Frances did something peculiar. It was deep in the night and she awoke from a panicked dream of suffocation death. She stood away from her bed, then left the room and paused in the hall, listening. Moving to the front door, she slipped her coat and shoes on, exited the apartment, and began walking. Other than the rare passing scooter or taxi she was alone in the streets. She walked for ten minutes and found herself standing beneath what until recently had been her own apartment. The light in her bedroom was on, curiously, but only her light; the rest of the building was dim. From the sidewalk she could see that the walls were naked, artworks removed, and a fresh coat of paint had already been applied. It hurt her to think of her effects and artifacts stacked in crates in a darkened underground storage facility somewhere. They would be sold in bulk, at auction, to a buyer who did not know her, and so could not be worthy to possess them.
From the side of her eye she saw a dark figure, head and neck merely suggested, moving along the bottom right-hand corner of the bedroom window, then dipping out of sight. She knew that it was only a painter or real estate agent or someone from the bank, but the very idea that someone was there while she was not, and that she was barred from entering, made her miserable. When the bedroom went black, Frances turned away and walked in the direction of Joan’s apartment.
Stepping down a narrow, lampless passageway, a man in the distance was walking toward her on the sidewalk. He wore a long coat and cap and he was, she noticed, audibly reproaching an unknown antagonist with great bitterness, even hatred. Frances assumed the man to be one among the long-suffering and placeless individuals who roamed city streets at night, unfortunate people driven across the brink by, she supposed, an absence of comforts; but in coming closer to him, she saw that his clothing was not at all shabby, and that his face was shaved, his hair tidy and trimmed. When he noticed her approach he abruptly ceased walking, ceased talking. She looked down as she passed him; he rotated to watch her stepping by. She was six paces out when he asked her, “Are you all right, madame?”
Frances stopped and turned. The man had a pleasant, healthy face. He’d been so angry only a moment before, but now he looked and was acting as a gentleman. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked.
“Just that it’s quite late to be out.”
“You are.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said the man. “Well, good night.” The man touched the brim of his hat and took a step away from Frances.
“I’ve lost my cat,” she said.
The man paused. He studied Frances more closely. “Yes, you have the look of someone who has,” he said. “And that’s why you’re out so late?”
“That’s right,” she said.
“Would you like me to help you look?”
“Oh, no thank you.”
The man thought. “Have you checked under the bed?”
Frances shook her head.
The man said, “Everything I’ve ever lost in my life has always wound up being under the bed.”
“I’ll look when I get home,” said Frances.
He turned again and walked off and Frances stared after him but said nothing more. She wondered who he’d been cursing with such passion. He’s going home to her now, she thought, smiling.
She returned to Joan’s apartment. It was very warm inside and her hands felt pinpricked. She stood in the vestibule, warming them, and her mind was wandering in a pleasing way. Now she did the peculiar thing. She stepped across the room to stand over Tom and Susan, to watch their sleeping faces. Susan’s was undeniably fine, and Frances couldn’t help but admire her unblemished cheek and neck. Next she studied Tom. He looked stupid even in slumber, Frances thought. When she looked back at Susan, Susan’s eyes were open, and she said to Frances, “Hello.”
“Oh, hello,” Frances answered.
“What are you doing?”
“Just, you know, up and around.”
“What?”
“I’m just walking around.” She scissored her fingers back and forth to mimic a stepping gait.
Susan stretched her arms. “You’re not planning on killing me, I hope?”
“No,” said Frances.
“Oh, that’s good.” There was a pause. “Do you want me to get up and keep you company?”
“No, I don’t want that.”
“Okay. Well, I guess I’ll try to go back to sleep.”
“All right,” said Frances. “Good night.” She returned to her room. She was blushing as she crawled into bed, and she thought, What did I do that for? She was almost asleep when she recalled what the man in the street had said. Hanging upside down, she checked under the bed, but there was nothing there.