Landlord

Probably it was nothing. Probably Leann had imagined the tapping sound, as she was always imagining things at work, according to her boss—slights and sexist overtones and being interrupted during meetings more than her male colleagues. Yes, Leann was prone to dramatizing, to blowing things out of proportion—she was well aware of this by now. She had been told this about herself over and over. The noise was probably just a branch on the window.

Except there it was again.

It was not a large apartment—a coach house, the listing insisted, though really it was a converted garage. But just enough space for her—just exactly what she wanted: a big room for her bed and a few armchairs around an ottoman, a separate kitchen area where she kept an Ikea table and three chairs, a full bathroom. Everything she needed, now that she was on her own again. And the landlord had given her a good deal, had been surprised at the showing, she thought, that a woman her age was renting alone, had let her haggle him down on the price. (A small victory: Leann had wanted to test her muscle memory for charm, to see whether men still responded to her. Gratifying that the landlord did—a sense of relief. She would make it. She’d be fine.)

It was dark out, of course. Past nine. The time of night Leann sometimes got the heebie-jeebies when she was home alone, as she was now (and forever more), knitting a hat for her favorite nephew and listening to her current favorite true crime podcast. She would have called the sound “knocking,” but it was much softer than knocking, though by now, the third time, she was quite sure the sound was deliberate and that it was coming from her front door. She paused the podcast, set down her knitting. Stepped the few paces to the door without passing the windows, which were covered in blinds and curtains but which had the power to slice her open to the world, it seemed, all the same.

She looked out the peephole, heart hammering.

The landlord.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. She really was getting herself into a twist for nothing, really did have to stop with all her true crime and murder mysteries—that’s what her ex-husband had said, and maybe he’d been right. Maybe they were making her jumpy.

Though it was a bit late for a landlord to come by.

He stood before her door, tapped again while she watched through the peephole. Maybe she would pretend to be out, pretend to be sleeping, pretend she hadn’t heard anything. She somehow did not want to open the door for him. Did not want to invite him into her space, which was also technically his space, and which he’d been kind enough to cut her a deal on—but which he was supposed to give twenty-four hours’ notice before entering, after all.

He bent, pressed his face to his end of the peephole. He pulled back, grinning.

“Le-ann,” he said, a soft singsong.

Goosebumps on her neck. He looked—off, somehow. But no. She was being silly—a fishbowl lens. That was all. It was getting late and she was edgy from insomnia, from months of thin sleep. She was doing it again, looking for drama where none was. Nothing more natural than a landlord visiting his property.

She unlocked the door, opened it a crack.

“Yes?” she said.

“Mind if I step in?” he said. Maybe fifteen years her senior, rangy and graying but not altogether unattractive.

“Is something wrong?” she said, keeping her body in the opening she’d made.

He turned up his coat’s collar—an old-school L.L. Bean parka whose style was coming back around. He blew into his hands. “Been working in the crawl space,” he said, nodding to the main house. But he didn’t go on.

“Is there—is something wrong with the furnace?” Wind sliced her exposed neck, clenched her skin.

“Now why would I keep the furnace in the crawl space?” he said, a hint of teasing in his voice. “Unless you think it would work better turned on its side?”

“I don’t—”

“That would be fun to try to explain to the insurance company when it burned the place down.”

She didn’t know anything about the main house, of course, about its structure and upkeep. She wasn’t sure why he was here—why she was talking to him. Her mattress, just a few feet away, seemed to have developed its own center of gravity, tugging at her from the base of her skull. She wanted to be burrowed deep in it, alone.

He rubbed his hands together, cupped them over his reddening nose.

She relented.

“Thank you, Leann,” he said, closing the door behind him, taking in her setup. “I appreciate it.” His eyes lingered on the bed.

“Do you want—can I make you tea or anything?” she said.

A smell of gin on him. Cigarettes. “Tea would be just the right thing.” He smiled, met her eyes—a hint of flirtation?

