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Back to Issue 3 - Fall/Spring 2013

My Father Said
Hilary Chitty

I met him on the stairs.We were both going up to the third floor. He had greasy hair and a stare that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He reminded me of my father in some ways. My father had a temper on him that would amaze most psychologists today. If you crossed him, you'd better be prepared for the consequences. He always hated being told he was wrong, and when my mother tried, it never worked in her favor. It was part of running a household though. He told me every morning that a man has to have a heavy hand in order to stand strong. If you don't, you might as well be a woman. My father isn't the point right now though. He'll never be the point again. Never.

The man on the stairs turned his body away from me immediately as if he was trying to wall himself off from me. At the time, I thought nothing of it, but now reading the paper I realize it's because he was hiding his gun from me. It probably bulged out under the thin red t-shirt he was wearing. It's incredibly hard to hide a gun under such flimsy material. Maybe I should have answered the door last night when I heard the police banging on it, but I couldn't bring myself to deal with them that late. I just assumed that boy on the fourth floor had gone missing.

He's always playing in the hallway alone while his mother chain smokes in her living room. I've gone up to the fourth floor to complain multiple times to various neighbors about too much noise, and I always see him. He doesn't even run from strangers. Clearly, his mother hasn't taught him the term "stranger danger." It really was only a matter of time before the little boy got taken. I wouldn't have been any help to the police in finding him. I never saw him once yesterday. Their guess was as good as mine was. That wasn't why they were there, though. The little boy on the fourth floor was safe for now.

Maybe if I had been more awake when I passed the man he might have gotten spooked. He might have just doubled back around to the stairs and left without killing that girl in 3F. She had dark green eyes that reminded me of the mold stains on our ceiling when I was a kid. Her hair was long and had this beautiful deep brown tint to it. It had soft streaks of gold, I could only assume she dyed it herself. The brown reminded me of the color of my father's belt. Everything about her reminded me of my old home.

Other than her looks, I didn't know much about her. I never asked. She was eye candy, and I was always too scared to engage her in a conversation. What if she was dull? What if she was so boring that I would have picked up a gun and shot her four times in the chest? It wasn't me though. It was the man in the red t-shirt with the greasy hair and the dead eyes. The police ask me to come in to give a statement when I call. They make me sit down with a sketch artist, but I have the hardest time describing him. Maybe it was the pressure or maybe I was just trying to forget him. If I forgot him then I would forget her and move on with my life. I need to move on with my life.

I didn't kill her. Why did I have to dwell on it? It's a sad story, but sad stories are a dime a dozen in the city. People are mugged. People are raped. People are stabbed to death in the street. A creep with a gun killing a pretty girl is hardly something I'm going to sob into my pillow over. I have to sleep. I have work in the morning. Work pays for my apartment and I won't lose my apartment. I can't. Everyone needs a home. My father used to tell me that a man was only as good as the roof he put over his family's head. I need a roof, a home. This is my home.

The police don't understand how I didn't hear the four gunshots. Her apartment was down the hall from mine. So close. I explain that I sleep with earplugs. My sleep is very important to me. It's how I get through my job. In addition, the young guy above me blares music some nights, and it's hard to fall asleep without the earplugs. Wearing them every night has just become safer and more reliable. I don't tell them that when they came banging on my door the earplugs were out for reasons I'd rather not get into with them.

They don't need to know that I heard her loud laughter floating down the hallway before I fell asleep. It's trivial, and they'll probably just blow it way out of proportion. I'm finally clear to leave. I have no registered handgun, so they calm down. But why would I have one? I'm not the type to need one. I keep to myself, and I have four locks on my door. My father used to tell me that locks had two functions. They could keep people out, but they could also keep people in. It all depended on how you looked at locks.

My father bought seven locks for our hallway closet after my mother back talked him. I didn't see her again for five years. I waved goodbye when the police rolled her out under a sheet. I pass the greasy man again on the stairs when I return home. It seems so surprising that he would return to the scene of the crime like this. He's practically dangling himself right in front of the officers. I pause to study him. He pauses as well. I lean over to wipe some dirt from the mirror. The dead eyes hold my gaze, and I scrunch up my nose at the red shirt I'd thrown on again this morning. I really should wash it, but I don't know how to get blood out.