Miles to Go (10 page)

I was a little apprehensive about letting a complete stranger into Angel’s apartment, especially after he had called Angel by the wrong name, but he looked harm
less enough, and he had just plowed the walks. Besides, he smelled of Old Spice cologne. How bad could you be wearing Old Spice?

“Come in,” I said, stepping back from the door. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”

He stomped his feet off at the door then walked inside. He took less than ten minutes to look around the place. As he was leaving he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Alan.”

He took off one of his mittens and put out his hand. “Pleasure to know you, Alan.”

I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you too.”

“Would you mind telling Angel I came by? And tell her thanks for the get-well card. It made me laugh.”

“Glad to.”

He stopped outside the doorway. “She’s a great gal, Angel. I hate to see her go. I have some people interested in taking the place, but if she changes her mind, I’m more than happy to keep her. Wish I had more renters like her.”

I was surprised by this news. “When does her lease expire?”

“February first. She’s got a couple more months.” He put his mitten back on. “Goodbye.”

“Bye.” I shut the door. “That’s weird,” I said aloud. Angel hadn’t said a word to me about moving.

That night as we were eating dinner, I told Angel about the visit.

“Your landlord came by today. He cleared the walks.”

“Bill?”

“I think that was his name.”

“I love Bill. I don’t know why he insists on clearing the
walks himself. He has plenty of money and he’s eighty-two years old.” She said grimly, “I think he’s trying to have a heart attack.”

I looked up from my spaghetti. “You sound serious.”

“I’m only half kidding. He lost his wife two years ago. I don’t think he wants to live anymore.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

She either missed my comment or ignored it. “He collects model electric trains. I’ve been to his house. His entire basement is one huge train track. It’s actually quite impressive. You’ll have to see it sometime.” She leaned forward. “So what did he have to say?”

“He said ‘Thank you for the get-well card.’ And he also said that if you change your mind about moving he’s happy to keep the apartment for you.”

“Oh.”

I was hoping she would say more about the moving part, but she didn’t. I took another bite of spaghetti then asked, “Are you moving?”

She hesitated. “When I first moved here, I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying, so I only signed a six-month lease. I’ll give him a call on my lunch break tomorrow.” She went back to eating.

“It’s kind of a weird coincidence,” I said, “but when I opened the door, he didn’t ask for you. He asked for Nicole.”

Angel didn’t look up.

“I just thought that was kind of strange,” I said, “after that woman came by the other day looking for—”

She cut me off. “I don’t know any Nicole.” She took another bite of spaghetti.

I looked at her for a moment then went back to my meal.

When the silence became uncomfortable, she asked, “Did you walk today?”

“No. I did aerobics off the television.”

“Sweatin’ to the oldies?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“So, what movie are we on tonight?” she asked. I had become the expert on the list.

“Sixty-nine.
Shane.”

“Is that the one about the Harlem detective?”

I looked at her a moment, then smiled wryly. “That’s
Shaft. Shane
is a Western with Jack Palance.”

“Close,” she said.

We both burst out laughing. Nothing more was said that night about Bill or Nicole.

I was eating breakfast the next morning when it suddenly struck me what was wrong with Angel’s apartment. There were no photographs. Not one. No snapshots of a mother, father, friend or sibling. There was no image of another human in the entire apartment.

In fact, there was no evidence that this woman had any connection with humanity at all. That was true of her speech as well. In all our conversations she had never once mentioned family or friends, not even in anger.

No, there had been
one
picture. I don’t know how I remembered this, but when I had stopped to help her outside Davenport, I remembered seeing a picture of a young boy hanging from her rearview mirror next to a crucifix.

What kind of person lives her life like Eleanor Rigby, then invites a complete stranger to live in her home for an indefinite period of time? Or, was that precisely why she had invited me—so she would have someone to be with? Maybe. People
need
people. So where were they in Angel’s world?

My questions about Angel were stacking up. Her crying at night, our conversation about death and her hope for oblivion, the coincidence of two people asking for Nicole—and Angel’s peculiar reaction when I told her.
Who was Angel and why was I here?

My intuition told me that whatever was bothering Angel had something to do with this Nicole woman, but I had no idea who she was. I didn’t even know her last name. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been paying attention when the woman who had come asking about Nicole had mentioned it. Why would I? At the time, the encounter meant no more to me than a wrong number.

It occurred to me that perhaps others in the building might know something about her, so I decided to talk to them. I had my first chance that afternoon.

I had increased my walking to twice a day. A little after 2
P.M
. I was stretching in the foyer when I ran into one of Angel’s neighbors, the young woman I had passed coming out of the apartment on my first walk. She came slowly into the building with her head down. She jumped a little when she saw me. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“No, it’s just I hardly ever see anyone here.”

“I know what you mean. It’s really quiet. Are all the apartments rented?”

“You wouldn’t know it, but they are. Bill doesn’t rent to anyone noisier than he is. So we’re all church mice.”

“Bill the landlord?”

“Yes.”

I reached out my hand. “I’m Alan Christoffersen.”

She shook my hand. “I’m Christine Wilcox. It’s nice to meet you. You’re in apartment three?”

I nodded. “I just moved in with Angel a couple of weeks ago. Have you lived here long?”

“Long for me. I’ve been here a couple years. I’m a senior at Gonzaga.”

