20 As the soundtrack for Star Wars streams from the CD player, I glance at my notes, then close my eyes and type:
New York City’s falling crime rate, while undoubtedly influenced by the mayor’s efforts to bolster the municipal police force and enforce even trivial laws, is more likely the economic result of lower mortgage interest rates.
I pause to skim the copy. It’s bulky, but it makes my point: More affordable housing has led to wider home ownership, and wider home ownership has pulled thousands of people away from urban population centers. Fewer people per square mile equals less crime.
I am about to continue when a gluddle-lunk emanates from the computer speakers. Aurora is sending an instant message.
AuroraRose: You busy?
I click on the box, then answer:
Phil627: Not too. Whassup?
AuroraRose: I think I’m dreaming again—this time in broad daylight.
I prop my chin in my hand and study the message. Aurora doesn’t like to discuss her dreams unless it’s 2 a.m. . . . so she’s either finding it easier to talk about them through the detached medium of e-mail or something is really creeping her out.
Phil627: Maybe you should give me details.
I wait a full thirty seconds before the computer tells me she is typing a reply.
AuroraRose: I was up on the roof, and I could have sworn I heard a voice. It’s happened twice now.
Phil627: Wait a minute—you were on the ROOF?
AuroraRose: Yeah. I went up there for some fresh air.
I find myself grinning at the monitor. Aurora Norquest is finally beginning to spread her wings. This is progress. I know she’s dared the lobby to retrieve her computer equipment . . .
Phil627: That’s cool. Where’d the voice come from?
AuroraRose: I’m not sure. I thought I was hearing things, but the noise startled some birds on the roof—at least I think it did.
Phil627: Maybe you heard someone’s TV.
AuroraRose: I don’t think so. I would have heard more than just one phrase.
Phil627: Someone could have been setting a radio station.
AuroraRose: Nobody else was around.
Phil627: Well—what’d the voice say?
AuroraRose: It said, “I know she weeps.” How crazy is that?
Phil627: Reminds me of that movie Field of Dreams. Did you see that one?
AuroraRose: If you build it, he will come. I saw it. But nobody’s telling me to build a baseball field.
Phil627: Okay—so what is the voice telling you to do?
AuroraRose: If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking your opinion.
Phil627: Let’s back up a minute. That was a movie. You’re talking about real life, right?
AuroraRose: Right. And I shouldn’t be hearing voices. But I swear I did.
Phil627: Then somebody had to be talking.
AuroraRose: Right. I say nobody else was around, but I did see the woman who lives in the glass penthouse across from Clara’s place. But there’s no way I could hear anything from that apartment. One thing was odd, though—I saw her crying right before I heard the voice. Weird, huh?
I cock a brow. My internal alarms are clanging, and Aurora is definitely venturing into the twilight zone. She’s a nice woman, smart and sweet, and she could be really attractive if she wanted to be . . .
But she’s carrying some heavy baggage, and it sounds like she could use more help than I can give. She might even need a psychiatrist—a good one.
So . . . how do I handle her question? I can’t encourage her fantasy, but I can’t tell her she’s nuts, either. And I do want to be her friend, because in some ways, she’s a lot like me.
I rest my fingertips on the keyboard.
Phil627: Definitely weird territory, kiddo. Maybe you’re the empathetic type. Maybe you’ve heard that phrase somewhere and when you saw the woman crying, it popped into your brain.
AuroraRose: I don’t know where I would have heard it—does that phrase mean anything to you?
I search my memory. The phrase does seem memorable, but almost any phrase could be memorable given the right circumstances.
Phil627: Sorry, I can’t place it. I think it may be an Aurora original.
AuroraRose: I hope not. I don’t want to walk around hearing things. But thanks for the input. Sorry to bother you.
Phil627: No bother. You can IM me anytime.
I click the X that will close the program, then wait, half expecting her to send one more note. But Messenger remains silent.
Thoroughly distracted from thoughts of my project, I cross my arms and rub my chin. Aurora is charming and self-sacrificing, attributes I have always admired in friends. And she could be attractive if she gave her looks and clothing half a thought, but she’s plagued by more than the usual fears of single urbanites. That business about her father would keep any self-respecting shrink occupied for two or three years, plus she’s also dealing with nightmares and what looks like agoraphobia . . .
“Face it,” I mutter, clicking back to my word processing program. “The woman is a mess.”
Most of the guys I know would run from Aurora without a second thought. The Manhattan dating scene is tough enough without adding genuine psychological problems into the mix. Then again, last year I had a couple of dates that left me wondering if everyone in Manhattan was slightly out of touch with what passed for reality in St. Louis. Swinging is too conservative a word for the sex-saturated atmosphere of the clubs where my dates wanted to meet me. Nearly everyone in the place was drunk or getting there, and the moment I walked through the door, I felt the pressure of prying eyes on every inch of my nothing-special body—
No wonder I prefer to stay home on weekends.
