Chapter 4: The Elevator

On Saturday afternoon Flora took me to see her roof.

It was the top of a six-story brick building six blocks from my apartment, with a view of the lake past the rooftops.

Right now it was gravel, tar paper and a rusted water tank.

By spring it would be a garden with raised beds, a pergola, and a long bench under string lights.

"It's my first solo project," Flora said. "The board signed off on the drawings Friday."

She walked the edge of the roof in her paint-stained overalls with her arms out, telling me where the herbs would go.

The wind pulled her hair loose.

I stood with my hands in my coat pockets and watched her and did not hear a word about the herbs.

"You're not listening," Flora said.

"I'm listening to your voice."

She stopped.

She came back across the gravel, took my coat lapels in her fists, and kissed me hard on the mouth in the open air.

I kissed her back with one hand on the small of her back.

For about a minute I forgot that I had a mother, a stepfather, or a secret.

The secret was a manila folder at the bottom of my desk drawer at home.

I thought about it while she kissed me, the way I think about it most days.

I always push the thought down, and it always comes back up.

When Flora pulled away, her eyes were bright.

"Come on," she said. "I'll buy you a coffee."

We took the stairs down to the lobby of the building, and the glass door opened onto the street.

A woman was standing on the sidewalk with a cardboard box in her arms.

She had a sleek dark bob, a camel coat, and the posture of a person who expects to be let in.

Flora stopped dead on the top step.

"Rachel."

"Hi, Florrie."

Rachel Voigt smiled, and it was a smile with a lot of practice behind it.

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