“Never mind food. Can you hold something for me?”

In that way, the G.R.A. had found out. Why wouldn’t Herward have been photographing, with the metal thing on his hat maybe, even though she didn’t catch him? But prying nails for her, strong enough to do this holding the mirror one-handed, the corporal was polite as at the front door. Coming from one of them, this began to feel like charity.

“What things can I carry down for you?”

“My son,” she told him, “isn’t right in the head. I can’t say what he plans to do.”

2

Tourmaline

Tourmaline (part three)

(2016, Stephanie Foster)