one: the fox and weasel

Upon Nathan’s return to the rooming house, standing on the front stoop and craning his neck, he squinted at the bright, thick haze above him in awe and disbelief. Within it, a sign slowly materialized, its shadows peeling away. Lopsided, creaking on its chain in the cold, dusty wind. 

The Fox and Weasel, the sign’s gothic letters proclaimed above a double-pointed arrow, one arrow pointing at the front door and the other at a second flight of stairs leading toward a cellar tavern. 

Which, Nathan wondered, was the Fox and which the Weasel? Or did both establishments share the same name and proprietor? When he arrived earlier, there’d been only one arrow and no cellar tavern, the rooming house’s windows dark as if swathed in blackout curtains. 

three: portmanteau

Mary left him at the landing, the passageway ahead devoid of paintings, furnishings, doorways, windows, just the same drab, peeling wallpaper he’d seen earlier in the parlor, faintly lit by a dull, pulsing light. Did it emanate from the wallpaper or elsewhere? Nathan couldn’t tell, however closely he examined it.

He was dawdling, reluctant to continue, fearful of ascending the next stairs, second guessing himself regarding agreeing to the sisters’ offer of the rooms sight unseen and with no agreement regarding their final rate. Wary of the sisters’ generosity and also of Robert Halzer’s.

On the top landing at the first and only door, he inserted his key, and turned the knob. Behind it, a small, cramped room but filled with light, the windows half open, shades flapping in the breeze, a smell of disinfectant, not entirely unpleasant, dissipating in the air. The bathroom door ajar, Nathan glimpsed a claw-footed tub ringed with curtains.

Single bed with carved wooden frame, night stand, rolltop desk, wrought-iron floor lamp. As promised, a rotary telephone, encased in black bakelite, peered from the floor next to the bed.

 four: the infant ismelda

Her basket almost full, Catherine paused, and, blinking, stared at the sky.

Moments ago, the sun had broken through the clouds, and she imagined light still playing against the stark white sheets dangling from the clothesline, the bright smocks and aprons, the multi-colored headscarves, shawls, and blouses and skirts the three sisters favored. One item—hers—chillingly familiar. She had washed it by mistake.

Nora did her laundry at home, and the boarders fended for themselves, but Catherine, who slept in the garret or attic though sometimes on a cot in the kitchen, did her laundry and the sisters’ together.

The sun again vanished, and scattered raindrops fell.

She knelt, frantic, separating the sisters’ clothes from hers, Catherine’s mostly undergarments, petite and frilly.

the inheritance

My great uncle recently died, and in his will he left me, his only heir, the delicatessen he had owned and managed for most of his adult life. 

The will had several stipulations. First, the delicatessen mustn’t be sold and upon my death must pass to my own heirs—who, however, I had none, having never married or fathered any children.

“That,” my great uncle’s attorney and executor said, “can be worked out later. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll marry and bear children eventually. You need only convey to me your intent to honor his wishes in good faith. As his executor, I hold considerable discretion in such matters—we can revisit the subject later.”