(1. Mary Wakes Up.)
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#750-S
Mary Watter woke to a tapping that rattled around and around in her brain. She sat up in her bed in a panic as the sound faded away.
She huffed in and out, breathing deeply, in and out, in and out, in and out. Her face felt flushed hot red and tingly. She put a hand on her chest, felt her rapid heartbeat. It pounded against her fingers, slowly settling. Her sheets were drenched in sweat.
As she wiped the crust from her eyes, she recalled a few flashes from her nightmare.
She was falling in a flickering red light. She looked upward into the starry night sky as wind blew through her hair with deafening power. And then, the sky became blacked out. From this pure darkness came twisted limbs—slick arms and legs chaotically intertwined. They were reaching down for her. In her dream, Mary somehow knew that succumbing to their grasp was more to fear than the approaching ground below.
The purple haze of the new November dawn streamed in through Mary’s windows, and the horrific feeling from the nightmare slowly went away.
Mary turned to her bedside table and saw her digital clock. It was 6:12 a.m.
“What the fuck was that all about,” she muttered.
A flicker of white light caught her eye, and she saw that the flat-screen bolted to the wall was broadcasting a commercial for some slick new generation of smartphones. She must have left the TV on again overnight.
The commercial concluded and on the screen came the image of an attractive woman in a blue dress. The camera shot expanded and showed that she was next to a grotesque older man in a black suit. They sat, side by side, behind a news desk.
She snatched the remote off her bedside table and pointed it at the TV. She pressed OFF, but her finger hit MUTE instead. The voices from the talking heads blared through the speakers.
“—e’ll see here,” she said, “a graphic that is surely on everyone’s mind.”
The next image showed an electoral map of the United States split between blue states and red. It was previewing this week’s presidential election between the beloved incumbent and the no-buzz contender.
The news heads said some more words about the show, hyping it like boxing promoters, even though everyone knew it was a foregone conclusion. Like uncles around the barbecue bullshitting their way through quantum physics, Mary thought, and turned off the TV.
She got out of bed and walked barefoot on her Persian rugs to the window. She opened her curtains, white and printed with flowers. She’d found them at a thrift shop years back, browsing while high—her preferred method of shopping. As soon as she saw them, she knew she had to have them. They spoke to her in some strange, mystical way.
She peered through them and out of her beloved view from the 7th floor.
The courtyard of the structure that Mary had now called home for a decade-plus was empty. The rectangular expanse of grass below was dotted with soccer balls, mitts, and other detritus left from the kids playing last night after dark.
Her neighbors had yet to stir this early in the morning, except, she saw, Woodrow in #690-S. He was having his morning coffee and cigarette before heading off to start his day behind the wheel of a city bus.
The movement from Mary’s curtains caught Woodrow’s eye. He raised his mug and waved a morning salute. Mary smiled and waved back.
Through the window, on her metal fire escape that she’d painted a vibrant red, Mary noticed something between the empty pots that lined the stairs, waiting for next spring’s flowers. She saw that it was a mug, the one into which she’d poured a sip of whiskey last night. She must have left it out while listening to the “trick or treats!” echoing against the brick walls of the courtyard.
Jerome’s call was the loudest, as usual. He had a few years left of being cute in him before hitting the inevitable awkward teenage stage. She remembered holding him as a newborn; now he was over five feet tall. Last month, he showed her a magic trick where he presented her with a red rose seemingly out of the air. It was a wonder seeing that act come from a being she’d known since birth.
Time works in odd ways, she thought. What a weird world we have.
She cracked the window and walked out to the fire escape to grab the mug, then carried it to the sink in her small corner kitchenette. On it was branded the logo of her old job at a tech start-up. A long time ago, seeming now like an entirely different life. They’d closed a few months after their massive Halloween party boondoggle they had on that party boat.
After they folded, with some getaway money in her bank account, she’d flown here into the city, and lucked into this spot. It was one of the thousands of new units in the neighborhood, part of the new administration’s massive public housing plan. With rent no longer a worry, she bowed out of tech’s bubbles and bursts for good. That wasn’t really for her anyway.
Mary twisted on the kitchen faucet and filled the mug with water to soak out the leftover whiskey taste, then crossed back to the bed. She passed the full-length mirror outside her bathroom and paused to look at herself. She ran her fingers through her long brown hair, a few more strands a shade greyer, it seemed, every time she looked. She examined the cobwebs of wrinkles that flanked her aqua blue eyes.
But she also noticed a glow to her skin. She realized that, despite the early wake-up call from her nightmare, she didn’t feel exhausted for once.
The lethargy was one of the ways the sickness had affected her. Mary was an early positive case in the worldwide pandemic. Everything had shut down quickly as treatments and a vaccine were designed. It was now under control, but still, she had to spend the past month in recovery. Today was the best that she’d felt since it began.
