The Woman in the Window. A. J. Finn

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      “David?”

      I hear a clang. A plume of water, mirror-bright in the sunlight, pours onto the landing. I draw back. “Sorry,” David says. “Watering can.”

      “It’s fine. Do you see anything?”

      A pause, then David’s voice again, almost reverent. “It’s a jungle up here.”

      It was Ed’s idea, four years ago, after my mother died. “You need a project,” he decided; so we set about converting the rooftop into a garden—flower beds, a vegetable patch, a row of miniature boxwoods. And the central feature, what that broker called the pièce de résistance: an arched trellis, six feet wide and twelve long, thick with leaves in spring and summer, a shady tunnel. When my father had his stroke later on, Ed placed a memorial bench within it. Ad astra per aspera, read the inscription. Through adversity to the stars. I’d sit there on spring and summer evenings, in the gold-green light, reading a book, sipping a glass.

      I’ve scarcely thought of the roof garden lately. It must be wild.

      “It’s totally overgrown,” David confirms. “It’s like a forest.”

      I wish he’d come down.

      “Some kind of trellis over there?” he asks. “Tarp covering it?”

      We’d sheathe it in its tarp every autumn. I say nothing; I just remember.

      “You should be careful up here. Don’t want to step on this skylight.”

      “I’m not planning on going up there,” I remind him.

      The glass rattles as his foot taps it. “Flimsy. Branch falls on that, it’s gonna take out the whole window.” Another moment passes. “It’s pretty incredible. Want me to take a picture?”

      “No. Thanks. What do we do about the damp?”

      One foot drops to the ladder, then the other as he descends. “We need a pro.” He arrives at the floor, slots the ladder into place. “To seal the roof. But I can use a paint scraper to get rid of the mildew.” He folds the trapdoor back into the ceiling. “Sand down the area. Then put on some stain block and some emulsion paint.”

      “Do you have all that?”

      “I’ll get the block and the paint. It’d help if we could ventilate in here.”

      I freeze. “What do you mean?”

      “Open some windows. Doesn’t have to be on this floor.”

      “I don’t open windows. Anywhere.”

      He shrugs. “It’d help.”

      I turn to the stairs. He follows me. We go down in silence.

      “Thank you for cleaning up the mess outside,” I say, mostly to say something, once we’re in the kitchen.

      “Who did that?”

      “Some kids.”

      “Do you know who?”

      “No.” I pause. “Why? Could you rough them up for me?”

      He blinks. I press on.

      “You’re still comfortable downstairs, I hope?” He’s been here two months, ever since Dr. Fielding suggested that a tenant would be useful: someone to run errands, dispose of the trash, assist with general upkeep, et cetera, all in exchange for reduced rent. David was the first to answer my ad, posted on Airbnb; I remember thinking his email was terse, even curt, until I met the man and realized he’d been downright chatty. Just relocated from Boston, experienced handyman, nonsmoker, $7,000 in the bank. We agreed on a lease that afternoon.

      “Yeah.” He looks up, at the lights sunk in the ceiling. “There a reason you keep it so dark? A medical reason or something?”

      I feel myself flush. “A lot of people in my …” What’s the word here? “… position feel exposed if the light’s too bright.” I gesture to the windows. “And there’s plenty of natural light in this house in any case.”

      David considers this, nods.

      “Are you getting enough light in your apartment?” I ask.

      “It’s fine.”

      Now I nod. “If you find any more of Ed’s blueprints down there, just let me know. I’m saving them.”

      I hear the snicker of Punch’s door flap, see him slink into the kitchen.

      “I really do appreciate all that you do for me,” I continue, although I’ve mistimed it—he’s moving toward the basement door. “With the … trash and the housework and everything. You’re a lifesaver,” I add, lamely.

      “Sure.”

      “If you wouldn’t mind calling someone to take care of the ceiling …”

      “Sure.”

      Punch bounds onto the island between us and drops something from his mouth. I look at it.

      A dead rat.

      I recoil. I’m gratified to see that David does, too. It’s a small one, with oily fur and a black worm of a tail; its body has been mauled.

      Punch watches us proudly.

      “No,” I scold him. He cocks his head.

      “He really did a number on it,” David says.

      I inspect the rat. “Did you do this?” I ask Punch, before I remember I’m interrogating a cat. He springs from the island.

      “Look at that,” David breathes. I glance up: On the opposite side of the island, he’s bent forward, his dark eyes glittering.

      “Do we bury it someplace?” I ask. “I don’t want it rotting in the trash.”

      David clears his throat. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday,” he says. Trash day. “I’ll take it all out now. You got a newspaper?”

      “Does anyone anymore?” That came out more pointed than I intended. I follow up quickly. “I have a plastic bag.”

      I find one in a drawer. David extends his hand, but I can do this myself. I snap the bag inside out, tuck my hand inside, gingerly grasp the carcass. A little shiver jolts me.

      I tug the bag over the rat and seal the band at the top. David takes it from me and slides open the trash receptacle beneath the island, dumps the dead rat inside. RIP.

      Just as he’s yanking the garbage bag from its container, there’s a sound from downstairs; the pipes sing, the walls start talking to one another. The shower.

      I look at David. He doesn’t flinch; instead he knots the bag at the top and slings it over his shoulder. “I’ll take this СКАЧАТЬ