“The Cellar Apartment”

((West St. Paul, the winter of 1967) (a Minnesota Chick Evens Story))



“Here!” I said “…come over here!”
Now she, Phyllis, was looking at me serious, over her shoulder. She didn’t move much, perhaps an inch, not a turn of her lower body though: just her neck and head, her eyes, her face, her hands lay to her sides standing in the middle of the cellar apartment, my bed in front of her, me in back of her, the door in back of me, her husband—my best friend, Sid, had now been dead a week, only a week—coming back from Wisconsin, drinking, everyone drunk in the car, and an accident took place.
Yes—she looked again. She never had looked at me like that before; she appeared to confront me with that look, slyly across her shoulder—with her deep dark eyes. No questioning but waiting, as rain clouds never question or wait, they just pour out rain, when they feel like it, then drift away, shed its moisture.
“Oh!” I remarked, as she watched me still standing by my bed. Watched me sadly, just a bit unsure, perhaps curious.
“But of course,” I said looking at the bed; naturally she was thinking I wanted to take her to bed. But I didn’t; not really, I just wanted to see if I could, see how far she’d go.
“No, wait,” I said. “Maybe this is wrong, for both of us!”
I wasn’t desperate, and still she just watched me, now a foot from the bed: she had some kind of bottomless tranquility, calmness inside of her, waiting on me to tell her to lie down on the bed.
“Sit down on the bed,” I said… “I didn’t mean that.”
She quickly followed up with, “I know your Sid’s friend Chick, do you want to or not!”
“I could never forgive you, or me, if we did,” I remarked.
“All right,” she commented, then I went to open the door to tell her to leave, “Good night,” I said harshly, demandingly, angry.
“Why did you bring me here in the first place?” she asked.
“I thought that is what I wanted, and you wanted,” I said.
I wanted to get angry at her because she was going to make love with me, and because she was getting a divorce with Sid before he died, and because she was collecting $5000-dollars benefit because of his death, had he died two weeks later, she’d had gotten nothing, like I felt she deserved. The Insurance policy would have run out. She was dating other guys, during her separation, and I was just mad because of all of that. I suppose I was like her, grieving, but I was displacing my anger.
“Shut the door on your way out,” I said.
“It’s cold out there,” —she walked towards me, not fast.
“I came here because I liked you, because I’m hurting just like you, maybe more!” she said with wet eyes.
“Maybe I did want to,” she came towards me closer, and then passed me, “but I don’t want to anymore, you’re very cruel!”
“Shut the door before it gets cold in here on your way out,” I told her, “don’t touch me!” I emphasized.
“All right, all right…” she commented—“a dog is more compassionate than you,” she told me. “I doubt Sid would really have minded anyhow.”
“All right,” I agreed, but felt Sid was looking down on me, from wherever he was.
“I came because you are unhappy, Sid and I were separated, ready to get a divorce—you know that!”
“Yes,” I said, and she cried and slammed the door as she left, and I could hear her shivering outside—but the tears seemed to have stopped, perhaps going to the corner, or bar not far away to call a taxi.

No: 547 (12-10-2009)