Mary McDonald - No good deed

Mark bent, retrieving a lipstick, a medication bottle, and some change that had rolled under the chair. He then righted the suitcase. “Here.” He handed over the items. “Please. Take my seat. It’s okay.”

“Oh, bless you.” The woman gave in and dropped onto the chair. “You have no idea what a bad day this has been.” She fanned her face and chuckled. “No, make that a bad week. Our flights have been canceled and delayed due to bad weather.”

Mark nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve had some rough days recently. It’s no fun. I hope things go better for you.” His stomach rumbled and he wished he would have thought to buy some food before checking in. There was no time now. Oh, well. He would live.

The woman grinned at him. “You hungry?”

He cleared his throat, embarrassed that she’d heard. “Uh, just a little.”

Reaching into another pocket of the purse, she pulled out a chocolate bar. “Here. I know it’s not much, but take it.”

Mark hesitated, and she leaned forward, pressing it into his hand. “I’m not supposed to eat the stuff and I have another for Olivia.”

“Thank you. I appreciate this.” He brought the bar up to his nose, even through the wrapper, he could smell the aroma. Heaven.

The woman raised an eyebrow and Mark couldn’t help letting a small smile quirk his mouth. “It’s the first one I’ve had in a really long time.”

She waved to him, then sighed when the flight was called. “Have a good day.”

The plane circled O’Hare for thirty minutes in a holding pattern due to rain and sleet. Traffic on the highways below crawled along, the headlights snaking around the airport and branching in towards the city. Looking south, he saw the Sears Tower, its lights hazy, but reaching high into the twilight sky. His throat tightened. It wasn’t the most beautiful skyscraper in the city, the Hancock was more elegant, but the Sears Tower represented Chicago. It jutted up out of the prairie, bold and broad, soaring head and shoulders above the surrounding buildings. Mark craned his head as the plane banked and he lost sight of the building. How could anyone think to destroy something like that? He sat back with a sigh. How could anyone think that he’d wanted to destroy it?

Mark stood on the moving sidewalk inside the terminal. Normally, he disdained them, preferring to walk, but he was drained. As the belt carried him through the terminal, it suddenly occurred to him that nobody knew he was coming home. In Charleston, he hadn’t had time to call his parents, and they lived four hours north of Chicago, just outside of Madison. In this weather, no way would they be able to come down to see him.

He stepped out of the airport, the blast of cold damp air cutting right through the thin shirt he wore. Nobody had thought to provide a coat for him. In the south, it was still warm, but in Chicago, winter was just beginning to flex her muscles.

The cab should be warm enough and when he got home, he could dig out his winter gear. After asking for an address, the cabbie glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “Dude? You crazy? Where’s your coat?”

Mark shrugged. “I wasn’t thinking when I got on the plane. Forgot it.” He tried to suppress a shiver, but the chill swept his body.

The man shook his head, but he reached down and turned the heat on high.

“Thanks.” Mark hunched into the seat, and soon, the warmth of the cab soaked into him. They got caught in the same traffic that had been visible from the plane, and it wasn’t long before he began blinking, each time, his eyes staying shut longer. He hoped the cabbie was honest, because he was beat. He’d tried to doze on the flight, but was so keyed up, he couldn’t relax.

“Here you go.”

Mark started and sat forward so fast, he bumped his head on the roof of the car. “What?” He rubbed his head and looked out the window. They were in front of his building. He was home.

The cab pulled away, and Mark hurried up the steps to the front door, keys in hand. It was so familiar. Huddled against the cold, he fumbled for the key on his chain, and tried to slip it into the lock, but it wouldn’t fit. That was strange. Was it the wrong key? The one for the storage closet in the basement looked a lot like the door key. He tried the other one. Neither opened the door.

He sat on the brick ledge bordering the entryway. Once a unit had been burglarized and the front lock had been changed. Mark ran his finger down the list of names beside the buzzers. His neighbor would buzz him in if he was home. There were some new names on the list and it took him a moment to realize that one of them was in his apartment. He wiped a drop of water off the name plate. It had to be wrong. That was his apartment. He scanned the other names, found one he recognized, and buzzed it. Nothing. He tried again. And again.

Shaking from cold and rage, he slammed the heel of his hand against the panel, hitting several buttons at one time. A voice came over the speaker. “Hello?”

Mark leaned in. “Hey! I’m trying to get into my apartment, but my key’s not working.”

“What apartment?”

“303. My name’s Mark Taylor.”

The speaker hissed with static, and he pushed the button again.

“Get lost before I call the cops!”

Mark staggered backwards, the hatred in the voice hitting him like a blow. He managed the first couple of steps, but missed the next. Flailing, he tumbled onto the sidewalk into a pile of dirty slush. The sudden stop jolted up his spine, but he hardly felt it. The slush soaked into his pants, and his hands stung from the pavement and the cold. He winced as he stood and looked down at his knee. The material was torn and his shirt was dotted with black greasy stains. He tried to swipe some of the dirt off, but it just smeared so he gave up. Wrapping his arms around him, he shivered.

Right upstairs, someone was sitting his loft. His shoulders sagged, and he swore as a shudder swept him. Bitter disappointment rose in his throat. He’d come home, only it wasn’t his home anymore. Why hadn’t he thought ahead?

Who could be living in his loft? What about his furniture and clothes? Were they in storage? Craning his head, he found his window and sure enough, light shone in it. Damn it! Mark turned, hoping he’d see his Jeep where he usually parked it on the street. It was gone. What had he expected? That everything would be just as it had been when he’d left?

The rain turned to sleet as he trudged along the street, flinching as cars whizzed past, splashing slush on him. Both hands were firmly tucked under the opposite arm, and he shivered non-stop. What should he do? He could get another cab and go to a hotel for the night, but then what? His money wouldn’t last a week if he did that. Even a cheap hotel would put a serious dent in his finances. There was a diner down on the corner. He used to eat at least three meals a week there. Seeking warmth, food, and a place to gather his thoughts, he entered and took a seat at a booth. His teeth chattered so hard that when the waitress came, he couldn’t speak.

The young woman looked him up and down as she narrowed her eyes. “Hey, buddy, this isn’t a shelter. If you need one, you gotta go down to St. Paul’s around the corner.” She pointed with her pen over her shoulder.

Mark blinked. She looked vaguely familiar. “No. I, uh, I came for dinner…but, I fell.” He took the napkin and tried to blot the front of his shirt. He couldn’t look at her.

“You got money to pay for your food? I need to see it before I can take your order.”

If he hadn’t been so cold, he was sure that his face would have been burning. Pulling out his wallet, he withdrew a twenty and held it up.

Her face broke into a smile. “Oh, okay. My name’s Brittany, and I’ll be your waitress. Sorry, about, you know…” She flicked her wrist. “It’s just we get so many that come in here, especially on days like this.” Launching into the special for the evening, she stopped and cocked her head. “I’ve seen you before.”