Snow Apples by Mary Razzell

His voice was emotionless.
    â€œDo you know my dad very well?” Murray was watching the cab disappear around the corner.
    â€œUh...he’s in a lot.” He turned away, busied himself at the mail slots. “You take those stairs at your right.”
    The stairs were steep, uncarpeted. I peered at the room numbers in the dim light. There was only a single bulb in the ceiling to light the whole hallway.
    As I was making out the number on one door, it suddenly opened, and I found myself staring at a vast expanse of dirty undershirt. I slowly raised my eyes to see an unshaven, red-eyed man.
    We stared at each other. He swayed slightly and I stepped back. He watched me as I found my room and inserted the key. Quickly I locked the door and pushed the bolt across.
    I looked around at the brown walls, worn brown carpet—ripped near the narrow, lumpy bed—and outside the dirty window to where the flashing neon signs advertised Oyster Bar and Players Please.
    I knew I couldn’t possibly stay in that room all evening, especially with that creep down the hall.
    I hung up my few things, put my brush, comb and lipstick on the dresser and beside them a small, nearly empty bottle of Evening in Paris cologne. Mrs. Lawson had given it to me when she was packing for Vancouver. Then I went down to the end of the hall, past the door of the man in the dirty undershirt. I could hear a radio there and a loud burst of laughter, the clink of glasses.
    I found the bathroom and, after cleaning out the tub, I filled it three-quarters full. It was luxury to have all the hot water I wanted and to be able to stretch out full length. It wasn’t like having a sponge bath out of a small basin the way we did at home.
    I lay there, blissful, the water to my chin.
    Maybe I’d meet Jack. I could wear my yellow wool dress.
    Someone rattled the bathroom door handle, swore, then left. I got out of the tub, dried myself quickly, dressed and hurried back to my room. I could see by the clock in the newsstand across the street that it was nearly six-thirty. There was still time to meet Jack.
    I left the hotel and turned north toward the mountains. As I walked, I wondered if Jack would be there. If he wasn’t, I’d go to a movie. I passed several as I walked along Granville Street. There was one with Bette Davis that I had wanted to see for a long time,
Jezebel
.
    Several people were waiting near the Birk’s clock at Georgia. But I didn’t see Jack until he waved at me. He’d been looking at the watches in Birk’s window. Smiling, he came toward me.
    â€œSay, this is great, Sheila! You made it!” Then, taking my hand, he tucked it into his coat pocket, and we walked to where his car was parked. It was a red Ford coupe, and he opened the door with a great flourish. “My baby,” he said. “I just got it. Do you like it?”
    â€œIt’s beautiful.”
    Jack was wearing a dark blue gabardine coat, unbuttoned,and drape pants of a lighter blue, wide at the knees, tapering at the ankle.
    â€œYou look nice,” I told him, admiring the cut.
    â€œAll the guys on the boat get their drapes made in Chinatown. There’s this one place...” And he told me about it as we zipped from one traffic lane to another. We had trouble finding a parking place, but when we did it was near the Bamboo Terrace. Jack said that was the best place to eat.
    We ate upstairs. Jack ordered egg foo yong, chow mein and sweet and sour spareribs, and he showed me how to use chopsticks. Then he told me about being in China. He had sailed on freighters to Australia and New Zealand and Fiji. He seemed to have been everywhere.
    Then we went bowling in a bowling alley off Pender. Jack showed me how to hold the ball, how to take three steps, crouching on the third, how to bring my arm back and then let the ball roll off my hand. And he was as happy as I when I made my first strike.
    On our way back to my hotel, after we