“I guessed you were a student by the backpack,” I said.

“Standard uniform,” she said.

“Two years,” I repeated. “So you probably know all the tenants here?”

“Yes. But not well. Everyone pretty much keeps to themselves.”

“Maybe you could help me. Was there ever a tenant here named Nicole?”

Her brow furrowed. “Nicole? Not since I’ve been here. Why?”

“A woman came by the other day looking for Nicole.”

“Oh yeah, she left a note at my door. No. Not since I’ve been here. But you could ask Bill.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that. It’s nice meeting you, Christine.”

“My pleasure. Have a good run.” She reached into her pocket for her keys. “Oh, and say ‘hi’ to Angel for me. We keep threatening to get together, but every time I’ve come over, she doesn’t answer. I’m starting to think she’s avoiding me.” Christine unlocked her door and opened it. “Have a good day.”

“You too.”

She disappeared inside her apartment. I walked out the front door to start my walk.

That night I made clam chowder for supper. While we were eating, Angel said, “May I ask you about your wife?”

“Sure.”

“What was she like?”

I smiled sadly. “She was perfect. I mean, for me she was. I should say that she was perfectly flawed. We both lost our mothers at a young age, and neither of us had siblings, so we held to each other. Our broken edges fit. I can’t imagine loving anyone as much as I loved her.”

“That’s how it should be. I think it’s rare. Why are you walking to Key West?”

“You want to know why I’m walking to Key West, or why I’m walking?”

“Both.”

“I chose Key West because it was far. I’m walking because
after I lost McKale, I also lost my home, my cars, and my business. Walking away just seemed the prudent thing to do.”

“Sometimes we need to run away,” Angel said, nodding as if she understood. “How did you lose your business?”

“I was betrayed by my partner. While I was taking care of McKale, he stole all my clients and started his own firm.”

“That’s reprehensible.”

“I thought so.”

“What’s his name?”

“Kyle Craig,” I said slowly. “Never trust anyone with two first names.”

“Do you hate him?”

The question made me think. “I suppose so, if I think about it. But truthfully, I don’t think much of him and I don’t think that much about him. Dwelling on him would make him a bigger part of my life than I want him to be.”

“That’s wise,” she said. She took another bite of soup, then asked, “Do you hate the kid who stabbed you?”

“He’s dead. There’s no one to hate.”

“A lot of people hate dead people.”

“That’s true,” I said. I leaned back and gazed into her eyes. “Is there anyone you hate?”

“I could name a few people.”

“Anyone in particular?”

She didn’t answer immediately, and when she did, there was a strange tone to her voice. “Probably me.”

Spokane’s second major snowfall came early in the morning on November 17. That afternoon I walked twice around the block with almost no pain, except when I almost slipped and caught myself.

As I came back down the road to the apartment, I saw Bill, the landlord, pushing his snow blower up our sidewalk. I stopped on the walk near him, giving him a short wave. “Hi, Bill.”

He cupped his ear.

“Hi!” I shouted. When he got up to me, he bent over and switched off the snow blower. He was huffing from exertion and his glasses were frosted with snow. He wiped them with the back of his mitten. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m Alan Christoffersen. We met a few days ago.”

He gazed intently at me, as if trying to remember.

“I’m Angel’s friend. Did Angel ever get back to you on the lease?”

I could tell that he still wasn’t sure who I was. “No. Not yet.”

“She says that she plans to.”

“Well, tell her not to wait too long. I’ve got a bird in the hand.”

“I’ll do that.” He started to bend over to restart his blower when I asked, “May I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

I ignored the comment. “A few days ago when you came by the apartment you asked for Nicole. Who is Nicole?”

A grim look crossed his face. “I think that if Angel wanted you to know, she’d tell you herself.”

“I’m trying to help Angel. I may be her closest friend.”

He frowned. “If you were a close friend, you’d already know.” He reached down and pulled on the rope to start the blower. The machine roared to life on the first pull. I stepped out of the way as the old man stormed by in a cascade of snow.

That evening Angel arrived home from work a little later than usual, and it was already completely dark out. It was obvious that she’d had another bad day, as she barely spoke to me.
Moody again
, I thought. Sitting down to dinner, I asked, “Are you okay?”

She nodded but didn’t speak.

“We’re on movie number sixty-eight,
An American in Paris.”

She didn’t respond. The only sounds from our meal were the clinking of fork and knife. Once again the silence became painful.

The fact that she was avoiding eye contact with me made me wonder if the problem had something to do with me.

Finally, I broke the silence. “Thanksgiving is only a week away. Do you have any plans?”

“No.”

“Do you want to go out?”

“I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” she said. Back to silence. Halfway through the meal I gave up. “Okay, did I do something to offend you?”

She slowly looked up, as if deciding whether or not to answer. Finally, she said, “I talked to my landlord this afternoon. He said that you talked to him.”

“He was out clearing the walk.”

“I would appreciate it if you would stay out of my personal
affairs.” She stood up and walked to her bedroom. I sat there in a stupor. After a few more minutes I put our plates in the sink and went to my room. We both went to bed without another word.

That night I woke again to her crying.

The next morning, for the first time since I’d arrived, I considered leaving. I wouldn’t be able to continue my walk, I wasn’t ready and neither was the weather, but I could always find someplace else in Spokane to stay.