The building on Franklin Avenue was full of characters.
Mr. Goldstein, the landlord, who wore cardigans and smelled of cigar smoke. Mrs. Gable, on the first floor, who never left her apartment and yelled at children through the window. The Kims, on the second floor, who kept to themselves and worked strange hours.
And Mr. Chen.
He was the super. Young then. Maybe thirty. He fixed the boiler, changed the lightbulbs, swept the stairs. He spoke with an accent. He was quiet. He worked hard.
Eleanor met him in the hallway one day.
"You're the new woman in 3A," he said.
"I've been here for a year."
"I've been busy."
She almost smiled. "I'm Eleanor."
"Mr. Chen."
"You don't have a first name?"
"Mr. Chen is fine."
He nodded and walked away.
Henry laughed when she told him. "He's a man of few words."
"He's strange."
"He's the super. That's his job."
---
One winter, the heat stopped working.
The pipes froze. The radiators went cold. The building was freezing.
Eleanor wore two sweaters. Henry wore his coat indoors.
Mr. Chen came to check the boiler. He was in the basement for hours.
Eleanor brought him coffee. The basement smelled of oil and damp concrete.
"It's old," Mr. Chen said. "The boiler. Needs replacement."
"Can you fix it?"
"Temporarily."
He fixed it. The heat came back. The pipes banged.
"Thank you," Eleanor said.
Mr. Chen nodded. "You're welcome."
He went back to his apartment. The one in the basement. Small. Dark. No windows.
Eleanor thought about him often after that. A man who lived in a basement. A man who fixed things. A man who never complained.
"Mr. Chen is lonely," she told Henry.
"Everyone is lonely."
"He doesn't have anyone."
"He has us."
She looked at him. "Does he?"
Henry was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "We'll invite him for dinner."
---
Mr. Chen came on a Sunday.
He wore a clean shirt. His hair was combed. He brought a bottle of soda.
Eleanor had made pot roast. The same recipe her mother used.
They sat at the small table. The plates were mismatched. The forks were different sizes.
"This is good," Mr. Chen said.
"Thank you."
"You cook well."
"My mother taught me."
He nodded. He ate slowly. He didn't talk much.
Henry tried to make conversation. "Do you like being the super?"
"It's work."
"Is it good work?"
"It's work."
Henry looked at Eleanor. She shrugged.
After dinner, Mr. Chen stood. "Thank you for the food."
"You're welcome anytime."
He nodded. He left.
Eleanor washed the dishes. Henry dried.
"He's a hard man to know," Henry said.
"He's a man who's been hurt."
"How do you know?"
"Because I recognize the signs."
Henry put his arm around her. "You're wise."
"I'm observant."
"Same thing."
---
Months passed. Mr. Chen became a regular at their table.
He came every other Sunday. He brought soda. He ate pot roast. He talked a little more each time.
He told them about his family. His parents had died in China. He had come to America alone. He had worked in restaurants, laundries, construction. Then he found the building on Franklin Avenue.
"It's not much," he said. "But it's mine."
"It's ours," Eleanor said.
He looked at her. "Yes. Ours."
---
One evening, Henry came home with news.
"The Kims are moving," he said.
"Where?"
"New Jersey. He got a job there."
Eleanor sat at the sewing table. "That's sad."
"They were quiet."
"They were neighbors."
She thought about the building. The people who came and went. The ones who stayed.
"We're not going anywhere," she said.
"We're not?"
"This is our home. This building. This roof. This garden."
Henry looked at the window. The alley. The brick wall.
"It's not much," he said.
"It's enough."