her foam cup: The coffee was hot and bitter. “I examined her myself. She was one of the apartment fire victims. One look, and I knew her lungs were gone. She knew it, too.” Grace shook her head in wonder, then looked at Leon. “How is it people always know when they’re about to die? We spend years trying to learn how to read the signs, but they just seem to know. I could see it in her eyes. And you know what I did? I smiled at her, and then I turned away and moved on to someone I had a chance of saving. Any of the other residents would have done the same.”
For a moment she remembered the woman’s eyes, so blue, like two jewels in the fire-darkened ruin of her face.
She shook her head. “Whatever happened to our hearts, Leon?”
Leon just shrugged. “You did what you were supposed to, Grace.”
“I know that.” She searched his lean brown face, hoping to find a bit of that easy calm she could keep for her own. “But did I do what I
should
have?” She took another swig of her coffee, winced as it burned her tongue, and swallowed it all the same. “Sometimes I wonder if all I’m doing is prolonging the pain. I let that woman suffer so I could keep alive a man who will have to undergo at least a half-dozen skin grafts, and who will spend the rest of his life horribly scarred. Pain for pain. Is that a fair bargain?”
Her voice trailed off. For a long time Leon’s face was expressionless, and when he finally did react it was not as she had expected.
He bared his white teeth in a grin. “I don’t know, Grace, but you might be surprised at the number of folks who, ifyou gave them a choice, would stick with good old suffering. What do you think that man you just sent upstairs would choose? To suffer the pain of staying alive? Or to sleep in one of my drawers downstairs?” Leon let out a hoot of laughter. “I sure know what I’d choose.”
Grace wondered if she could be so certain. She glanced at a wall clock. Five P.M . Her shift had ended an hour ago, not that official starting and ending times meant much around here. She stood and rubbed the back of her neck with a hand.
“I’m going to get out of here while I can. Have a good night, Leon.”
“Oh, I always do,” the morgue manager said and tipped an imaginary hat toward her.
On her way out, Grace stopped by the office she shared with some of the other residents to shrug off her white coat and pick up her briefcase and beeper, then she headed down a hallway toward a back exit. If she really wanted to escape this place it was best not to be seen. An automatic door slid open, and she stepped outside into the late-autumn evening. The light of the westering sun warmed her cheeks, and she breathed in cool air. Traffic buzzed past, like a line of shiny army ants cutting down all that stood in their path. Grace was on foot. She headed down the tree-lined tunnel of a side street and for the next twelve blocks tried not to wonder if she had made the world better or worse that day.
9.
Twenty minutes later, Grace walked up the steps to her second-floor studio apartment and unlocked the peeling door. Inside, she groped in the dimness until her hand found a light switch, then flicked it on. The electric glare of the overhead lamp was not kind to the space it found. What had been fresh and modern in 1923 when the San Tropez was first constructed had become dingy and ugly in the intervening years. The white paint slapped on the plaster walls had turned the yellow of an old wedding dress, and the green shag carpet was so worn in places that the original linoleum tiles—probably made of compressed asbestos—showedthrough. Grace’s meager possessions did little to brighten the place. She saw that the last of her houseplants was withered and brown. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about watering it anymore.
She headed to the apartment’s afterthought of a kitchen, rummaged in the rusty refrigerator, and came out with a carton of Chinese takeout. She
For a moment she remembered the woman’s eyes, so blue, like two jewels in the fire-darkened ruin of her face.
She shook her head. “Whatever happened to our hearts, Leon?”
Leon just shrugged. “You did what you were supposed to, Grace.”
“I know that.” She searched his lean brown face, hoping to find a bit of that easy calm she could keep for her own. “But did I do what I
should
have?” She took another swig of her coffee, winced as it burned her tongue, and swallowed it all the same. “Sometimes I wonder if all I’m doing is prolonging the pain. I let that woman suffer so I could keep alive a man who will have to undergo at least a half-dozen skin grafts, and who will spend the rest of his life horribly scarred. Pain for pain. Is that a fair bargain?”
Her voice trailed off. For a long time Leon’s face was expressionless, and when he finally did react it was not as she had expected.
He bared his white teeth in a grin. “I don’t know, Grace, but you might be surprised at the number of folks who, ifyou gave them a choice, would stick with good old suffering. What do you think that man you just sent upstairs would choose? To suffer the pain of staying alive? Or to sleep in one of my drawers downstairs?” Leon let out a hoot of laughter. “I sure know what I’d choose.”
Grace wondered if she could be so certain. She glanced at a wall clock. Five P.M . Her shift had ended an hour ago, not that official starting and ending times meant much around here. She stood and rubbed the back of her neck with a hand.
“I’m going to get out of here while I can. Have a good night, Leon.”
“Oh, I always do,” the morgue manager said and tipped an imaginary hat toward her.
On her way out, Grace stopped by the office she shared with some of the other residents to shrug off her white coat and pick up her briefcase and beeper, then she headed down a hallway toward a back exit. If she really wanted to escape this place it was best not to be seen. An automatic door slid open, and she stepped outside into the late-autumn evening. The light of the westering sun warmed her cheeks, and she breathed in cool air. Traffic buzzed past, like a line of shiny army ants cutting down all that stood in their path. Grace was on foot. She headed down the tree-lined tunnel of a side street and for the next twelve blocks tried not to wonder if she had made the world better or worse that day.
9.
Twenty minutes later, Grace walked up the steps to her second-floor studio apartment and unlocked the peeling door. Inside, she groped in the dimness until her hand found a light switch, then flicked it on. The electric glare of the overhead lamp was not kind to the space it found. What had been fresh and modern in 1923 when the San Tropez was first constructed had become dingy and ugly in the intervening years. The white paint slapped on the plaster walls had turned the yellow of an old wedding dress, and the green shag carpet was so worn in places that the original linoleum tiles—probably made of compressed asbestos—showedthrough. Grace’s meager possessions did little to brighten the place. She saw that the last of her houseplants was withered and brown. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about watering it anymore.
She headed to the apartment’s afterthought of a kitchen, rummaged in the rusty refrigerator, and came out with a carton of Chinese takeout. She
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