She looked away quickly (a flit of embarrassment for him, then dismissal—of course that wasn’t why he was here), hurried to the kitchen section, put on her electric kettle, plopped two bags of lemon ginger into mugs. Nearly jumped at the sound of a kitchen chair scraping the ground, scolded herself for being jumpy. The kettle boiled and she poured water and set a mug before the landlord and stepped back to lean against the counter.

“The place looks good,” he said, turning his chair to face her.

“I’m glad I found it.”

“Needed a woman’s touch.” And there it was—what kept him from being attractive. Mouth shut, she might have imagined him thoughtful, sensitive. Longing and shy. But then he had to say things like that.

She offered a taut smile. She hadn’t been able to sleep all week, but now exhaustion welled up in her. She fought a yawn.

“I’m not boring you, am I?” he said, a wink in his voice. “I’d hate to think I’m worse company than a pair of knitting needles.”

Guilty now, she ended the yawn on a laugh. “Sorry,” she said. “Long day.”

“You stay up late, I’ve noticed,” he said.

“Insomnia,” she said, trying to parse his meaning.

“That’s one word for it,” he said, drawing his eyes over her body the way you’d rake your fingers through hot beach sand. “Me, I’ve always preferred nights, plain and simple.”

Nights—yes. Leann had loved nights, had loved her twenties when the worst thing that could happen at night was not going home with somebody. And even that wasn’t bad, because it meant walking home with her girlfriends, chatting sometimes until the eastern sky lightened, slipping into bed as the early joggers emerged. And that walk home—really the best thing of all, she thought now, in hindsight—walking in a cluster of three or four, the closest she’d ever felt to invisible—invincible. The tension of lust left behind at whatever bar or party they’d left, the street too dark for leering. The group of them—the physical bulk of their alliance—a buffer for the ill-intentioned.

“Don’t tell me you’re the type that believes being a night owl is some kind of personal failing,” he said, performing incredulity.

“Of course not.” Put him at ease, her gut said. Soothe him.

“Phew,” he said. “Had me worried for a minute.”

If they’d been at a party, she might have flirted a bit, might have gone on about how much she agreed with him. Or else said she agreed in theory but then pointed out the impracticality of staying up late, the strain it put on those with a day job—played the laughing devil’s advocate, ready to let him win. But she had no interest just now—she wanted him out. She wanted to sleep. She leaned harder against the counter.

He eyed her. “I’m not going to bite, you know,” he said.

She felt obligated to smile, at least.

“Come on,” he said, not wheedling any more, not light. “Sit down.”

And she didn’t see what choice she had, didn’t see how she could justify what she was doing without seeming rude—standing apart, pushed up against the counter, gripping her mug for dear life (this was her ex-husband’s voice, now, narrating herself to herself. She hadn’t realized how often this happened until she’d moved out, and now she tried to override it when she caught it).

So she moved to the table. She sat.

“There, now,” said the landlord, scooting closer to her. Blocking her path to the living area and the door. “Isn’t that better?”

No, she wanted to say, it is not. Which was her being difficult, according to her boss, according to her ex. But what did that even mean? She had to find a therapist, she knew. Therapy would be good for her just now.

“Most people are winding down around this time,” said the landlord. “It’s nice to meet someone like-minded.”

She looked at the oven clock—almost ten. “I do have to be up early, though,” she said, apologetic. “It’s a work night.”

“Work night,” he said. He made a scoffing sound. “Spreadsheets. That’s not work.”

“Oh?” she said, trying to gauge whether he’d leave faster if she picked a fight or if she played dull.

“Work gets your hands dirty,” he said, holding up his hands, which were crusted with something dark and oily-looking. Without thinking, she looked at his mug—still untouched. He followed her eyes and wound his palms around the ceramic body, shoving two fingers through the handle gap. “You worried about getting a little grease on your china?” He raised the mug, took a long swallow.

