Oliver Benjamin
“You.” He placed a peck on Roy’s little forehead and gave him a
squeeze.
“Sammy called me that,” Roy said, squished.
“It’s ‘cause you’ll be a father too, someday.”
“Dad?” Roy looked up at him, “You don’t kiss pictures of me
when I’m not around, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. That would be spooky.”
Hours after his lunch with Sprout, Roy went by to visit Partment.
They made small talk for a few minutes until it became apparent that
he had come there for another reason.
“What do you know about Sprout?” Roy asked him candidly.
“Nothing really,” Partment said. He often fielded this question
and this was his stock answer. Lots of people asked him about the
young lady in room 205. “I told you already,” he said, “She had
special papers from the city. They didn’t indicate much.”
“Well, what does someone normally have to do to get a space in
here?”
“Usually mental or drug problems. The state subsidizes their rent
and checks up on them from time to time.”
Roy mulled for a moment. “Can I go up and visit her?” he said,
adding quickly, “I just want ask her some questions.”
Partment, ever protective of his misfit charges, sighed
theatrically. “Give her a chance,” he said, “I’m sure she’ll be a fine
employee. She won’t steal or anything like that. She makes a fortune
in tips.”
Roy felt awkward. It was nothing like that. “It’s nothing like
that,” he said.
The old man raised a spidery white eyebrow.
“I need her to work an emergency shift,” Roy said, “She hasn’t
returned my phone call.” the old man finally relented and told him
her room number.
Roy walked up the stairs and down a dingy corridor. From
behind the battery of closed doors he heard distant crying, television
game shows, laughter and moaning. He knocked on room 205 and
waited.
When she finally opened the door, water dripping in a stream
from her head down her neck and into a dingy white towel he was
horrified to realize that he had nothing at all to say.
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