“Couldn’t tell ya. He didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
A mobile phone rang in his pocket, the first few bars of “Danny Boy.”
“Excuse me, I gotta take this.” He handed her a business card from his pocket. BARRY PROPERTY MGMT. “You want to fill out an application, just give me a call.”
He stepped back into the apartment, closing the door behind him.
Claudia lingered a moment in the vestibule, staring at the closed door. She imagined it opening again, Timmy appearing out of nowhere in his stocking cap and layered T-shirts. What exactly would she say?
At that moment she heard footsteps on the landing. A small round woman was struggling with a package, an immense fruit basket wrapped in clear yellow plastic.
“Do you need help with that?” Claudia called.
“It’s arright, I got it. Can you grab those bags, maybe?” The woman nodded toward two large shopping bags sitting on the landing.
Claudia picked up the bags and followed her upstairs. The door of the second-floor apartment was ajar, a radio playing. Cooking smells wafted into the hallway, cumin and maybe garlic. Claudia’s stomach squeezed violently. She’d eaten just an hour ago. Now she was salivating like a hungry dog.
“Let me put this inside,” said the neighbor—Latina maybe, her speech accented. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”
Claudia waited in the hallway—why, she wasn’t sure—until the woman reappeared. She took the bags from Claudia’s hands and set them inside the door.
“Thanks. Timmy used to do that. He was always carrying things for me. I heard you asking about him.” Her eyes lingered at Claudia’s midsection. “I’ve seen you here before.”
Claudia felt her face heat.
“He didn’t move away,” said the neighbor. “He went to jail.”
Claudia’s stomach groaned audibly.
“Jail,” she repeated. “Are you sure?”
“That’s what people are saying.” The neighbor raised her hands, palms up: What could you do? “I knew what he was into. But he wasn’t a bad guy, you know? I liked him.”
Claudia said, “I liked him too.”
SHE COULD FIND HIM IF SHE WANTED TO. IT WOULD TAKE SOME effort, but she could do it. She didn’t know his last name or his age or where he was now or how long he’d be there, but those questions had answers, and answers could always be found.
When she thought of him at all, which wasn’t often, she remembered the way they’d talked to each other, their conversations mediated by television. She could place him easily in her childhood, on the sagging couch between Deb and the fosters. Claudia gave Timmy his own TV tray, his paper plate, his plastic cup of cola. In this way it seemed that he’d been with her for her entire life.
He was her kind.
They weren’t in love and never could be, but for a time he’d felt like home to her. In the terrible year after her mother died, his apartment was the place she went to.
His porch light was always on.
TIMMY WAS GONE NOW. THERE WAS POWER IN KNOWING THIS. The knowledge made all things possible. She couldn’t imagine having a child with him. She could only imagine doing it alone, as her own mother had done.
When she fell pregnant, she had a choice to make. That the choice wasn’t automatic or obvious is a truth no one wants to hear. Falling makes for a better story: falling pregnant, falling in love. If she fell in love with Timmy, or with her future child, if she fell in love with the idea of motherhood, she would be a more sympathetic character. This hasn’t changed, and likely won’t: We prefer our heroines helpless. Helpless means blameless.