The Ford gulped to a stop; every trip threatened to be its last. Melissa English looked up, relieved that she had pulled in behind the right apartment building—the one held up by old bricks, which the rich thought romantic. You had to be rich to buy used-up things and not be laughed at. With the sleeve of her sweater she swiped at the tears on her face. Reaching for her purse, she realized the family photo and her double-sized coffee mug had been left in the office. She decided she’d rather do without them than go back.
     Climbing stairs to the third floor seemed an impossibility. But, with effort, her bulky knees did bend, her ankles took the weight, her thighs pushed, and she moved upward. Stopping to rest on the second floor landing, she recognized her baby’s cry coming from above. A sharp wail. Possibly she was hurt. Undoubtedly she was wet. Melissa gripped the rail and kept climbing.
     The door opened with a whine. Frank turned in his chair to meet her eyes. Hopelessness radiated from him. He’d become the black hole into which everything good passed, never to be encountered again. Anticipation had long before made the journey, and prior to that, excitement. Joy had been swallowed so long ago that Melissa did not miss it.
    “She’s hungry,” Frank said. “There’s no milk.” His crutches were lying at his feet, crossed like two fingers. He hadn’t been outside the apartment in three weeks, yet Melissa had no sympathy. By reminding him they were both thirty-nine years old, she had tried to dissuade him the night they made the baby. Now, it clung to her nylon pant leg.
     “I got fired again,” she said.
     Frank’s face went blank. He turned his back to her.
     Melissa picked up the baby and automatically ran a hand down the silken hair. “She stinks. Didn’t you clean her?”
     “There’s no diapers either. Why’d you get fired?”
     She gave the baby a cracker and sat her on the floor. The mewling stopped.
     “One of our customers, that snobby Mrs. Merchant, canceled her cleaning for tomorrow. I told her we didn’t have any openings anytime soon, and I’d have to charge her the thirty-five dollar lock-out fee, just like I’m supposed to do, and she said fine, cancel me forever.”
     “A long-time client?” Frank asked the window.
     “So what. That’s the rule. I got fired for doing what I was taught.”
     He sighed aloud, as if his frustration were important. As if Melissa needed a warning that his next pronouncement would be a lecture. “I told you a thousand times, Missy. You don’t have any business sense. For some people rules get broken.”
     Melissa walked to where he sat and touched his hair. It felt like straw and smelled like sweat. She could remember when it had glowed golden in the sunlight. Why had that seemed special? She leaned down, talking into his ear. “Tell me, Mr. Businessman, how is it done? Tell me how you’d know all about business rules from the end of a shovel?” She pushed his head away. “Idiot. I’m going to the store.” As she closed the door the baby took up wailing again.
     Melissa leaned over the rail and peered down into the vortex created by the surrounding flights of stairs. Her knees were already counting the steps. If she threw herself off she would have a couple of moments of peace before she hit the ground floor. Mrs. Swanson, the bulimic building manager, who lived in 1A would hear the thud. After calling for an ambulance, Mrs. Swanson would wonder whether she should call a cleaning company or save the money by doing it herself.
     “Hey, Melissa.” And there she was. Skinny as a toothpick. A well of dusty air separated them. The bottom layers stirred as Mrs. Swanson waved. “Hey, half your car is in 3B’s spot.”
     “Which half?” Melissa asked.
     “Why?”
     “He can have the engine.”
     “You’re a hoot. But move it.”
     Melissa sat down on the landing, her legs draped over the top steps. The baby stopped crying, and the near silence was like being underwater; none of the sounds were meant for her; they spoke to those in a different element. “Inertia,” she said, “that’s what I’ve got.” And the feeling was not that of a lack of energy. It was like a comforting abundance of sloth. It puffed out her thighs until they almost split her pant legs. It slopped over her waistband and pushed wrinkles up under her bra line. She was full to bursting with sloth. She slid down the first flight of steps on her rump, like a kid.
     The Ford fired up. She thought she peeled out of the parking lot like a professional driver—there was squealing of tires. The traffic on Eighteenth Street was thick. She was playing bumper cars at the fair. Bumping, honking, laughing. But there were traffic lights ahead. Odd. And the sign said Monroe Parkway. And the car careening toward her left side was huge. Time slowed as she watched the young driver’s face contort in fear. Brakes screeched. The black car slammed the Ford. Melissa’s neck snapped like a fresh pea pod in the hands of an expert sheller.

     Gil and Judy Merchant didn’t hear the sirens. They sipped manhattans. He raised his glass to her in a toast, and the chunk of cut crystal flashed. “A few days in Miami will be fun. I love doing things on the spur of the moment. We might take a side trip. Nassau?”
     Judy thought of the yellow halter-dress she’d just bought and the wedge shoes with the ribbon ties that wound around her ankles. “I’d love it,” she said.

© 2006 Marlene Baird