“Not at all,” she said, aiming for mild, for breezy, though her heart was stuttering. Not fighting, then—he seemed primed to argue.

He set the mug down. “Used to be there was some dignity in getting your hands dirty,” and something about the aggression in his ds made Leann realize he’d had more to drink than she’d first thought. “Now the only ones respond to a help wanted are a bunch of Mexicans.” A sneer.

She had to get him out. Immediately.

“It’s getting pretty late,” she said, standing.

“Sit down,” he said, a command.

She froze. She lowered herself into the chair.

“I pegged you for better manners than that,” he said, less forcefully, but she was running options now, wondering whether she could get past him to her phone, left on the armchair. But who would she dial? Not 911—this was not an emergency. And nobody she knew would be awake. She tried to channel her friend Cassie, who always knew what to do in these situations. Play to his rational side, she imagined Cassie saying. Give him an out.

“Was there something you needed to check here?” she said.

“As a matter of fact, there was,” he said, the tone of a man vindicated. “Last tenant complained about the water pressure.”

Leann looked to her left, at the bathroom door.

“I haven’t had any problems,” she said—in fact, that was one of her favorite things about the apartment. Showers like a scalp massage every morning.

“You might just be used to low pressure,” he said, standing. “Lot of people are.” He stepped to her side of the table, so that he towered over her.

She stood, tried to flatten herself out of his way.

He looked at the bathroom doorknob, then at her. “Do you mind?” he said, holding up his hands. “Don’t want to make a mess.”

And so she pushed the door open, and he followed so close behind her she had no choice but to step into the bathroom, and he shut the door behind him with his elbow, nodded to the shower stall.

“Mind turning it on?”

And why her absurd heartbeat? It wasn’t such an outlandish request—he was trying to keep her bathroom clean, after all. Which would mean he wouldn’t have to clean it on his way out, which would mean he could leave sooner. She turned the knob and he stepped to the stall, so that she had to step back into the corner where the far wall met the linen cabinet, the shower’s easy steam already thickening the air, the landlord flicking his hands in the water, then holding them there.

“You mind?” he asked, gesturing to her bar of soap (orange blossom soap, which Cassie had given her as part of a housewarming gift—the kind that was maybe eight dollars a bar and smelled divine). Leann did mind, actually, but he’d already picked it up and was turning it in his greasy hands, over and over, the soap whose smell she’d savored every morning, a bolstering part of her brand-new life. He set it back on its shelf, smudged now, and rubbed his hands until grease-cut froth twilled down the drain. He cranked the handle to shut off the water and turned to Leann, his dripping hands aloft. She pulled her towel from its rack and handed it to him. He dried his hands methodically, and the gin-and-tobacco smell seemed everywhere, nauseating in the close, humid air.

“Seems all right for now,” he said, handing the towel back. “I’ll keep an eye on it.”

And she took the towel, turned to rehang it, felt his eyes on her, turned back. Was that a smirk? But no—not everything was about her, she had to remember. Not everything was ill-intentioned, though, yes, she was wondering whether (if it was a smirk) he was thinking how his hands had just been all over the towel that she’d used that morning on her naked body, what that meant by some supernatural law of transference, what he might do with this image later, when he’d returned to his own dark home, wherever it was—

“Thanks for checking,” she said, to cut off her thoughts.

“That’s my job,” he said, but he didn’t turn to leave the bathroom even though Leann was sweating now, needed air, wanted to throw open the door and breathe.

She swallowed, forcing herself calm.

“Well, if that’s everything,” she said, going for firm.

“Come on, Leann,” he said, disappointed. “It’s early.”

She should never have let him in. She should have pretended to be asleep.

She smiled, apologetic, nodded to indicate she’d like to get around him, get out of the bathroom.

“There’s one more thing I need to check,” he said. “Just take me a minute.”

