I’m looking out the window. It’s the nice time of the day. The only time around now where the sun shines through into my apartment. So I like to be at the window if I can and take it in on my face. So I’m at the window. Taking in the sun. It seems very cold out. People in their heaviest coats. Cold breaths blowing before them when they walk and talk. Dripping mist on my glass. When I see an old man push a young man and the young man push the old man back. Right down at the corner of the park at Fourth and Bridge. Oh oh, fight. Now they’re pushing one another back and forth and even harder the next time till the young man knocks the old man down with a two-hand shove. I go to the phone. I didn’t see who first started it, but if it was the old man knocking the young one down I don’t think I’d complain. But the young people. When they start knocking the old ones down for any reason, look out. So I’m at the phone. Receiver in my hand and dialing Operator, but the phone seems dead. “Operator, Operator,” I say into it but get no response. I click the phone clicker several times, which almost never works to get them, and still no response. I go back to the window. Two squad cars are already there, four policemen and a lady stepping out. Mental telepathy, I think. Or whatever, but who’s the lady? The young man’s mother? The old man’s sister or wife? The young man’s mother and old man’s sister or wife? A policeman picks the old man up. He’d fallen on his back. Lucky it wasn’t his face he’d fallen on, or if on his side, his hip that was hurt. He has eyeglasses. He’s rubbing them, so they weren’t broke. Then he points the glasses at the young man. The young man points his finger back. They both point at one another, then rush one another with their hands out as if they’re going to strangle each other’s necks. They’re broken up by the police. Both men point farther into the park. All of them, police, two men and lady walk a few steps farther into the park and seem to surround a patch of ground and look down. The lady sort of collapses slowly to her knees, as if she didn’t want to get them hurt. The old man stops her from falling sideways on her back. While he’s still holding her on her knees, the old and young man shake hands. So all’s forgiven there, at least temporarily, for I’m sure the police had something to do with that. The lady’s helped to a police car by the old man, so maybe she is his sister or wife. She isn’t the young man’s mother, as he just stays with the police in that circle they’re around, smoking very calmly his cigarette. A crowd forms. Some people I know, some I don’t. Mrs. Riner. A notorious busybody, so of course she was the first to come. I can think what she’s saying. Lots of questions. And is told and sort of showed by that young man, it seems, and scoots away holding her mouth as if if she didn’t she’d lose it. What’s going on? Now they got me curious. More squad cars. A green police truck. An ambulance and intern or hospital worker from it hurrying over with a black box. The police roping off the corner of the park and pushing back the crowd now as big as one for a fire. I’d like to go downstairs. I could go downstairs. Why don’t I go downstairs? All it takes is a couple of sweaters and my coat and furry boots and hat and it’s not going to be over by the time I get there. I put on my outside clothes and boots. I’m leaving the apartment when the phone rings. The phone’s working, I think. I pick it up. It’s my son. “How are you, Mom?” “Fine as usual,” I say. “Just called to say hello and see how you’re doing.” “Doing fine, thank you.” “Everything all right?” “Everything’s about as usual, thank you.” “Turned kind of cold again all of a sudden, wouldn’t you say?” “It’s still winter.” “But it was so pleasant for a couple of days, almost shirt-sleeve weather, and then cold as anything when I left for work. I hate it.” “I haven’t been out yet so I don’t know.” “You should get out. If just for a walk around the block for exercise, even if it’s cold.” “I was on my way out when you called.” “Am I holding you up?” “It’ll wait.” “You know, I called before and got this strange humming sound from your phone and no ringing. The operator, who I later asked to reach you since I couldn’t, said your phone was out of order.” “It was.” “That’s what she said. It made me worry a little. I knew if your phone was out of order for a long time, you’d let me know because you’d know I’d be a little worried if I called you for a long time and found your phone didn’t work.” “I would.” “That’s what I thought. I just wanted to make sure. But it made me worry a little.” “You know the phone services these days.” “I’ll say.” “Okay I’ll let you go now, Dan. And thank you for calling.” “Take care, Mom.” I go downstairs.
“Mrs. Nichols?” “I know what it’s for, officer.” “Are you Mrs. Nichols?” “Of course, and I know why you’re here. Let me see to my stove and I’ll be right along with you.” “We don’t want you getting upset, but it’s about two of your tenants.” “Mr. and Mrs. James. Or Mr. James and Miss Abbot or whatever she began calling herself then. Ms. She favored Ms. she told me. I know all about it. In the park at River and Fourth Streets.” “Bridge and Fourth. I want to ask you a few questions.” “Of course you do. Sticking out like cabbages on a platter, Mrs. Solis said — I didn’t see the heads myself. Or like she said she thinks cabbages must look like that when they grow on the ground. They weren’t nice people.” “I’m going to show you some photographs we made. We thought the trip to the morgue would be too grim for a person to take.” “Oh, I can take it. Those two — I had no personal attachments to them. They gave me the rent, each one every other, and if I was lucky around Christmas they said ‘Hello, how are you?’ but mostly slipped it under the door. I didn’t hate them, mind you. They weren’t nice people and they made lots of noise with their music and parties and trouble for me against the tenants and eventually the landlord against me and the tenants against the landlord and me and then this building against the next building and the city if you can believe it, till I didn’t know where it would end. And at first I was on their side. I’m a poor working person also — everyone knows a super doesn’t make much. I get my rent and some extra dollars a month for bringing out the garbage cans and channeling the tenants’ complaints for repairs I can’t do. My husband did, but he absconded with a month of rents, the police said — it’s in your records — and never was found or came back. The whole building’s. The landlord was kind enough to keep me on.” “Look at these photographs, please.” “You don’t have to show them to me. I know it’s them.” “I want you to look at these photographs.” “But I heard. Two people alone in this building were at the park and saw the heads before they were taken away. Mrs. Solis I mentioned and the Ballards’ son Tom.” “Is this Miss Abbot, or Mrs. James as she was also known as?” “They weren’t married.” “I know it’s hard, Mrs. Nichols, but please look at this.” “It’s not hard. That’s her.” “And is this Mr. James?” “He was the worst of the pair. Neither was nice, though I think she could have been, without him, but he was a troublemaker born through. His clothes — his beard — everything: he was a mess.” “Is this him?” “No, that’s not him.” “This isn’t your 2A tenant, Timothy James?” “Well I never saw him with his eyes closed so or hair combed.” “Take one more look.” “I’m looking and still don’t see.” “Would you mind then coming with me for a closer observation?” “Not at all.” “You’re not required to, you know.” “Don’t be silly. I’ll get my coat and turn off the stove.”