“My inlaid box has been moved. It is now facing west instead of north.” She pointed her long index finger in the direction of the box so he could make no mistake about her claim and pursed her thin lips tightly, just covering the rather large and ill-fitting dentures.
Mr. Trainor grinned indulgently, his heavy lips still covering most of his teeth. “Is it possible you could have bumped it yourself in cleaning, perhaps?” He had seen her flat on more than one occasion, and from the looks of it she spent most of her waking hours tidying up.
Miss Dewey could see that he did not understand. “I am telling you that someone came into my flat and moved it — on purpose.”
Mr. Trainor’s gracious smile was quickly giving way to irritation, which he tried hard not to show, being the pleasant man that he always was. He envisioned himself standing there listening to Miss Dewey’s charges for at least another fifteen years. How would he respond then, when he was sixty and she over eighty? Would he still be placating her with his smile and soothing words? He imagined he would, because it would be so unlike him to do otherwise. He was such an agreeable man.
“I don’t really know what you expect me to do, Miss Dewey,” he replied tonelessly.
She nearly spat at him as she put her face close to his in a defiant pose. “I expect you to make sure there is proper security in this building. Whoever was in my flat is probably planning to nick something in future.”
“Oh, I can’t imagine that, Miss Dewey. This is a very safe area. Very few break-ins, you know.”
Well, she could certainly imagine what Mr. Trainor refused to, and she did so for the next few days until she finally turned the inlaid box back to face the north. The incongruity was driving her dotty.
Nothing occurred to disturb her until nearly a week later, when she returned home from her daily walk in a nearby park. The sun shone brightly outside, and the crocuses were beginning to bloom. Spring was finally here, and Miss Dewey felt almost happy. Until she entered the kitchen.
Opening the oak cabinet in her sparkling kitchen to retrieve a tin of food, she noticed with alarm that the tinned salmon she had planned on for lunch was not in the usual S spot. With even more alarm she found that the tomato soup was aligned with the applesauce and the peaches were over with the beans. It was quite clear that someone had been in her flat again, disturbing her things, bringing disorganization into what was otherwise an orderly life.
It was, however, not at all clear to Mr. Trainor.
Miss Dewey stood by the cabinet door, flinging her hand in the direction of the tinned food on the shelf.
“Just look at this!” she wailed.
Mr. Trainor was puzzled. “Look — at what, Miss Dewey?”
“You mean you can’t see it?” she asked incredulously.
He screwed up his left eye and jutted out his bottom lip as if he might somehow see better with his face contorted.
“The tins — they’re not in alphabetical order any more!” The beady eyes flashed with triumph.
“Oh yes, of course they’re not,” he nodded vigorously. Then, looking up with even more confusion, if that was possible, he uttered a monosyllable. “So?”
Miss Dewey hooted with impatience. “I keep all my tins in alphabetical order. I insist on organization, Mr. Trainor, something you are obviously not familiar with or you wouldn’t be so uninformed about what goes on here at Waverly Mansions.
“Anyway, as I told you last week,” she continued without taking a breath, “someone has been in my flat. They’ve rearranged all the tinned goods so now I can’t find a thing. And I think whoever it is might be dangerous.”
Mr. Trainor considered for a moment the absurdity of this possible scenario. Someone creeping into Miss Dewey’s flat and deliberately mixing up her tins of food out of pure meanness or, even more unlikely, as a threatening gesture. He almost laughed out loud but refrained because he did so pride himself on being eternally calm and agreeable. Miss Dewey, however, was continually testing his good nature.
“I shall keep an eye out, Miss Dewey. I am sure you are quite safe here at Waverly Mansions, though.”
Miss Dewey wasn’t sure about that at all. She didn’t feel safe any more, not after the inlaid box and the tinned goods incidents. She determined that Mr. Trainor had no imagination, since he insisted on trivializing her concerns, reminding her of the scores of students she had tutored who lacked the ability to imagine anything outside of their own wretched little lives. Mr. Trainor might have been one of her own students, he was so dreadfully uninspired.
That evening she reorganized the cabinet, meticulously placing everything back in alphabetical order. She opened the tin of salmon she had found coupled with the apricots and ate it for dinner. Then she proceeded to clean her flat, scrupulously so. She scrubbed where there was no dirt and polished where there was no dust. Finally satisfied when the flat was shining and smelled strongly of ammonia and furniture oil, she tried to forget about the tins and the inlaid box, checked her heart medicines to see if they were still in order (they were), and went to bed.
A few hours later, Miss Dewey was awakened by a thumping sound coming from overhead. At first she thought it must be the antiquated central heating system, knocking against the pipes as it sometimes did. But that particular noise was usually more hollow sounding and less frequent than this methodical dull bump in the night. There was nothing to do, she thought with determination, but to go straight upstairs and put an end to it.
That new female tenant directly above her on the first floor, who had thankfully remained nameless like the others (excepting Mr. Trainor, of course), must be making this infernal noise, and Miss Dewey was not about to let her get started. She must be told in no uncertain terms that Miss Dewey demanded peace and quiet from her neighbors.
She rapped on the new tenant’s door loudly. She rapped again and continued to rap until the skin on her bony knuckles began to wear thin. She also rang the bell several times in between, but it didn’t appear to be in working order. She had a notion to go downstairs and wake Mr. Trainor from his undoubtedly sluggish sleep to resolve this situation. But he would just smile in that patronizing way of his and say something falsely reassuring like, “Are we a bit out of sorts tonight, Miss Dewey?” She really could not face it, not at two in the morning.
She finally gave up and returned to her ground floor flat. The bumping continued for a short time, and then it abruptly ceased.
In the morning an especially peevish Miss Dewey, if it was possible for her to be more peevish than she usually was, marched up the stairs to the new tenant’s flat and resumed the rapping and ringing of the night before. Perhaps she had gone out already, Miss Dewey decided as she retreated to her own flat. But a few moments later she dismissed that notion when she heard running water from directly upstairs through the vent in her bathroom. The woman upstairs was clearly at home, so she had purposely refused to answer her door. Would she be leaving soon for work? Did she even have some sort of employment? Miss Dewey suddenly regretted that she had not paid more attention to the daily activities of the tenant upstairs at least. She decided to wait outside her own door so she wouldn’t miss the woman when she finally came down. She would have to come down eventually.