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Jack's New Apartment(continued) For the first time Shanna looked at Jack with interest. "What
if… hmmm… what if I told you I… owned this building?
That's right, kid; what if I told you I owned half this damn block?
I'm independently wealthy, all right. I just live here, with you, to
support my investment. It's business, baby." "You own my — this place?" For the first time Jack,
looked at Shanna with interest. Shanna sensed the extra attention. She felt no one had listened to
her for a long time. "That's right, kid, it's mine now that she's gone. Left it to
me, along with those stupid chairs. But let me tell you something, Jack.
This place" (Shanna pointed downward) "is mine. I am claiming
your apartment, Jack. Because it's mine. I painted the walls
eggshell white! I brushed away the cobwebs she couldn't reach,
and I brought her that new stove that's in the kitchen. It was
a Christmas present. And I've fallen asleep in front of that fake fireplace
thousands of times, because they weren't sure if she would make it through
the night and I was never able to hear her from the third floor. And
by the way, my mother never would have put that ugly, smelly couch in
here. When this was her home, she had a beautiful settee that she recovered
with a delicate Italian silk that she got for cheap at a flea market
in 1989." Jack was silent, but he was trying to remember the exact time that
Shanna Pillai had officially stepped outside his definition of "stranger."
"I'm sorry you don't like the couch," he said. "Damn it, kid. I didn't say I didn't like the couch. I said my
mother wouldn't like the couch. Me, I like the couch, because it's really
comfortable. My mom, she would hate the couch, because it's ugly!"
Shanna suddenly stopped long enough to take a deep breath. When she
spoke again she was calm and soft. "But you know, that couch —
to me it doesn't belong here." "I understand." "This place is weird." "I understand." Shanna placed her hand on the crown of Jack's head. It was as if she
was claiming him, as well. Jack felt nervous, because Shanna's cigarette
was hovering over his head. "Thanks for listening, kid. I really don't think this apartment
is mine. I feel like it should be mine, but I know it no longer is."
Her voice was almost a whisper. "I understand." "Do you really?" "Yeah." "Thanks for the blanket, Jack." Shanna started to walk toward
the doors but then stopped and turned around to face Jack again. "I
can listen too, you know," she said. "Come visit me sometimes.
I think it would be unwise for me to come here again." "OK," Jack said. Shanna was done in Jack's apartment. It was too much. This room was
once filled with pictures of her childhood, her family, and her friends;
now it was empty. When she got to 145 Humble Street apartment number
1A and rang the bell, her mother did not open the door. It was Jack,
and he was not wearing a white lace shawl. His hair was not sculpted
into a perfect round bun that sat right in the middle of his head. The
rocking horse that used to be in Shanna's bedroom when she was little
was no longer by the fake fireplace. The painting of Mr. And Mrs. Pillai's
wedding in India was gone. The apartment smelled like sweat and Lysol,
not lavender and peppermint. Her mother's small world had once filled
this apartment to the brim, but suddenly her world had been drained
— and right in front of Shanna's eyes. Shanna had stood by helplessly
and watched it disappear. She was given no other choice. The door was sticking, as usual. Shanna knew how this door worked.
You had to pull. Hard. You had to put your back in it. Of course, her
mother had known an easier way, but Shanna was never able to master
it. So she pulled. She leaned back and pulled, and the handle broke
off, and Shanna fell to the floor, flat on her back, and the room echoed
when her head hit the hardwood floor. Jack picked up Shanna's limp body and placed her on the couch. He was
going to call a doctor, but he was stopped by Shanna's voice. "Don't call anyone," she said. "I'm fine." Jack spun around and kneeled next to Shanna, as she lay sprawled out
on the couch. "But you lost consciousness. It could be serious. I'm sorry, but
I have to call someone." "Oh, shut up. I wasn't passed out. I was faking it, or at least
trying to avoid the embarrassment. No luck." "But how do I know you're not lying?" "OK, fine I'll tell you the truth. I did lie to you once today." "I'm calling — " "Jack, I don't own this building. Or this block. I own a very
small, rather unsuccessful children's bookstore. I kind of make enough
money to live on. Kind of. This, of course, means I am not independently
wealthy." "I know what that's like." "Shut up, you baby." "Besides, I've already met the owner of this building. He's fat
and sweaty. Not sweet and cute like you." "Shut up. I'm not sweet and cute. I'm loud and a little crazy." "Funny. Listen, I'll shut up now if we can talk later." "Jack." Shanna eyed the young man carefully. She felt comforted
by him. She felt comfortable with him. "I'm keeping this doorknob."
Shanna held the doorknob up, but far away from Jack so he couldn't grab
it. Jack might need his doorknob, but Shanna needed a reminder and a
memento more. Shanna left Jack's apartment with her mother's blanket in one hand
and the original doorknob to Jack's new apartment in the other hand.
The original doorknob was placed there in 1945 by one of the original
builders of the 145 Humble Street. The current owner of the building
(the fat sweaty one) insisted that the doorknob was an antique, but
Jack swore he didn't know where the original doorknob was. It had evaporated.
Jack got a new metal doorknob, silver and cold. It would have looked
out of place in the world Mrs. Pillai had created for herself to die
in. But in Jack's new apartment, it fit perfectly.
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