71. Waiting to Escape

 

If all goes as I intend—I’ve given up planning a long time now—I’ll be away from this block for good tomorrow. Still, it’s a relief, almost, to be here now.

Now I know there’s still at least one place where bricks continue to fade and flake, but the walls they’re in are still standing. Where roof tiles and sides darken with the shade of green copper turns when it’s been left out in the rain. But I know there’s no copper, or any other metal, in those tiles because of the way they curl around their edges and splinter, though they never quite fall apart.

And the people—the ones who still remain—women—are as I expected, though somehow not quite as old. The lady whose name I never knew, still pale and lined but not wrinkled in the way of people who spend their lives in the shadows of their homes. Not much exposure to sunlight—or to rain or wind, either. Her black dress, another ageless but not timeless layer, gathered into neat if not completely symmetrical folds around her waist by some band I can’t see. Just like what she always wore, except that it’s black.

Mrs. Littington, she’s another story. Her jacket sheathes the small mounds of her breasts and falls in a nearly straight line to her hips, which are tucked into pants of the same color, and the same shape, more or less. It makes perfect sense on her, just like the dark hair that reins in the crown of her head and clings in perfectly straight segments that end around her ears and, in the back, just above the collar of her jacket.

It’s not comforting, really, to see her, the lady whose name I never knew, the houses, the yards in shades of gray that end in chainlink fences, a street that ends in a cemetery yard on one end but whose other end cannot be seen from here. However, I’m glad to see everything here for what I assume to be the last time.

Some people leave the places where they were born and raised because they need to know that not all people look or talk like their family members or neighbors, and that not everybody lives in the same kinds of houses. I learned such things, too, but it wasn’t the reason I left. In fact, if I’d learned otherwise, it might not’ve made any difference to me.

Adam left. The man whose body was found in the basement—and whose autopsy has my former name—is gone. And Louis, whom those other boys in school nearly killed. The other boys, who might’ve killed me if Louis hadn’t been there. All somewhere else, I don’t know where. Now mother’s on her way out. I expect I’ll be, too.

None of this makes any difference, really: This block is still more or less what I left. At least, it feels that way. Which, of course, is enough reason to get out and stay away.

Most of all, I’ve got to get out while it’s still safe, at least relatively, for me to be here. The lady whose name I never knew—She’s squinting in my direction again! Hopefully, I’ll be out of here before she starts talking to me, asking me questions: before I find out she’s recognized me.