I wanted to just walk away, but I couldn’t think of a reason. He pushed the gate and held it open for me. I followed. He put a key in the lock and went on, “This is what’s called a maisonette. An apartment with its own entrance. You can go in through the lobby, or this way.”
He pushed open the door and held it for me. It was just an open door. Nothing to be scared of. I’d known him most of my life. There were neighbors all around me, windows next to windows next to windows, all with people behind them. I could hear a dog barking. So why did I have the heebie-jeebies?
He hadn’t told me one word of why he’d shown up or what we were doing, and now he expected me to follow along like a duckling. And look how he held the door open, not even seeming impatient or pleading, just waiting for me to do what he wanted.
I walked toward him, lengthening my stride on purpose, hitting my heels down hard like I had my tap shoes on. As I went by, he reached out and switched on the light. I tried not to flinch as his sleeve brushed mine. We were standing too close. The door shut with a click as I walked farther into the apartment.
The warmth hit me first, the radiator hissing heat. The living room was off the foyer, a pretty room with the lamps lit, nice but not fancy — a rug, a green couch, a table, two armchairs near a fireplace. Thick gold curtains on the windows, shielding us from the street. Through an archway down at the end of the apartment, I could see into a kitchen. A breakfast table with yellow legs was right up against the window where it would catch, I was sure, the morning sun.
I stopped in the middle of the rug, keeping my back to him. I was done with the chatter and the questions. It was up to him to start.
“I made a mistake with Billy,” he said. “I should have understood him better.”
“Seems like you should be telling him that, not me,” I said. I kept on looking at the table with the painted yellow legs. It made you think of sitting there with a cup of tea on a Sunday afternoon.
“I tried,” he said. “I wrote him a letter. Three, in fact. He sent them all back, unopened. So I’m sitting there at home, wondering how to make it right. I want to set things up for him so when he comes back he doesn’t have to worry. I know what the two of you wanted. I heard him say it enough times — he was going to marry you and make a life for you both, here in New York.”
“We don’t want anything from anybody,” I said. Leaving out the part about my saying to his son I never want to see you again.
“So, the war interfered with your plans,” he said. “That’s what wars do. I got this apartment a while ago. I needed a place for business, but I don’t need it anymore. So now it’s yours.”
“Mine?” The surprise made me turn.
“Yours and Billy’s. For when he gets back and you get married. You’ll be eighteen soon, so you won’t need permission. You might as well take it now.”
“Now,” I repeated, feeling dumb. Then I saw where he was going. “No.” I was suddenly warm, so I stripped off my gloves and jammed them in my pockets.
“Where are you living now, some rooming house?”
“I have a room with one of the girls in the show.” Mrs. Krapansky coated herself with Vicks VapoRub every night before she went to bed. She charged me for everything — towels and hot water and a spoonful of sugar in my tea.
“Okay, you ran away from home — that’s your business. My business is my son.”
“So leave me out of it!”
I saw his chest swell as he took a breath. What was he expecting, that I would thank him?
“I’m saying this wrong. I’m trying to give him a dream, you see what I mean? The dream he had. So he’ll have something to think about. I know about war — I know you need something to come back to. So, please, Kit. Take the key. No strings. You wanted this, too.”