David Ohle: The Old Reactor

“I’m getting the floor wet. I’m sorry.”

“Hurry, stand in the tub and take off your clothes.” He could hang them in the bathroom, she said. They would be dry in the morning. “For tonight, you can wear some things of my husband’s.” She went to get them.

Moldenke was happy to be out of the icy uniform and boots and in a warm room. He toweled off and looked into the mirror. There was no question, the heavy water was a curative. His ear was much improved. He wrapped himself with the towel when he saw the concierge returning with checkered pajamas, underwear, and a pair of fleece-lined slippers. “Here, these are cozy. Your room will be cold. All the roomers will be cold in their rooms.”

Moldenke suspected that these helpful gestures might possibly come with a return request attached.

“Where are those roomers? I hear them at all hours — coughing, crying, singing, being sick, tooting kazoos, twanging Jew’s harps — but I never see them. It goes against all odds. I should be running into them in the hallways all the time. I should see them in Saposcat’s or at the public, but I don’t. I wonder why.”

“They’re probably all tucked away for the night.”

“All right. I do appreciate the loan of the pajamas and the slippers.”

“Go ahead and put them on. I won’t look.” She turned toward the doorway.

Moldenke put on the drawers and the pajamas then sat on the edge of the tub to put on the slippers.

“Are you decent? I’m going to turn around.”

“I’m dressed.”

She turned back. “My husband was a bigger man. They’re loose on you.”

“That’s fine. The warmth’s the thing. Why didn’t he take these with him?”

“They only gave him a few minutes to pack.”

“Indeterminate sentence?”

“Yes, for selling a wormy apple to a blind man. When they decide you’ve served enough time, they want you out fast. Or they could forget about you and you’d be here forever,” she said. “You’ll be quiet going up the stairs, won’t you? We don’t want to wake the others up, do we?”

“We don’t. We definitely don’t. I’ll stop by in the morning to get my uniform and return your husband’s nightclothes. Should I plan to move my bowels for you?”

“No. The pipes’ll be frozen by morning. It would be a big mess.”

“All right then. Good night.”

The concierge put a finger to her pursed lips. “ Shhhh . Quiet now.”

During the night, Moldenke experienced what he thought was a mild seizure. It began when he awakened with fever, chills, and a foggy, detached feeling, and ended about an hour later. He remembered nothing of that time but realized when he turned over to go back to sleep, that he had moved his bowels in the pajama bottoms and in his tossing and turnings had smeared it on the top as well. He sat up the rest of the night naked and cold, smoking Juleps and worrying about what the concierge would say when he brought the pajamas back. He faced the choice of either wearing them soiled or folding them and going downstairs with nothing on but slippers.

Fearing an end to his toilet privileges either way, he decided to fold the soiled pajamas, cover his privates with them, go down naked, and present them to the concierge and beg her to forgive him. He would promise to take them to the boilery as soon as it was back in business again.

Her Dutch door was open, but she wasn’t standing behind it at her regular station. He cupped his hand around his mouth for volume. “Good morning. Are you back there?” He heard no response. “I’ve had an accident with the nightclothes. I’m very sorry. As soon as the weather changes, I’ll take them down and have them boiled…Hello?”

He could feel the warm air coming from her apartment and ventured through the doorway to get his uniform and boots. He could see the glow of the pellet stove but no sight or sound of the concierge. After calling out once again and hearing nothing, he went into the bathroom. The toilet was dry and there was a note pinned to the wall above it: FROZEN PIPES. DO NOT USE! He changed into his dry uniform and placed the slippers and the pajamas in the tub.

On his way out, he saw a pair of bare, bruised-looking feet at the end of a bed in a dim rear bedroom. “Good morning. I didn’t mean to wake you.” He took a few steps toward the bedroom. “I got the slippers wet. I’m sorry.” When he reached the doorway he paused a moment and went in, already sensing that the concierge was dead.

He stood beside the body for a while, smoking a Julep, wondering what to do. He searched through a closet where her husband’s clothes still hung and found a warm wool jacket that fit him perfectly. It would keep him from freezing on his way to Saposcat’s. As for the concierge, she would keep until he had a chance to get some breakfast and consider the possibilities. He turned down the pellet stove to keep the room cool, closed the bedroom door, and left the Tunney.

He had to lean forward at a striking angle to make any headway in the blasts of polar wind and the wild whirls of dry snow kiting down Arden Boulevard and piling up alongside Saposcat’s. Even through the iced-over window he could see Sorrel sitting alone in a booth without a veil. Her head was bowed. Still, he could see red welts on her face. She seemed troubled. There was a package on the floor at her feet, and at the end of the booth, a suitcase.

He tapped her on the shoulder. “May I sit with you?”

“I was hoping you would. I saw you coming. I knew your room was around here somewhere.”

“The Tunney, a few blocks down.”

“Your ear looks much better.”

“And your face. It’s almost back to the way it was. You even have some color. But what are those pocks, those red spots on your face?”

“It’s a miracle, that heavy water, and a curse, too.” She nervously moved the package from one side of her feet to the other. “I want to apologize for leaving you at the Old Reactor pond.”

“I took the streetcar. I got home.”

“My father wouldn’t wait, not for a minute. He was so impatient. Now he’s dead and the bakery’s closed. I don’t know what to do. He was making claws and he sat on the floor and he said he was tired and a minute later he was gone.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He made a lot of claws in his time, thousands of dozens. Not too many can match that claim. He was generous with them, too. He gave hundreds away at public events.”

“I saw him doing that once. You may remember.”

She lifted her package to the tabletop. “This is him, his ashes. I had to send the body all the way to Bunkerville Charnel to get it done. They came back today in a nice little jar.”

“A memento,” Moldenke said. “A reminder. The flesh has commitments, they say.”

“What will I do? I’m afraid they’ll send me back to Bunkerville. I came with my father. I wasn’t sent here. They’ll make me go back. I grew up with all this freedom.”

“It would be a shock, wouldn’t it?” Moldenke ordered the breakfast kerd with a cup of tea.

Sorrel favored meal and green soda. “I’m determined to stay here. I’ll get a room somewhere.”

Moldenke saw his opportunity and reacted accordingly. “What about the Tunney? It turns out the concierge passed away and left me in charge of the place. I’ve got rooms available, too. They’re drafty and there’s only one flushing commode in the whole place. That one’s in my apartment. I’ll let you use it whenever the pipes thaw. The tub is off bounds, though. It doesn’t drain.”

“That’s very convenient. Thank you for offering. Running a rooming house, that’s a lot of responsibility isn’t it? All those tenants with their problems and complaints.”