EIGHTEEN

The voice in her head came from a long time ago—from a galaxy, as the saying went, far, far away. It was her mother’s voice, and the last time she’d heard from her mother had been, what, ten years ago? The night before she’d married husband number one, Mr. Earl Van Dyke, when her mother had called and said she wasn’t coming to the wedding, wasn’t going to watch her only daughter ruin her life, so she was leaving, good-bye and good luck.

Though it wasn’t the harsh, strident voice her mother had used that night she heard in her head right now. No, what she heard was a much softer, gentler voice, the one her mother had used when reading nursery rhymes to her little girl.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells, and cockle shells

And pretty maids all in a row.

She sighed and shook her head.

The rhyme, unfortunately, had nothing to do with reality.

Number one, her name was Joan, not Mary. Number two, her garden (which was not much more than a little patch of bare dirt next to the stoop of 2411 North Cedar) was filled with dog shit, beer cans, and used condoms, not silver bells and cockle shells. It made for a depressing sight; the peonies she’d just planted seemed to sense their lot in life already. They looked wilted and saggy, as if they’d already given up hope.

Joan jabbed her little gardening shovel in the ground next to them and stood up.

“Fuck it,” she said out loud. “What’s the use?”

A roar sounded as an old Plymouth GTO rounded the corner and pulled into the garage beneath 2411’s loft apartment. Her new neighbor. Guy looked to be even worse than the last one. Never smiled, never said a word, probably thought he was a real badass with that leather coat of his and those sunglasses, though the act didn’t scare her a bit. This guy had to be a little slow on the uptake, because who the hell would rent the so-called “loft” above the garage for what Carlos was asking? Loft. Hah. Carlos had tried to get her to rent that place first, before finally agreeing to give her 2B, and as far as she could tell, the only thing that entitled her chiseling, skinflint super to call that apartment a loft was the fact that it didn’t have any plumbing outside of a single cold water pipe.

Not that her new neighbor seemed interested in showers. All he seemed to want to do was make noise. Welding and hammering, working on his car and God knows what else till all hours of the night. She would have complained, but like with the peonies . . . what was the use?

It was time to get to work, anyway.

She pushed the front door open. Lock broken again, no key needed. Wonderful. She’d have to get on Carlos’s ass about that; maybe he’d have it fixed by Christmas. Doubtful.

Already in a bad mood, she walked down the hall to her apartment, wondering if she should try to repair the lock herself. Maybe Dave would help her. He’d fixed the intercom system last month, fixed it up better than new; everyone’s buzzer worked now, and he’d hooked up everyone’s TV to the local cable system, even got them all free HBO (which thrilled Joan no end, nothing she liked better than movies).

That was all electronics, though. Wires and stuff. Dave had a way with those kinds of electronic things—computers, TVs. He had like a dozen of them in his apartment. She wasn’t sure how he’d do with locks.

She passed Stanley’s door then, heard the TV blaring (sounded like one of those soap operas Stanley was always watching, volume turned up to a deafening level to drown out the noise their new neighbor was making), and shook her head. Stanley would certainly be no help fixing the lock; she liked the man well enough, but he was like a child, just sat in front of the TV all day, every day, stuffing his face full of crap. Doughnuts for breakfast, doughnuts for lunch, French fries for dinner . . . no wonder the guy weighed five hundred pounds.

Inside her apartment, she slipped on her waitress uniform and headed for the door. Stupid-ass-looking outfit. She hated wearing it, the apron most of all, but Mr. Schurr wanted her to look like a “proper waitress,” and she needed the job, so . . .

She had just walked back out into the hall about to lock her door when the loudest noise she’d ever heard in her life, the clang of two huge chunks of metal banging together and smashing into pieces, split the air.

She started, and dropped her key.

The glass in the little window at the end of the hall, the window that looked out into the dimly lit garage, rattled. The plaster in the ceiling above her shook, and a chunk a foot square fell, just missing her head before shattering to pieces on the floor.

A cloud of white dust rose into the air. Joan broke out into a coughing fit.

That does it, she thought, bending to pick up her key. That fucking does it.

Time to give Mr. Badass a little piece of her mind.