“I really—”

But he’d already opened the door of the sink cabinet, settled on the ground. He unhooked a slim flashlight from his belt, eased himself into the cabinet, shone the light up. She might have stepped over him to get out. Yes, that’s what she would do, she decided, relieved, and made her move.

“Would you mind holding this for me?” he said, emerging from the cabinet. “I just want to tighten a few knobs.” He held out the flashlight.

She didn’t see any way around it—the sooner he got this over with, the sooner he’d leave—so she took the metal shaft, warm from hanging against his body.

“Now if you could point it up there,” he said, sliding back into the cabinet. She shoved her arm in, held the beam up, but he said no, he needed it to point at a precise place, and so she had to crouch lower, had no choice but to touch her leg to his torso, to bend so her head was level with his chest, which smelled of smoke, yes, and sweat, and some aftershave she vaguely recognized—something her father wore, maybe, or an uncle. A smell she had liked once. And he asked her to hold the light steady, if she didn’t mind, but she couldn’t because her hands were shaking and the air was thick and wet and she was going to lose her mind.

“All right,” he said, finally, sliding out. “That about does it.”

And she stood, too fast, got dizzy, leaned against the sink to steady herself, and when she straightened, he was opening the door, looking at her.

“You all right?” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’d better sit down.”

Her vision steadied and with it, anger. She wanted him gone. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

He held up a hand—don’t bite my head off—and her anger thickened; she was not being unreasonable. She was at home past ten o’clock in the evening. She only wanted her bed. But he could use her anger against her, she knew. So she breathed. Followed him to the kitchen, where he sat again, sipped his tea.

“Thank you for looking at the water,” she said, not sitting, bracing herself to refuse if he requested again that she sit, preparing what she’d say.

He set down his mug, considered her. “So that’s how you’re going to play this.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A month ago, you’re sending all the signals,” he said. “I thought we were on the same page.”

She swallowed.

“But I come over so we can get to know each other better, it’s a different story. You’ve got your lease signed now, what do you care?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, a lighter. “Trying to put me in my place. Older man. Not such a bad catch, though. Property owner several times over. Pays attention to you. Making the effort, reaching out.” He slid a cigarette from the pack. “But all you see is an old guy with dirty hands who didn’t go to college.”

“Please,” she said. “Please don’t smoke in here.”

“What?” he said, eyebrow rising. “You worried what the landlord will say?” And he laughed at his joke, lit his cigarette, sucked in and breathed out a thick acrid plume.

She watched him, focused on breathing. Made her way around him to her armchair, brushing unavoidably against his shoulder to clear the kitchen area, feeling his eyes on her the whole time. She bent and picked up her phone. Turned.

He smoked the cigarette down, taking his time, then snuffed it in the mug.

“Well,” he said. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.” He pushed his chair back, stood. Looked around the place again. “Thanks for the tea, Leann,” he said. “You let me know if the water pressure gives you any trouble.” And he sauntered to the door, opened it and met her eyes one last time, then turned and left. And then: his key turning the bolt. A sickening sound.

She lunged to the door and latched the chain. Hurried to the kitchen and opened the window above the sink, despite the cold. Lit her beeswax candle to chase the cigarette smell. Looked at the oven clock—past ten-thirty now. Just a few hours, really, until her alarm. She stood shivering until she couldn’t take it and then shut the window, blew out the candle. Possibly he would not remember this in the morning—or would pretend he didn’t. And she would have to look for a new place now, on top of everything else. Break her lease—he would make it difficult, she was certain, punish her. Find a way that left some doubt whether it was about tonight, whether he’d have done the same for anyone. Impossible, is how things sometimes felt, though she’d never say that to her boss or her ex, who would accuse her of dramatics. Impossible to carve out a space for yourself, even with all the laws on your side. Someone was always just behind you, caving in your progress—or, no, not that: more like someone was always standing right beside you, filling up each little section as you cleared it, never having considered that you had plans for it, that you were human enough to have wants and desires of your own.