"I'm leaving."
Ms. Patterson ignores me, or she doesn't hear me at least.
"—and that's when I told Ms. Mason that I wouldn't be bothered with any more extensions. Then she told me she'd pay the rent in beer and cigarettes." The gangly old woman throws up her hands only to slam them down on her wooden tea table and almost knocks over her pink teacup. "Oh! You should have seen me rip into her, Mr. Townshend."
I nod and watch her throw her hands about as she reenacts the scene for me, and I try not to stare at the flap of wrinkled neck skin that wags back and forth as she jostles around. But it's there and its wiggling and it looks so strange on a woman so thin. Then she catches my attention with those piercing blue eyes, and I know she knows that I was staring. Red flushes in her gaunt cheeks, and she smoothes her wisps of gray hair with a hand, but keeps talking as if she isn't bothered by my staring, or hasn't noticed.
"Well, I told her I called the cops and, well, that's the story."
She gets up and collects our small china plates and hobbles over to her cracked sink. I should get up, but I'm stuck. I'm stuck in her tiny little multi-purpose room, filled to the brim with painted plaster figurines of women in flowing skirts with little lambs at their heels and china plates that crowd together on the walls so that only bits of the lavender wallpaper could be seen. And it's all so old and the room smells stale.
"I don't see any teacups, Mr. Townshend," says Ms. Patterson.
I pick up my cup and hers. They clink in their gilded saucers as I walk over to the sink, and she takes each cup and washes them as if they were newborn children.
"When you said that you were leaving," she says, "did you mean that you were going on another trip for your photography?"
I fold my hands on the pink-tiled countertop and look down at my dirty fingernails.
"No, I'm moving away."
"Moving away? From here?"
"Yes."
She puts one of her oily hands on top of mine and grips it tight, her thick yellow fingernails pinching my skin. It hurts.
"Where will you going?" she says.
"Ashfield."
"All the way out there? That's close to Silent Hill, isn't it?" She chuckles and pats my hand. "You should save yourself the gas and just move there instead."
I smile at this. "Too expensive."
"Well, offer the mayor some help around the house or take some more nice pictures for their tourist ads. I'm sure they'd be more than happy to take them in exchange for renting a cardboard box."
Then she laughs, like a coughing car. Huk-huk-huk.
"So, Ashfield. When will you be leaving?"
She's taking this better than I had hoped.
"In a…a couple of weeks, if that's all right with you."
She smacks me on the shoulder.
"Oh, you silly thing. Two weeks is fine. I'll find a new handyman by then," she says as she rubs my arm. "Don't know if I'll find one that doesn't grumble, though."
I nod.
"I ought to bake you a pie. Do you like pie?"
Nod.
"Well, what kind of pie?"
"Any is fine," I say and smile a little.
"Blackberry it is!"
The glint of the watch on her arm that is rubbing me catches her eye.
"Oh, heavens! I've kept you here much too long. You must be exhausted!"
Nod.
"I'll let you go then," she says as she practically pushes me to the door. "Say hello to the puppy for me, and give me a ring if you need the number for a good mover."
"Thanks," I say and leave her apartment.
She quickly closes the door after me and I hear the clicks of the locks being locked. I bury my fists in my pockets and walk down the dark carpeted hallway. The other place only had wood, and I could hear every step I made across my apartment. There's no soft creak made like when stepping on carpet. Just heavy, sharp thunks.
"Oh!" wailed Ms. Patterson.
I pivot and run back to her door, ready to call out her name until I heard the whimpers. Soggy whimpers, if that makes any sense. The ones she made when talking about my family, or about hers. Divorced, twice. Son killed in the Gulf War and her daughter never talks to her anymore, though Ms. Patterson never told me why.
Huk, huk, huk, huk.
Laughing? No…no, she must be crying, crying on her purple-plush couch that's inches away from her tea table, her oily hands covering her red-flushed face like she's embarrassed about crying altogether. Should I go in there and try to comfort her? Try to tell her it'll be OK? Ask to live with her?
I don't want to leave her alone.
But I've left her alone plenty of times before.
She must be used to it by now.
She's just upset because I'm moving to a new town.
I'll call, and make sure she's all right.
I'll try anyway.