Page 51 of The Tenant
My next stop is the kitchen, which is even smaller than mine. Unlike mine, it hasn’t been renovated, and the gas stove has a layer of brown crust over it that makes me think it hasn’t been used in a long time. But what disturbs me about the kitchen is what is on the kitchen counter.
A glass of water, filled to the brim. And a sandwich on whole wheat bread, carefully sliced in half.
It seems weird for a person to make himself lunch, then leave it on the kitchen counter while he goes out shopping. Or even take a nap. No, my neighbor made himself a sandwich with the intention of eating it. And then for whatever reason, he didn’t.
“Mr. Zimmerly?” I call out again.
Shit.
I stumble out of the kitchen, my head spinning. I should definitely call the police at this point. After all, I have ample evidence that something is amiss. I’ll have to explain to them what I’m doing here, but it’s not like I came here to rob him. I only entered his house because I was worried.
I reach into my pocket for my phone, and just as my fingers close around it, I notice the light is on in the downstairs bathroom.
The door is slightly cracked open, and a wedge of yellow light peeks out. Mr. Zimmerly is not the sort of man who leaves a room without turning off the light. If the light is on in the bathroom, he must still be in there.
I creep in the direction of the bathroom. When I get to the door, I hesitate, listening for any sounds from inside.
No. Nothing.
Although I guess he could be on the toilet.
“Mr. Zimmerly?” I say one last time.
I reach out to knock on the door, but because it’s already cracked open, the door shifts. The hinges protest as it swings entirely open, revealing the contents of the small bathroom, and the foundation trembles as I let out the loudest scream this brownstone has heard in years.
30
I can’t stop seeingit.
Even after I run out of the bathroom and dial 911. Even after the paramedics arrive and declare there’s nothing to be done. Even after they wheel the stretcher out of Mr. Zimmerly’s house with a sheet covering his face.
“You okay, Mr. Porter?” a young police officer dressed in blues asks me.
I startle as the doors to the ambulance slam shut. Of course, when it drives away, there won’t be any sirens. There’s no urgency. I knew it the second I found my neighbor lying on the floor of his bathroom, a pool of blood around his head.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, even though I’m not. I wish somebody would wrap a blanket around me or something, because I can’t stop shaking. It’s humiliating.
“These things happen,” the cop says with an air of authority, even though he looks barely older than twenty. “He was ninety-three years old. He must’ve slipped in the bathroom and hit his head. We see it all the time.”
Ninety-three. Jesus, I had no idea he was that old. “Uh-huh,” I say again.
He squints at me. “You got someone to be with you?”
I have absolutely no one, but I don’t need to tell this police officer my life story. “I have a roommate” is all I say.
He nods like that’s good enough. I’m sure he has a busy night ahead of him, and the last thing he wants to do is babysit a thirty-two-year-old man. Besides, I’ll be fine. Yes, seeing that dead body was a shock. I’m going to have nightmares tonight. But I’ll be okay.
Unlike Mr. Zimmerly.
“So I gotta just confirm with you one more time…” The officer pulls what looks like a small iPad out of his jacket. “Why were you in Mr. Zimmerly’s house?”
“I was worried,” I say. “He never brought his trash bin inside, and he’s really anal about that. I knew something had to be wrong.”
I don’t need to tell him that I knocked on my neighbor’s door with the intention of giving him hell.
The officer nods sympathetically. “Yeah. I got a neighbor like that too. So…do you have the key to his house?”
“No. The door was open.”
