Edgar O’Malley was a lanky, 52 year old man with gray thinning hair, and sad brown eyes. He had spent 27-years of his life in a weathered brick house on a lonely hill just outside of a quiet old town. The house— possibly as abandoned as he was—sat at the end of a winding dirt road, decorated by small potholes, creating a resting place for the freshly fallen rain to transform into mud. The white door of the house hung on worn gold hinges, nestled above a welcome mat that though as old as he was, looked nearly untouched. As the nervous man, hurriedly shuffled out into the damp air, he was welcomed by sheets of fresh downpour, silenced by one loud clap of dominating thunder. He decided tonight was the night; the night that everything would change.
Edgar’s 1992, rusty green station wagon, was perched at the top of the driveway, tires caked with mud. The dark tinted paint around the doorframe had begun to chip away, revealing the raw metal underneath, and the once shining silver door handle had become dull from years of constant pulling and releasing. The car that had once provided a shelter-like transportation for a family of three, now only catered to one. Fumbling with his keys as he trudged towards it, Edgar could feel the cold rain start to soak through his red, plaid, long-sleeved button down and his khaki pants, before seeping into his dingy brown leather boots; untied laces already sinking into the mud like tree roots. He traced the outline of the key pressed to his palm with the underside of his rough thumb; one of the many habits he had acquired over the years, if only to occupy his mind. With the cold metal key securely in the lock, he reached a boney hand out and tugged on the door handle, opening the squeaky door, as he stumbled into the worn, tan bucket seat. Inserting the key into the car, the engine came alive as Edgar smoothed his hair back, and adjusted his wire-framed glasses on his over-sized nose before putting the car into drive.
With a heavy foot on the gas, he cautiously turned down the familiar country roads he had driven a hundred times, as the windshield wipers fought back the rain. The only conversation in the car was between speakers, as the AM talk radio station whispered against the pitter-pattering of the weather. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the top of the cold steering wheel, feeling it leisurely warm under his touch. Leaning his head back against the headrest, he locked his elbows, and closed his eyes for a brief second, as if bracing for impact. Concerned eyebrows knit together, Edgar glanced down at the words he had scribbled on a small piece of paper: Westbrook Apartments, #605.
The road ahead was decorated by wet reflections of neon signs and streetlights, as the tires pushed and pulled along the tattered pavement. Colorful signs from local restaurants beckoning for business gleamed against the wet windows, and then lingered in the rearview mirror before disappearing as tiny specks in a starry backdrop. Intersection street signs gave a brief iridescent jade and white glow as he passed, as if begging for entry. Madison Street, Willow Court, Monte Street held close company to 12 others, before Edgar came to a halt at a flashing red traffic light. He could see the apartments to his right, hardly a car’s length away. As rocks cracked beneath the weight of the car, Edgar timidly turned the wheel to the right, and came to a stop, parking against the soaked curb in front of the building. As he shut off the engine, and tossed the keys between his palms, he took in a long shaky breath. He sat in silence for what felt like forever, listening to his heavy gold, chain-link watch impatiently ticking as it rested against the underside of his wrist. The hot, heavy breath billowing from behind his lips began to create a light shape of steam across the front windshield. Instinctively, he reached his right pointer finger up and swiped one single line across the mess, revealing the glittering stars in the distance as he did so. Collecting his thoughts, he leaned his body weight into the doorframe, released his tight grip on the steering wheel, and stepped out into the awaiting downpour. Tonight was the night.
Westbrook Apartments stood 12 stories high, framed with old red brick, and decorated by light streaming through a single window on the 6th floor: her window; a potted orchid slowly dying on the ledge in the dim light. Edgar marched to the weathered metal doors at the front of the building, and dragged a long finger along the list of names next to it, tapping his finger loudly against the plastic in victory as he found her name. Pushing the button next to her name, he heard a deep buzzing sound, followed by a loud bang as the front door unlocked, and he slipped inside. Quickly, he shook the rain from his clothes, and ran both his hands, palms down, along the length of his body, smoothing his appearance. He tapped the toes of his shoes on the black and white tiled floors, bumping the lingering droplets to the floor, as he made his way down the hallway of the lobby, in the direction of the elevator.
