City Boy by Jean Thompson

call a distressed finish? You know how long it’d take me to trip over some little area rug like that? About two seconds. You’re married, right? Your wife has taste. It’s always the woman who makes the house a home. This is all very classy. Spacious. My mom’s place has too much junk in it, I’m always after her to throw things out. You got an ashtray?”
    Jack told her they really didn’t care for people smoking in here, and Mrs. Palermo reluctantly put her cigarettes away. The orange lipstick had an unnerving fluorescent quality. She sank into the couch. She was so fleshy, it gave the impression of one piece of furniture sitting on another. “Bad habit, I know. Nerves. I just took my mom to her doctor’s appointment. Everything’s out of whack with her. Blood pressure, heart, arthritis, you name it. And she won’t move out of that apartment. Believe me, I’ve tried. She could go to the care center that’s six blocks from us and talk to other human beings and have all her meals served to her, but no. She’d rather sit here by herself and eat soup out of a can.”
    Mrs. Palermo seemed as talkative as her mother was silent. Or perhaps this was what Mrs. Lacagnina would sound like if she were audible. Jack said, “You must worry a lot about her.”
    “I call her twice a day, what else can I do? I have my own house and family to take care of. My brother lives in Wheaton, do you ever see him come around? You have kids? When you do, have daughters, not sons. So anyway. I wanted to ask you a favor, if I give you my phone number, will you call me if you notice anything going on with her, you know, a problem.”
    Jack hesitated, not because he was unwilling to be helpful, but because Mrs. Lacagnina’s life on a daily basis seemed problematic. How could you differentiate a crisis from her usual crazy-lady routine? “You mean, she falls down the stairs or something?”
    “God forbid. Or you don’t see her around for a couple days. I mean I call her, I ask if she’s got food in the house, if she’s able to get out, but it’s always the same answer, she’s fine, leave her be. She’s got one of those special deaf telephones, I still don’t know if she can hear me.”
    Saying yes, Jack realized, would mean taking on a certain responsibility for Mrs. Lacagnina’s comings and goings, maybe even pounding on her door and trying to rouse her out of her deafness. But there was no way to refuse and feel good about himself, so he said he’d be happy to keep Mrs. Palermo’s number on file.
    “Thanks. That’s a big relief. I didn’t want to ask that old what’shis name, he’s half dead himself. And for sure not the drug addict.” Mrs. Palermo gave the ceiling a meaningful glance. Metallic scraping sounds were coming from upstairs, an industrious, wincing noise, as of someone trying to retool a bicycle into a lawn mower.
    It had been a few weeks since Jack’s initial trip upstairs. In that time he’d been forced to climb to the second floor on a number of occasions to request that one thing or another, one commotion or another, cease and desist. Each time he was greeted with the same genial, stoned incomprehension. Once Chloe had made the trip herself when Jack was busy on the phone. She came back looking pensive. “Is it a health code violation to keep mice as pets? You know, regular mice?”
    Twice when Jack went up to talk to Hippie Pothead Rasta Boy, the redheaded girl was in residence. On two other evenings, the blonde smirked at him from where she lay draped across the sofa. But never again did Jack see the two of them occupying the kid’s apartment at the same time. He began to wonder if that night had been something he’d imagined, some drugged and muddy dream. He couldn’t comprehend how these people arranged their lives.
    Now Jack said to Mrs. Palermo, “No, I don’t guess you’d want that guy in charge of anything. Let me get something to write with.” He went to retrieve a pen and pad of paper