As she started down the hall, doors opened behind her. She turned and saw Stanley and Dave stepping out of their apartments.

“Damn,” Dave said. “What the hell is he doing?”

“Very inconsiderate,” Stanley said. “Don’t you think so, Joan?”

“Very. I plan to tell him just that.” She jerked a thumb toward the stairway. “Let’s all tell him.”

The two men turned toward each other and frowned.

“Ah,” Stanley said. “I, uh—”

“Maybe that was it,” Dave suggested. “Maybe he’s finished now, with whatever.”

Joan rolled her eyes. Dave and Stanley, she loved them like brothers, but they were both big wusses.

“You guys,” she sighed. “You’re not going to make me do the dirty work again, are you?”

A sound like an engine revving came from the garage below then. Dave’s eyes widened, and, without saying a word, he strode quickly past her down the hall.

She saw he’d gotten another piercing and shook her head. That had to make like two dozen or so on his face alone, not to mention the navel ring and the thing on the back of his neck, whatever the hell that was. She wondered if he was trying to win a contest or something—most body piercings on the block—when he reached the end of the hall, peered out the little window that overlooked the garage, and let out a long, slow whistle of admiration.

Joan and Stanley joined him.

“Look at that,” he pointed. “You do not see one of those every day.”

Before Joan could see what he was talking about, Stanley squeezed past her, pushing Joan away from the window with his bulk.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

“A car, Bumpo. The car. A ram air four, sixty-nine GTO with dual Holly carbs, year-one headers, and a rock crusher tranny four-speed.”

Joan stood up on tiptoes and looked for herself.

She didn’t see what all the fuss was. Their new neighbor was working on a car. A beat-up old car, as far as she could tell, probably got about two miles to the gallon, spewing black smoke every foot of the way. Men and their toys.

Stanley stepped back from the window and shook his head.

“It’s really loud. Does it have to be so loud?”

“It’s beautiful, Bumpo,” Dave replied, rooted in place.

“But when is he going to stop?”

“Maybe never,” Joan said. “He hasn’t slept all week.”

“How do you know?” Bumpo asked.

“ ’Cause I haven’t slept all week.”

“What do you think he does?” Dave asked.

Joan frowned. She had no idea. As far as she could tell he didn’t do anything, just welded and hammered and played with big pieces of metal all day and night. He usually went up to his apartment (he had to walk right past her door to get there, being that the loft wasn’t directly accessible from the garage, which was how come Joan was so familiar with his schedule) at about three, maybe four in the morning. Reminded her of Earl, in that way.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he’s an artist.”

“Wow.” Bumpo’s eyes were wide. “Our neighbor is an artist.”

“Maybe.”

“And you’re the expert on artists?” Dave asked.

“I’ve known a few.” All of whom had one thing in common with Mr. Badass down there, an ability to work obsessively on things that she couldn’t make heads or tails of. Like those bars there in the corner; it looked as if he was making a cage or something. For what?

“So what do you think he’s doing?” Stanley asked Dave.

Dave shrugged. “Got me, Bumpo.”

“Go ask him,” Joan said to Dave. “And tell him to stop making so much damn noise while you’re at it.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

Joan shook her head. Pussy. She was about to head off and ask him herself when she saw that Mr. Badass had laid down his tools and was taking measurements of the car’s interior. A lot of measurements.

Maybe Dave was right. Maybe he was done making noise—for the moment at least. And speaking of the moment . . .

“I’m late for work, guys. Gotta run.”

“Night, Joan,” Dave said, eyes still glued to the car.

“Night, Joan.”

As she headed down the hall, she heard Stanley and Dave making plans for later that night. Spaghetti and American Idol. It was funny, her two misfit neighbors, always doing things together like an old married couple. Sweet. She liked hanging out with them, too, on her night off.

A thought occurred to her then. Maybe they should invite Mr. Badass up one of those times. That would be the neighborly thing to do—after all, the guy had lived in the building a week already, and not one of them even knew his name to say hello. Yeah. It was a good idea, she decided. Get to know the guy. Find out what he really did for a living. Who knew? Maybe she was right.

Maybe he really was an artist.