Eagerly, Edgar reached a damp hand out and roughly pressed the upwards-pointing arrow on the elevator panel. The box made of gleaming new steel came silently crawling down, as Edgar nervously scratched the grey stubble on his old chin. The doors spread open, as he scurried inside. Anxiously, he scanned the rectangular array of numbered buttons to the left of the door. As he pressed the pad of his thumb into the circular button for the 6th floor, he heard nothing but his own thoughts screaming, as the lit elevator buttons started back at him, taunting as they ascended. The overhead jazz music streaming from the single black speaker seemed too high class for the scenery around him, he noticed. The burnt orange elevator carpet reflected up onto the dented steel, and the heavy doors rested slightly apart, giving a glimpse of the twisted wires that were just beyond. At the 6th floor, the gleaming metal doors slid open, revealing green linoleum floors, and his past at the end of the hallway behind a solid brown door: number 605.
Edgar knew that the he didn’t deserve to see her. To date, he had missed exactly 17 of her birthdays, and the other five, he had hardly been present for. That’s 17 celebrations of her birth, 17 valentine’s days, 17 father’s days, and 17 Christmases. Though he’d spent those years apart, bitter over the divorce of his wife, her death had suddenly made him realize that the child that had hung in the balance was now coping with the loss of a second parent, when she never should have lost the first. Edgar had written countless letters in apology, trying to explain why he’d been absent for so long, but as the ink began to spread across the blank space, the apology suddenly seemed too big for the page. Instead, he had tried buying flowers—simple daises, vibrant orchids, or elegant roses—but the buds never seemed to say enough. He knew he didn’t deserve to be in her life again, but as he sat drinking his cooling black coffee that morning, he suddenly missed her laugh; the way it had rumbled in her chest and then echoed off the wall like a symphony. He couldn’t be without her music any longer.
Quickly, he walked down the hallway, eyes to the floor, afraid he might lose his nerve if he dared to pace himself. The scent of citrus cleaning products overwhelmed his nostrils, and the eeriness of the silence made the atmosphere seem as if it was desolate. One foot clumsily in front of the other, his strides shortened as he almost barreled into the large door. The golden number 605 hung against the door in a diagonal line, each number ascending further down. Just below the 5, Edgar knocked hard, feeling the door vibrate under his knuckles. He waited for what felt like hours—short agitated seconds blooming into long elaborate minutes, gingerly creeping by—until finally the door hesitantly opened. There she was.
On the other side of that golden 605, stood a tall, 22-year old woman, with long brown hair resting on the shoulders of her green cashmere sweater, her slender fingers nervously playing with the hem where it met with her dark denim jeans. Her pale pink lips settled slightly apart, her taught, tanned cheeks flushed with the chill from the season’s touch. Just beyond her figure, the burgundy curtains shook against the heavy wind just outside her open window, slapping their wet fabric against the cream leather of the couch. The teakettle heating on the white stove pierced the silence with its scream. Slowly she dragged her sad brown eyes up to meet Edgar’s identical ones, as she searched them for all the answers to the questions he’d left unanswered for 17 years. The silence that filled the space between them had felt like it had lasted the span of those 17 years all over again, before he lowered his head in apology.
The layout of the apartment was a sharp contrast with the simple surroundings of the rest of the apartment complex. While the building was out dated and old, the inside of her apartment was spotless and new, gleaming white tiled countertops and a shining flat screen television started back at him. She had made a comfortable life for herself, despite the lack of a father. Her apartment was well kept, and as he dared to glance past her at the seemingly comfortable life she had made for herself, he was greeted by the warm smell of cinnamon and the scolding boom of a loud clap of thunder. Instantly goose bumps crept up the back of his neck and littered his forearms as he meekly lowered his head to the stare at his shoes. With his eyes glued to the floor, his ears waited for the sound of the door slamming—of her heart being closed off.—but instead he heard a quiet squeal. Barefoot and timid, she held the door open to her father. Edgar wasn’t sure if the sparkling gleam in her eye was only a florescent reflection of the overhead lights, or if it was a sign of hope; a hint to a chance he might have building a bridge between their lives. A small smile crept across his thin lips and stretched over his teeth, as he crossed the distance between the tattered linoleum just beyond the entry of the doorway and the tan carpet of her apartment—the past and the bright future—before the door quietly shut behind him.
Alyssa Chaffee 