THE WALK HOME FROM THE TRAIN, AT LEAST, WAS PEACEFUL. Crisp December air, late afternoon sun. The sounds of traffic and my own shoes on solid pavement. Finally, I thought, my day was settling down. But when I got to my house, old Charlie was sitting on the front steps. I hoped he was just resting, that he’d get up and let me pass. He didn’t. No, as I approached, Charlie didn’t move at all, other than to stretch his mouth into one of his wide, open grins.
“Hi, Charlie.” I tried to step around him to follow.
“Hello, Miss Zoe.” He nodded my way. “Not too cold today.” Still smiling, he slid over slightly to the center of the steps, blocking my way. “Sit awhile?”
“Sorry.” I tried to sound friendly. “I can’t. The sitter has to get home, and we have someplace to go.”
Charlie looked up the steps. “Give it a minute. All that can wait.”
What? He didn’t budge. “Charlie, I’ve got a million things to do before we go.”
“Sit a minute.” It was a command. “Just for a minute.” He didn’t look at me. “Go on. Sit.”
It wasn’t like Charlie to order people around. Something must be on his mind; as reluctant as I was to linger, I was also curious. Besides, I was tired. It wouldn’t hurt to sit for a minute. One.
So I sat. The cement was hard and cold, and Charlie’s aroma was strong. It wasn’t quite offensive, just stale. Musky. I leaned back against the railing and looked at him. Charlie’s jacket was frayed at the collar, worn at the cuffs. His shoes were scuffed, his pants stained with paint and oily patches. A handyman’s uniform. For a while, he was silent. I watched his breath clouds swell and fade as he stared into the street. Finally, quietly, he said, “Miss, how many years now have we lived across the street from each other?”
It was an unexpected question. How many years had it been? I remembered moving in, Michael carrying me over the threshold, my arms around his neck. I didn’t want to remember that, didn’t want to count the years. “I don’t know. Thirteen? Thirteen years, I guess.”
“Thirteen years. That’s a pretty long time, right?”
“I don’t know. You’ve lived around here a lot longer than I have, Charlie.”
“Well, that’s true. I’ve lived here since before they came in and fixed up everything. Gentrified it. I was here way before your house was even built. This used to be a vacant lot with poor folks’ homes all around it. They’re all gone now, of course. Torn down. And the poor folks have mostly gone.”
I nodded, wondering what visions Charlie saw when he looked up and down the street.
He turned to face me. “Miss, who do you think you can trust?”
“Trust?”
“In the world, I mean.”
The question was oddly personal, and Charlie’s stare made me uncomfortable. I looked up at the door, wondering if Angela would be in a hurry. Then I searched a pocket for my keys.
“Seriously, think about it. Who do you trust? These days, anybody can be anybody, for all you know. Even a neighbor.”
“True enough.” I might as well agree with him.
“The police were here yesterday, miss. You called them?” Oh, so that was it. He was curious about the police. “Yes, Charlie, I called them.” “Why? What happened?”
I didn’t want to tell him about the finger. Lord, if I did, we’d be out here for hours, discussing it. “I had a problem.” “There was trouble, so you called the police.” “Yep.”
“Well, that’s natural. That’s what they’re there for, to help people. You trust them, don’t you? You trust the police, Miss Zoe?”
I thought of Detective Stiles. His steady pale eyes. “Yes, Charlie. I trust them. Look, I really have to go in.”
“But you didn’t tell me what the trouble was. Even though you’ve known me for thirteen years. Even though we share the same street.”
“Charlie. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I just don’t want to discuss it.”
“Miss, you trust the police, but not old Charlie. I understand that. You know me, but you don’t know if you can trust me. Right?”
I started to get up. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Charlie, but really, I’ve got to—”
He put his hand up. “Don’t be in a hurry. Settle down and listen. Because you can trust me, Miss Zoe. I want you to know that. Even with your life. Or your child’s.”
Trust him with my life? With Molly’s? Why would he say that? Did Charlie think we were in danger? Actually, I didn’t want to know. I wanted to end the conversation. “Thank you, Charlie. That’s nice to know. You can trust me, too.”
He didn’t look at me; he scanned the street, the rooftops, the sky. I followed his glance. Alongside an empty house, Jake’s dump truck backed up, beeping, parking for the night. In Victor’s window, a curtain snapped shut. On Phillip Woods’s porch, Santa beamed red and green. I wanted to go inside.
“But except for me, miss, don’t trust anybody. Not around here.” His tone had changed. It was suddenly blunt, gruff. Disturbing.