I had pretty much given up on dating and the hope of ever having a girlfriend until I moved into the Westbury Arms. Then I met Aurora . . . and I couldn’t help liking her. I was beginning to think God had decided to bless me with hope for the future, but now I’m wondering if God has anything to do with this budding friendship.
No doubt about it, life would be simpler if I didn’t become involved with Aurora Rose Norquest. No sense in inviting trouble while I live in this building—after all, I want to stay here a few years, so I’ll need to remain on good terms with all my neighbors, especially those on this floor. So I should be friendly to Aurora and Clara, but that’s all. If I allow my relationship with Aurora to grow deeper, I’ll become entangled, and nothing hurts more than cutting your way out of a tangled relationship.
From another compartment in my head, a memory surfaces: Mandi Norton, the beautiful girl I worshiped in school. I used to follow her through the halls of Lindbergh High like a starving puppy, and she could have easily turned and annihilated me with one sharp comment.
But she didn’t. Even though her friends teased her—I heard them—and her boyfriend stomped around looking as though he wanted to launch any guy within ten feet of Mandi into next week, one day she caught me alone in the school parking lot. “You’re a nice guy, Phil Cannon,” she’d said, smiling as she wrapped a strand of her blond hair around her index finger. “But I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to keep up with you. You’re going to do great things one day.”
She smiled and walked away, but I stood rooted to the spot, wrapped in a cocoon of euphoria. She believed in me! And her belief thrilled me even more than a kiss would have. Her gift buoyed my confidence and carried me through the dog days of high school and my first few semesters of college. Many’s the night I thanked God for Mandi Norton’s kindness.
But who believes in Aurora Rose Norquest? Clara Bellingham hovers like a shadow, but Clara would never help Aurora conquer her demons. Theodore Norquest has remained out of the picture for thirty-five years, so he isn’t likely to show up. Aurora has no job, no social support, no apparent friends . . . except me.
The words of a proverb float back to me on a ripple of memory: Never abandon a friend . . . in your time of need, it is better to go to a neighbor than to a relative who lives far away.
Though I can count my New York friends on one hand, compared to Aurora, I am wealthy with friendship. If I were to gather around the water cooler at NYU and ask my peers what they would do in this situation, I know they’d tell me to run from Aurora as fast as humanly possible.
But I’ve been brought up with different standards . . . and in St. Louis, neighbors reach out to help one another. Is what I’m feeling fatal attraction . . . or destiny?
After saving my work, I push away from the desk and head toward the door.
Aurora’s on the phone when I buzz. She lets me in with a smile and a slight lift of her brows, then mutters, “Uh-huh,” into the phone. I realize she isn’t surprised by my arrival, which is probably a good thing.
“No, Clara,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m not overstressed. And no, I haven’t finished the painting, but I’m not calling in a professional. I like doing the work myself, and I have yet to fall off a ladder.”
Smiling, she leads me into the living room and gestures toward the sofa. I take a seat, then feel something jabbing me in the back. I reach for the object and pull a book from behind a pillow: Seventeenth-Century Poetry. Aurora has eclectic tastes.
“I’m fine,” she assures Clara as she sinks into the wing chair. “And I’ve got to go, ’cause Philip just came in. Okay. Talk to you later.”
She disconnects the call with her thumb, then slides the phone between two stacks of books on the coffee table. “I don’t know why I was hoping Clara could shed some light on what I heard. She’s convinced I’m losing my mind.” She presses her hands over her face, then peers at me from between splayed fingers. “You think so, too, huh?”
“No,” I say, “but I am concerned about you.”
She smiles, another good thing. I’m thinking we might make real progress toward getting her some help, but the buzzer rattles again.
Aurora rolls her eyes. “That’ll be Clara.”
“Maybe it’s a delivery?”
“No, it’s Clara.”
She gets up and goes into the foyer. A moment later she returns, followed by Clara, who is continuing her telephone tirade. “Something’s not right with you, Aurora. Grown women don’t hear voices coming from out of the blue.”
The older woman faces the younger, whose arms are clamped around her middle. Clara glances at me, but my presence doesn’t seem to register—either that, or she doesn’t care that I’m here. “Either you tell me what’s going on”—she turns back to Aurora—“or I’m having Dr. Morgan come up here to examine you.”
Aurora closes her eyes and exhales through pursed lips. “Philip’s here, Auntie. Maybe we should talk about this later?”
