Pushing Upward by Andrea Adler Page B

worries. I maneuvered the Fiat as best I could, close to the curb, and sat there for a moment, flashing back on why I was making this daring move. And then I remembered.
    Fortunately, Larry remained silent as I breathed in my new street.
    â€œOkay, let’s do it.”
    â€œYou’re sure you don’t want to live with me?” Larry asked, apparently thinking, absurdly, that I might change my mind.
    â€œLet’s go.”
    Arms filled with boxes, hands clutching loose pairs of shoes by straps and shoestrings, clothes falling off hangers and drooping off our forearms, we approached the lobby’s elevator. There on a sign were two of the most beautiful words I’d seen since I’d last lived in the comfort of my parents’ domain: LAUNDRY ROOM. I stopped in mid-breath. “Larry, look! I don’t have to drive twenty minutes to a hot, humid, money-eating Laundromat any longer.” Larry, having no concept of the depths of my relief, grunted and pulled me inside the elevator. I pressed the number 3.
    Emma’s building was one of those garden apartments where all the doors opened to the outdoors. There were no dark, musty halls to walk through, no perfumed carpets that tried to hide the smells—yet another unfortunate situation I had become too accustomed to. At Emma’s apartment, the inner wooden door was open. I set down the suitcase, laid the bundle of clothes and shoes on top, and knocked softly on the outer screen door. Emma greeted us with a wide smile and invited us in.
    â€œHi, Emma. This is Larry Santino, a friend from acting class.”
    â€œHello, Larry. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her clear blue eyes took him in. If she wasn’t impressed, she was too ladylike to be rude. “Why don’t you come in, relax a little, then bring the rest of your things upstairs. I’ve made some iced tea for you.”
    â€œOh, thank you,” I replied, waiting for Larry to do the same. Emma waited, too.
    â€œPlease, sit down. You must be exhausted from the move.”
    We sat and watched Emma walk with a kind of deliberateness that revealed she’d been able to move much faster some time ago, but now, since her husband’s passing and her heart attack, she had slowed down. The woman from the ad placed one foot before the other solidly on the carpet and headed toward the kitchen to get her guests some tea.
    I looked around, taking in the sights of my new home. The living room had that distinct grandmother aroma: cooked fish combined with the scent of evergreen air freshener. Old-fashioned plastic rug runners started in the living room and rolled out to the kitchen, then to the bathroom, to protect the atrocious turquoise carpet from wear. The green polyester couch was also covered with a thick protective plastic. Stained maple end tables must have been with Emma since her wedding day. The too-heavy-for-the-apartment mahogany dining-room table and armoire showcasing her old white china could not have arrived much after. An old record player and a small-screen TV were placed in the corner. Strangely, there was one piece of furniture that stood out among the others. It was a beautiful green satin Victorian high-back chair. Emma’s name was written all over it, even down to the faint impression of her buttocks in the seat.
    Emma returned to the living room with a shaky tray and two glasses of iced tea. After serving us, she sat down in her high-back. “Did you have far to travel?”
    â€œIt only took us half an hour from Westwood. The real challenge was not causing an accident.”
    Emma looked right into my eyes, and smiled.
    â€œWould you like a tour of your new home?”
    I took a sip of the cold tea, experienced brain freeze, and nodded yes.
    Larry poked me in the spine with his elbow and whispered facetiously, “Very palatial!”
    â€œVery funny!” I elbowed him back.
    So what if the furniture was not as elegant as I had