Chapter 14 – The Photograph
Saturday morning, Maya woke on her mattress.
She'd slept badly. Dreams about basements and locked doors and men in grey suits. She lay still for a while, letting the morning light fill the room.
Her phone buzzed.
Leo: Did you sleep?
Not really.
Me neither.
What did you draw?
A pause. Then a photo came through. A drawing of her. Not her face. Her back. She was standing on the roof, looking at the garden. The milk crate was beside her. The water tank was behind her. The painted eye was visible.
She stared at the photo. When did you draw this?
Last night. From memory.
It's good.
It's not finished.
Why not?
Because I don't know what you look like when you're not worried.
She set the phone down.
---
At 10 AM, she went to the library.
She needed to print more copies of the tenant association letter. The library was quiet. A few people sat at computers. A child read a picture book in the corner.
She printed twenty copies. Then she sat at a table and looked at the letter again.
To Franklin Holdings: We, the undersigned tenants of 447 Franklin Avenue, hereby form a tenant association. We request written notification of any sale, transfer, or change of ownership. We request that all offers of cash for keys be made in writing and presented to the association. We request that no individual tenant be approached without a representative present.
It was formal. Dry. But it was legal.
She folded the copies and put them in her bag.
---
On the way back, she stopped at the facility in Crown Heights.
Mrs. Patterson was in the common room, watching television. A game show. The volume was low. She was the only one there.
Maya sat next to her.
"You look worse than last week," Mrs. Patterson said.
"Thanks."
"That wasn't a compliment. What happened?"
Maya told her about the showing. The man in the grey suit. The woman with the tablet. The cash for keys offer.
Mrs. Patterson listened without interrupting. When Maya finished, the old woman was quiet for a long moment.
"He's testing you," Mrs. Patterson said. "Seeing if you'll fold."
"I'm not folding."
"Good. But don't be stupid either. If they offer you real money, take it."
"I thought you wanted me to fight."
"I want you to survive. Those are different things."
Maya looked at the television. The host was spinning a wheel. A contestant cheered.
"Leo showed me his basement," Maya said.
Mrs. Patterson turned to look at her. "The basement?"
"He lives there. Has been for over a year."
"That's not a home."
"No. But it's what he has."
Mrs. Patterson reached for her hand. "You care about him."
Maya didn't answer.
"That's not a question," Mrs. Patterson said. "I'm telling you. You care about him."
"Maybe."
"Don't maybe. It's a waste of time." The old woman squeezed her fingers. "You care or you don't. Figure it out."
---
Maya left at noon.
She walked to the subway. The train was crowded. She stood holding a pole, watching the tunnels flash past.
At her stop, she climbed to the street. The sky was grey. It looked like rain.
She walked to her building. Mr. Chen was in the lobby, fixing the lock on the mailboxes.
"The Parkers came back," he said. "They're leaving for Florida next week. They said they won't sign."
"They're giving up."
"They're old. They're tired." He shrugged. "I don't blame them."
Maya went up to her room. She put the new copies of the letter on her desk. Then she lay on the mattress and stared at the ceiling.
The crack. The river.
Her phone buzzed.
Leo: Can I come up?
She typed: To the roof?
To your room.
She hesitated. Then: Yes.
---
He knocked five minutes later.
She opened the door. He stood in the hallway, holding a small frame.
"What's that?" she asked.
"A photograph." He handed it to her. "My mother. Before she got sick."
The frame was cheap. Plastic. The photo showed a woman in her forties, dark hair, smiling. She held a paintbrush. Behind her was a canvas.
"She was beautiful," Maya said.
"She was tired. But she was happy there." He pointed at the canvas. "That's the last painting she finished. A garden. Not ours. She painted it from a photograph in a magazine."
Maya looked at the photo. The woman's eyes were bright. The same brown as Leo's.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Because I want you to know who I came from. Not just where I live." He took the frame back and looked at it. "I keep this in the basement. It's the only thing I'd grab if there was a fire."
She didn't know what to say. So she didn't say anything. She just stepped aside and let him in.
He sat on the floor. She sat across from him.
They didn't talk for a while. The room was quiet. The radiator hissed.
"The bridge cables," Leo said. "Have you fixed them?"
"Not yet."
"Show me."
She pulled out her sketchbook and opened to the bridge page. The left tower. The cables. The flatter arc.
He looked at it. "Better."
"Not perfect."
"Nothing is."
He handed the sketchbook back. Their fingers touched. She didn't pull away.
"Maya."
"Yeah."
"I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of messing this up." He looked at her. "Whatever this is."
She held his gaze. "Me too."
Then she picked up her pencil and started to draw. Not the bridge. Him. His hands. The one holding the photograph.
She drew until the light faded.