“Some things can’t wait until later—besides, I’ve a hunch you’ve already told him about this. Am I right?”
An accusatory note underlines her voice, and as Aurora’s gaze catches mine, I understand. Clara may be concerned about Aurora’s mental health, but she’s also concerned—maybe even threatened—because Aurora has confided in me.
A weight settles upon my shoulders—the heft of responsibility. And in that moment I realize I have a choice—I can stand, excuse myself, and leave this apartment . . . or I can remain here and accept the responsibility inherent in this friendship.
Leaving would be the easiest option. Clara would be relieved and Aurora probably wouldn’t hate me. We could still be cordial, still exchange pleasantries when we happened to meet in the hall. I could concentrate on my work without the distractions of a troubled neighbor; life would continue in a smooth, untroubled rhythm.
But what sort of a man walks away from a friend in need? My life has been centered on a creed that champions unquestioning faith, limitless perseverance, and sacrificial love.
I prop my arm on the sofa’s armrest and decide to stick.
Like an awkward teenager, Aurora stands with one arm down, the other blocking her body. “I don’t need a psychologist, Auntie.”
“Convince me.”
“I’m fine. I’m just a little stressed . . . and I’ve been taking some pills to help me sleep. I think maybe they were too much, so I’ve already decided to stop taking them.”
Clara blinks, her features hardening in a disapproving stare. “You’re using drugs?”
“Just Halcion—to help me sleep.” Aurora drops into the wing chair as if she is suddenly too exhausted to stand. “I was having nightmares, so I took some of Mother’s pills. I didn’t intend to take them forever—only for a couple of nights. They made me sleep so soundly I didn’t wake up.”
Clara scowls furiously at Aurora, her fine brows knitting together, then she turns the heat of that scowl upon me.
“Did you know about this?”
I flinch, overcome by a sudden feeling of guilt. “About the sleeping pills, no.”
“But you knew about the nightmares?”
“Well . . . yes.”
The tight bud of irritation blossoms to anger in her thin face. “And you didn’t tell me about this?”
I glance at Aurora, but she’s staring at her hands. “I didn’t think it my place to tell you,” I say, meeting Clara’s hot eyes. “Aurora is fully capable of taking care of herself.”
Clara’s gaze travels from me to Aurora as if she can’t decide who is most deserving of her anger. Finally, she points a bony finger at Aurora. “You are to flush every last one of those pills down the toilet. And if you hear any other voices, you are to tell me at once so I can call Dr. Morgan. And you”—she whirls on me in a flash of fury—“you will tell me about anything that threatens this girl. Aurora is as dear to me as my own flesh and blood. If she’s having problems, I want to know immediately.”
I am at the point of automatically agreeing with her when an unexpected dose of courage dribbles from some inner reservoir. “I think, Mrs. B., that Aurora is capable of deciding whether or not she needs—or wants—help. And she’s confessed to using the sleeping pills—a justifiable need after all she’s been through—and confession is hardly the habit of drug abusers. Somebody has to give this woman permission to take responsibility for herself.”
I haul my gaze from Clara’s tight face and return my attention to my hostess. “Aurora.” I soften my voice. “Would you like to speak to this Dr. Morgan? Or do you think you’re getting a handle on things?”
Her gaze drops like a stone to the floor, and for a moment I hear nothing but the sound of a LaGuardia-bound jet shuddering overhead.
“I think”—Aurora lifts her head and meets my eye—“I am going to be fine. I’m not taking the pills anymore, and I’m making lots of good changes. I think I’m better than I’ve ever been in my life.”
Inwardly, I cheer her courage. If she can stand up to Clara, she just might make it.
The older woman lifts her hands in a gesture of surrender. “But you’re hearing voices. If that’s what you call fine—”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. B.,” I say. “I’ve been keeping an eye on her.”
The line of Clara’s mouth tightens a fraction more. “Both of you have given me a major headache. Aurora, take a nap; you need to rest. Philip, go back to your own apartment and let her be. The girl has been through major trauma. She needs time to adjust.”
I choke on a sudden surge of laughter. Aurora Norquest has waited thirty-five years to begin her life. When is she going to be allowed to live it?
I cross my arms, fully intending to remain on the couch until Clara leaves, but Aurora stands and plucks at my sleeve. “Thanks for stopping by, Philip, but maybe you had better go. A nap sounds like a good idea—I think I’ll stretch out and try to get some rest.”
I search her eyes for some hidden message, but apparently she means exactly what she’s saying.
“Okay.” I stand, but tap her shoulder before moving into the foyer. “If you need anything, call me.”
She nods, but I’m not sure she understands my real meaning.