Idiot - Laura Clery Page 0,72

IS DUE IN TWO DAYS. DO NOT FORGET!” she yelled with a thick Russian accent. She spotted me and glared. Or maybe that was her resting face? It was unclear.

When Stephen moved to America he had no credit. So no sane landlord would let him rent from them. Which is why he ended up with:

“DO NOT FORGET, Stephen! TWO! DAYS!” She punctuated the last two words with whaps of the broom against the window.

Stephen and I shrank down under the covers, waiting for her to leave. This overbearing Russian woman and her weird codependent daughter let Stephen rent from them because he is British. “These Americans are up to no good. You come with us,” they’d said. Stephen wasn’t really in a place to say no. I guess the landlord wasn’t accustomed to texting or phone calls or ringing the doorbell. Her communications were always through our window: “Stephen! Sweep the front porch. IT IS VERY DIRTY.”

They had bought this apartment complex in the ’70s for dirt cheap. These tiny apartments were built in the 1920s, absolutely about to fall apart, but cute nonetheless. The old woman lived in the front one, we lived in the second one, another family lived in the third one, and the daughter lived alone in the last one.

The mother and daughter would fight constantly. They were both codependent and hated each other. The old lady was always convinced there was going to be a war. One time, when we were invited into the old woman’s apartment, I used the bathroom and saw that her bathtub was completely filled with fruit. They hoarded so much food. When there was a news report about a bombing in London, the old lady ran to Stephen’s window and offered to let his entire family stay with them here. “We can keep them safe for when the war comes. We have bathtub of fruit. They will be okay.”

“What war? This was just a random attack.”

Her face darkened: “There will be war, Stephen.”

As overbearing as she was, there was only one moment where she truly crossed the line. She popped up in the window holding a plastic bag. “Stephen, you must try these apples I just bought.”

Stephen awkwardly reached through the open window and grabbed one. “All right, thanks.” She then went on to insist he take a bite while also saying, “I do not like Laura. She is not right for you. You must leave her. She is not the one!”

Luckily, I wasn’t there at the time, but Stephen recounted the story to me later. “I don’t know what came over me, but I was so upset and offended that I pointed at her and said, ‘DO NOT EVER SPEAK LIKE THAT ABOUT THE WOMAN I LOVE.’ And then she nodded respectfully. I think she gets it now.”

“Wow. We’re like Romeo and Juliet, but if your family was the landlord and there wasn’t really anything at stake.”

“Yes, that’s exactly it.” Stephen nodded. We had a good laugh. Stephen’s such a gentle creature, it takes a lot to get him to yell.

There were so many similarities between Stephen and me. We always joked that we were from different countries but the same town. Stephen grew up in Faversham, this suburb outside of London; I was from a suburb outside of Chicago. The towns even look strangely similar, with their long front yards and brick buildings. We both grew up working-class, his dad was employed at a furniture store and his mother was a waitress.

Stephen is half Irish and half British. In the 1960s his father moved to London from a very poor town in Southern Ireland. His name was Sean Murphy, and it really doesn’t get more Irish than that. When Sean was looking for work, every business had a sign up that said: No dogs, no Blacks, no Irish.

When he was walking home from another unsuccessful day looking for work, he looked up and saw the Hilton Hotel. Hilton, he decided, sounds British. He proceeded to change his name from Sean Murphy to John Hilton. He got rid of his accent and finally found a job ushering in a movie theater. He met his wife-to-be Mavis when they were both working as ushers. They got married and had Stephen. Then the three of them moved into this tiny one-bedroom apartment together until they moved into the slightly bigger two-bedroom town house, which they still have today.

There’s something about growing up the same way that gives you a deep connection.