Mary took her early wake-up call as a sign to get her day started. She showered and cycled through her closet, ultimately landing on a long red dress she hadn’t worn in years. She put it on, took the elevator downstairs, wished a good morning to Clive at the front desk, and exited out of the front revolving doors.
She went for a morning stroll through the city as it awoke. She meandered through the stream of commuters and bought a coffee and danish from her favorite stand, then enjoyed her breakfast from a riverside table as she watched the sun finish coming up.
She took the train to the botanical garden, free to enter for years now. She took notes on soils and plants she’d want to try next spring when her fire escape garden was again open for business. Then she walked to the park to clean up some trash, then for a quick happy hour pint with Joel.
He was a friend of a friend she’d met at a party a few weeks back and had started seeing. It’d been going well enough, with no immediate flags, but she still liked her alone time, so she kissed his cheek and they separated for the night. She went to the grocery store for pasta, tomatoes, parmesan cheese, and arugula, and then walked back home.
When she was done with dinner, the sun was beginning to set. She gathered her paint supplies and headed down into the community center, the former ballroom of the old hotel. There was a metal plaque outside that detailed a bit of the building’s history, but she hadn’t read it yet. Maybe tomorrow, she always told herself.
Over the past few months, she’d commandeered a small section of the center for a little project of hers: painting portraits of every tenant in the building. She was a quarter of the way through now, and had improved so much that she felt bad about the first dozen neighbors that she’d subjected to her artistic whims. Her portraits hadn’t really started to resemble their subjects until Raymond in 320-N.
Tonight, it was Maude from 482-S’s turn.
Maude was in her early 30s, relatively new to the building. Mary didn’t know much about her other than she had a kid named Simon, after his father, long out of the picture. The kid was presumably being taken care of during this session by Maude’s mom, Grace, who lived down the hall. Maude had tanned skin dotted with brown freckles, a short crop of hair she’d dyed ocean blue, and a powerful voice. She wore a white t-shirt and white jeans.
“Just sit here?” Maude asked Mary.
“That’s right,” Mary said.
Maude sat on the wooden chair and Mary began to sketch.
These sitting sessions were just about gathering the subject’s basics. Eyes, nose, the shape of their faces, then some paint to capture their hair color and skin tone. It usually took an hour. After that, she’d take the canvas upstairs and fill in the rest on her own time. No need to make her neighbors sit through it all.
When Mary was done, she thanked Maude for her time, and they ended with a hug. Mary lugged her materials back upstairs to her place. She set the new canvas in the corner to dry, grabbed the mug from the sink, dumped out the lingering water and poured in another whiskey shot.
She went to the window and stepped onto the fire escape. Below, the sounds of the courtyard kids echoed up into the night. Mary could make out Jerome’s voice clearly, even this far up.
“What a day,” Jerome’s voice boomed through the courtyard, before he let out his trademark steamboat whistle.
Across the way, she looked at the grid of windows. They were lit in static blues and reds, beiges flickering in the shadows of swirling ceiling fans, the staccato whites of their TVs. She watched her silhouetted neighbors move through their bedtime rituals between walls of framed family photos and artwork that presumably meant something special. She watched them untie their bowed drapes, which fell and obscured her peeping.
There was Woodrow again, having his nightly drink and cigarette after his long day on the bus. He flicked his stub; its orange amber spun down into the yard. He waved goodnight, and Mary waved back.
Mary finished her whiskey and set the mug down. As she began to climb back inside, she heard a noise.
tap. tap. tap.
It came from somewhere within the wall. Soft. Like someone tapping on glass.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
She examined the brick exterior wall, but found nothing. She climbed up the fire escape stairs, hoping to find the source. The wind swirled around the courtyard, and then billowed directly towards her, blowing her off her footing. She gasped and clutched the railing, steadying herself.
Mary decided it was best to let these eerie sounds be and just head back inside. To leave the mystery to someone else.
But then the moonlight caught the faint hint of something etched on the brick wall. She leaned forward to inspect it. Someone had carved directly into the brick itself. It was a ragged design.
A spiral.
She leaned forward further, her face nearly flush against the brick wall. Another loud wisp of wind came from behind her. It picked up speed as it swirled through the courtyard.
And then, after what felt like hours, or years, or perhaps all time, all at once, Mary’s eyes suddenly filled with tears as she began to shiver uncontrollably with a new realization that couldn’t be put into words.
TAP! TAP! TAP!
Artwork by Tiffany Silver Braun.
If you liked Tales from the Palmer Hotel, tell a friend. If you really liked it, the suggested donation for the series is a one-time payment of $6.66. Venmo (@Rick-Paulas) or Paypal (rickpaulas@gmail.com).