Brenda lives south of Bridge Street, the less desirable part of Manchester. There’s no real line of demarcation, no obvious shift in the environment, no sudden appearance of graffiti-tagged buildings or vagrants wandering about. Yet there is a sense of fatigue south of Bridge Street. Houses are more tired and worn than their counterparts just a couple of blocks to the north. Yards less kempt. Sidewalks more cracked. It’s as if this section of the city simply cares a bit less.
It’s only a ten-minute walk for me, and the cold both chills and wakens me, giving me the energy I need. I pass packs of trick-or-treaters, some with their parents, others by themselves. Older kids buzz with excitement, the thrill of being out alone at night, approaching strangers’ doors with no real fear. The fun kind of scared.
On High Street, there is less activity. More darkness. The electrical line hanging over the sidewalk crackles and hums, and as I pass under it, I feel a soft heat rise on the three-inch scar above my clavicle. I check my phone and confirm the house in front of me is Brenda’s. I’ve never been here before.
A massive evergreen stands heavy and old in front of Brenda’s house, its thick, sagging branches nearly blocking the path to the door. Needles sweep my cheeks as I pass. Tiny, bony fingers. Three concrete steps up to the entrance, each one heaved in different directions, victims of expanding underground roots. When I get to the door, I see there are, in fact, two doors, and then realize the house is subdivided into apartments. I check the address once more and confirm Brenda’s is the one on the left. Her apartment has lights on. The apartment on the right is dark enough to almost fade into the night.
I ring the bell.
Deep breath. Count to four. Exhale.
Brenda answers a moment later, greeting me with a bowl of candy. She smiles and opens the door.
“I figured it was either you or my first customer of the night,” she says.
“You haven’t had a single one?”
“Not yet. I think that tree keeps everyone away. I need to have my landlord trim it back. Such a pain.”
She holds the door open, and as I pass, I notice her perfume, not strong but more present than I’ve ever noticed in the Rose. Lavender. A scent meant to relax and calm. I’ve tried lavender incense at night to help me sleep. It didn’t work.
I walk in a few feet, turn, then pull the wine bottle from my purse.
“Might as well drink since I’m not driving,” I say.
“You live close?”
“Close enough.”
She takes the bottle. “Thank you. I don’t know very much about wines, but it looks good.”
“It’s red, and it’ll get you buzzed. That’s about all I know.”
I get Brenda’s top-shelf smile, which pulls me in like a tractor beam.
I follow her into the kitchen, where she takes an opener from a drawer. The opener I brought remains in my jacket pocket, and I slide my jacket off and hook it over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. There are two place settings, and the aroma of Chinese takeout fills the air.
“I already ordered,” she says, pouring me a glass. “Hope that’s okay. Got a little bit of everything.”
“Of course,” I reply. I have zero appetite. I reach for my purse. “Here, let me give you some money for the food.”
Brenda instantly waves me off. “Please, you already pay me more than what my position deserves. It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But truly, you deserve more. You’re basically running the Rose solo, Brenda. I’ve hardly been there the past two weeks.”
“You know I’m happy to help. Besides, ever since you fired Dan, it’s been a lot more peaceful.” She turns and hands me a glass of wine, and for the first time, I notice she has a little bit of makeup on. Not much, but since she never wears any, it’s noticeable. Brenda has the kind of simple, timeless beauty makeup rarely augments.
She raises her glass.
“Happy Halloween,” she says.
It’s the last thing I want to toast, but I clink her glass anyway, adding, “and to things taking a turn for the better.”
“Yes, absolutely.” She takes a sip. “Things have been pretty rough, haven’t they?”
The wine is heavy and full, warming my chest after I swallow. I have to remind myself to take it easy.
“Yes, pretty rough.”
“Sorry,” Brenda says. “I don’t mean to pry. We really don’t need to talk about any of that.” A sip, a doe-eyed glance. “If you don’t want to.”
“It’s fine,” I reply, then walk into her living room—just a few steps away—and take a seat on a tired leather couch. “It’s good for me to talk about it, because I almost never do.”
This elicits another smile from Brenda, but not of her usual variety. This seems more a knowing smile, the kind used by a person who just got what they wanted. She walks over and sits on the couch directly next to me, leaving a whole cushion of space free on the other side of her. She lightly touches my knee with her fingertips.
“I’m glad you said that,” she says. “Because ever since you told me about that website, I’ve had a million questions for you.”
Good, I think. This is why I’m here.
“I almost don’t know where to begin,” she adds.
I lean back into the cushion. “Take a stab.”