After Dachau by Daniel Quinn

Oneonta unless they’re in on it.”
    She glared at me and said, “You’re a fink.”
    “A what?”
    “A fink. Don’t you know what a fink is?”
    “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
    She shrugged. “I guess it’s slang of a different generation. It means you’re on the side of the big shots. You know which side your bread’s buttered on.”
    “You mean because I want your parents to know where you’re going?”
    “That’s right. You won’t take my side against them.”
    “Why should I, for God’s sake? You shouldn’t be making enemies of them—and I certainly won’t
help
you make enemies of them.”
    “All right,” she said, getting up. “I’ll stay in fucking Oneonta.”

“SO,” I SAID , once we were back in the car, “what does staying in fucking Oneonta mean? Do you want to get a paper and look for rentals or shall I just drive up one street and down the next?”
    “Let’s look around downtown,” she replied.
    Oneonta is one of the ancient cities of the Northeast, proud of the fact that it has remained steadfastly small and old-fashioned. When its elderly brick buildings crumble, they aren’t so much replaced as re-created, and the locals say the venerable bandstand on Main Street has been there from the outset (though by now every stick of it has doubtless been replaced many times over).
    A railroad freight line roughly parallels Main Street a few blocks to the south, and a Railroad Avenue parallels thetracks in the eastern section of the city—and this dismal lane, faced with warehouses and factories, seemed to strike Mallory as especially promising.
    “You’re not going to find any housing down here,” I told her.
    “I’m not looking for housing.”
    “Then what? Are you planning to open a paper mill?”
    She withered me with a scornful look.
    After taking down the numbers of several agents with property in the area, we were heading off to find a phone when we accidently stumbled on a building that satisfied her heart’s desire. Unlike most of its neighbors, it was a single-story structure, concrete block, with tall lattice windows, advertised to be twenty-four hundred square feet. If the peeling sign on the facade was to believed, it had once been home to Wilson Mackie Wire Products.
    “You can’t seriously think of
living
there, Mallory. It won’t have anything like a kitchen or a bath.”
    “I know how to live without a kitchen or a bath,” she said darkly.
    It wouldn’t be exactly true to say that that was that. The real estate agent was happy enough to show us the building, which was surprisingly clean inside, but balked at giving her a lease. He wanted either six months’ rent in advance or a cosigner—“a grownup,” as he undiplomatically put it.
    “Not me,” I said, when I saw her gaze swivel in my direction. “Not a chance.”
    She thought a moment, then reached for her checkbook.
    “You shouldn’t do that,” I told her. “Contact your parents. Let them cosign with you.”
    She hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second, then wrote him out a check for six months’ rent.
    It was a strange development, but it had its points. On the lease, Mallory had acknowledged having a residence (her condominium), her parents (as references), and a place of employment (the library). Despite her habit of denial, she was willy-nilly beginning to forge some links to the present.
    Mallory had different ways of being silent, depending on whether she was furious, just wanted to be left alone, was self-absorbed, or was uneasy about how her next move was going to be received. The silence that swallowed us up as we headed back to the condominium was of the last type, I sensed, and she confirmed it when we arrived.
    She no longer needed my services. She was ready to take up life on her own. She wanted to be left alone, at least for the time being.
    “It’s going to take a lot of work to make that wire factory livable,” I told her. “I’ll be glad to help, and it’ll go a