“Well … okay, sure, I guess.” As he rose from the couch, I said, “Thanks for the little cakes. And the tea. And the honey.”
Half bowing, he said, “Thank you, Jonah Kirk, for sharing your mother’s delicious cookies. It was most kind of you.”
Walking down to Mrs. Lorenzo’s apartment, I carried a weight of disappointment. I had hoped Mr. Yoshioka and I might join forces to discover the truth of Fiona Cassidy. He was a small man, perhaps five foot six and slender, but during our visit, I had become convinced—I don’t know why—that he was brave, even courageous. Maybe I had been too impressed by the fact that he had tigers on his walls.
26
I don’t recollect what I expected to happen next. Perhaps memory has failed me after all these years. Or perhaps I didn’t anticipate any specific act of evil, but instead lived in the shadow of general apprehension regarding both my father and Fiona Cassidy.
The Labor Day weekend arrived. I would be back in classes at Saint Scholastica School on Tuesday. Saturday, after a long piano session at the community center, I returned to our apartment at 5:20 P.M., after my mother had left early for Slinky’s.
In the bathroom, I washed my face and hands at the sink. Then I went to my room, took the chenille spread off the bed, folded it, put it on a shelf in the closet, and then turned down the bedclothes, so that I wouldn’t have to do all that later. The day was warm, the room stuffy. I put up the lower sash of the window for ventilation.
In the kitchen, a note was fixed to the refrigerator with a magnet: Tell Donata when you’re home. She’ll bring dinner and stay so you can sleep in your own bed. Love you more than anything. Mom.
A couple of days had passed since I’d had tea with Mr. Yoshioka, and I had not seen Fiona Cassidy ag
ain. I considered going up to the attic for a few minutes, to listen for whatever I might hear in 6-C. Just as I decided not to be stupid, the doorbell rang, and through the fish-eye lens, I saw Mr. Yoshioka.
When I opened the door, he said in a whisper, “Good evening, Jonah Kirk. Has the day been gentle with you?”
Taking my cue from him, I also whispered. “Gentle? I guess so. What about you, sir?”
“I have known worse, thank you. I wish to have a word.”
Stepping back, I said, “Oh, sure, come in.”
“A word alone,” he whispered.
“There’s no one here but me.”
He entered, closed the door, and stood with his back to it, as if to brace it shut against some hostile force. “I am sorry for the intrusion.”
“No problem,” I assured him. “You want to sit down and have something to drink? I can’t make tea, but I can make hot chocolate or maybe open a root beer or something.”
“You are very kind, but I can only stay a moment. My apologies.”
“What’s up?”
“Miss Eve Adams has not been noisy, not at all. However, on two occasions, each lasting an hour, there has been a most disturbing”—he looked pained, as though by the necessary crudeness of his next word—“stink.”
“A stink?”
“Yes. Quite strong.”
“What kind of stink?”
“A chemical smell. It is like but not precisely the same as trichloroethylene. That is the fluid used by dry cleaners. Being a tailor, I know it well.”
“Maybe it’s something she’s using to take up the old linoleum.”
“I do not think so. Not at all. No.”
His brow was furrowed, his lips pinched.
I said, “You seem worried.”
“It is like trichloroethylene but I believe more volatile.”