“Charlie—”
“I mean it. Keep an eye on your back all the time.”
probably Charlie was worried because women were disappearing. He was concerned about the single mother and child who lived across the street. He was being protective, that was all. And, in his way, sweet.
“You don’t have to worry about us, Charlie. We’re fine.”
“No, listen. I tried to tell you before. There’s lots of depravity these days. Swelling appetites for evil. It’s all around.” His eyes rested briefly on the Santa flickering across the street.
I fidgeted. The cold cement step was freezing my behind. There was no point in arguing with him. “Thanks, Charlie. I’ll be real careful.” Again, I started to stand; again, Charlie put his hand on my arm.
“Miss, wait. Don’t look alarmed or run away. Somebody may be watching us, even now. Listen, I know things. I’m taking a big risk, telling you.”
Oh dear. Maybe it was worse than I’d thought. Charlie thought people were watching him? poor Charlie. He might be losing it. How old was he, I wondered. Seventy-five? Older?
“You don’t want to listen to me, but you must.” His whisper was urgent. “I’m just a handyman. But I see things. In the alleys, the basements. I have the tools to work under the floorboards, inside closets. In old houses or new. In basements of every house on this street. people don’t think much about me, but I know things. Houses have secrets. There’s evil here, miss. Close by. Serious evil. And it’s gone too far—into the bricks, the dry-wall, the wood.”
Apparently, Charlie had gone too far, too. He’d crossed a line, entered a place where perceptions got twisted and played tricks on the mind. Where truth became fragmented and jumbled, patched with imaginings. Still, with all his ramblings, he wasn’t scary. Old Charlie seemed damaged, not dangerous. Like a worn-out teddy bear.
“. . . so you can’t tell,” he went on. “Anybody can wear anything. Disguise themselves as police or doctors, judges. Businessmen. It’s their clothes, their costumes that tell you who they are. If you see somebody driving a fire engine, you assume he’s okay, right? He’s a fireman. You trust him. Or the mailman. Certainly you can trust the mailman! But how do you know that the mailman’s really a mailman? That the fireman’s really a fireman? Because of the uniform, right? But how do you know that he’s not really a madman—a murderer dressed in a uniform? With a disguise, could somebody fool you? Sure they could.”
I leaned away, wondering how long he’d go on, how long I’d have to stay there. Charlie tilted toward me, whispering dank words. “Somebody might wear a uniform. Like a policeman. Or a dentist. Or he might dress normal, in a business suit, so you wouldn’t even notice him. That would be the best disguise of all. He’d blend in and trap you—miss, please, just smile, act as if we’re shooting the breeze here. please. In case we’re being watched.”
He looked straight ahead again, watching cars drive by, smiling casually and nodding his head. I wondered how long he’d had these thoughts, whether he’d forgotten to take some kind of medication.
“. . . that you and your child are in danger.”
Wait. What was that? “Oh, come on, Charlie—what are you saying? That the mailman’s a murderer? Or some fireman’s planning to hurt me? Because that’s what it sounds like.”
Charlie folded his massive, calloused hands, nodding, relieved. “Not necessarily the mailman. Or a fireman. Evil can take on any form. Any disguise. A taxi driver. A cop. So trust no one. Be on guard. Hear me, miss. Evil is nearby. Watching, lurking, planning. Listen to what I’m saying.”
Charlie’s face was an inch away. His eyes bulged, and a cloud of fermenting breath engulfed my face. It was all I could take. I got to my feet. “Charlie, I’ve got to go in.” I started up the steps.
“Don’t be afraid, miss,” Charlie spoke over his shoulder without moving. “I’ve been protecting you, and I’ll keep on. I’ll protect you both. You can count on me. You and your little one can count on old Charlie. That’s all I have to say.”
“I’ve got to go in.”
When I opened the door, I looked back. Charlie was watching, frowning with concern. The man was disturbed, but he couldn’t be dangerous, not with a face so sincere and troubled. Shutting the door on him would be rude, maybe even cruel. Still, I wanted to discourage his behavior.
“Charlie, don’t worry about us,” I assured him. “Really. We’re fine.” Then, without giving him a chance to reply, I went inside and shut the door. Molly’s jacket and bookbag had landed in the hall.
Angela’s voice floated down the stairs. “Yo, Zoe—that you? We’re upstairs.”
“I’m getting in my gym stuff, Mom.”
“Great. We’ve got about ten minutes,” I called.
unbuttoning my coat, I went to the window. Victor’s shades hung at an odd, twisted angle. Construction trucks blocked my view of Santa. Charlie, having gotten up off my front steps, hobbled back to his side of the street on crooked, unsteady legs.