Katherine Page - Body in the Bog

“Of course I am.” Niki was always sure. “At first, I didn’t recognize her without her glasses and those Mr.

Green Jeans outfits she usually wears, but it was her, or she, whatever. Cool dress, ended just below her ass, Mylar or something shiny. Definitely spandex.” Faith was going to Chandler Street even if she did have to tote her offspring.

Early the next morning, as soon as the kitchen door closed behind Tom and her brood, Faith grabbed a light jacket and got in the car. She followed the same route they had taken on Saturday, slowed now by morning commuters. She turned down Clarendon and started searching the side streets for a parking place.

Every empty space was either resident permit only or a tow zone. Finally, she spotted one on Tremont by the Boston Center for the Arts, pulled in seconds before the car behind her could cut her off, and got out.

Niki had described the man Lora Deane had been with at Avalon and it sounded like the same person she’d been with earlier on Saturday. When Faith had asked Niki if he could possibly be Lora’s brother, Niki had had a hard time stopping laughing. “If it was her brother, they’re giving new meaning to ‘incest is best,’ ” she’d told Faith wickedly. Hiring Niki had been one of the smartest things she’d ever done, Faith thought as she walked back toward Chandler. Work was never dull.

She did have a plan for this morning, and to that end, she had brought her clipboard. Today she’d be a graduate student doing research on feelings of community in Boston’s neighborhoods. How well do you know, say, the person downstairs? Whom can you turn to for help? That sort of thing. If she couldn’t find out anything about the apartment by the end of an hour, she’d have to try another approach. But it was bound to work—if anyone was at home.

She pressed the buzzer of the apartment on the floor below. No answer. Then she tried the one above.

Again nothing. She pressed the buzzer for Bridey Murphy, who was on the top floor. Her curiosity about this occupant was almost as strong as it was about Lora. Her ring was answered and she quickly pushed the front door open before it locked again. She walked into a neatly carpeted hall and up the stairs. The Deane apartment had the same hand-lettered sign on the door as on the mailbox. She went up two more flights. Bridey Murphy’s door was ajar, chain in place.

“Yes, what do you want?” a voice quavered.

Faith went into her routine.

“Well, I don’t understand all you’re saying, but I’ve lived in Boston neighborhoods my whole life. You’d better come in.”

Bridey Murphy was a little old lady.

Faith resisted the temptation to say, So this is what became of Bridey Murphy—hoax or no hoax. Instead, she started to explain why she was there, or ostensibly why she was there. It really wasn’t necessary. Bridey was obviously lonely and ready to talk to anyone about anything.

Her apartment was spacious, although crowded with furniture—a large couch, easy chair, ottoman, end tables, bookcases, a formal oak dining-room set, the china closet crammed with plates, figurines, and cups. Lace curtains hung at the windows, doilies were in abundance, and hand-colored family photos from the twenties and thirties decorated the walls. Over the small fireplace, there was a large, elaborately framed chromolithograph of a little stone cottage nestled in the green hills of County something.

“I grew up in the West End. It’s gone, of course.

They just leveled it for the hospital, you know. Mass General. But that would be before your time. Now, the West End—that was a neighborhood. If you had a scrape and your own mother wasn’t home, you could go into anyone’s apartment and they’d give you a bandage and a cookie. Not like today.” She was off and running. All Faith needed to do was direct the course toward the present.

“So, you don’t feel that close to the people around here? Even in your own building?”

“Not close, no. I know them all right, but that’s not to say I know them. Sounds silly—” Faith interrupted her. “They’re just people you say hello to in the hall?”

“Exactly. Would you like a cup of tea, dear? And I’ve got some nice Irish soda bread. I’m Irish, you know, both sides. I guess you could tell from the name. I’ve gotten a lot of comments on that over the years, but I just say, ‘Bridget—Bridey—Kathleen Murphy. That’s the name I came into this world with and it’s the one I plan to have when I go out.’ Not that I didn’t have my chances.”

Faith looked at the woman’s softly lined face and bright blue eyes. Her hair was still thick, although the curls were pure white now. She was sure Bridey had had her chances. She must have been very pretty.

“Never found anyone I thought I’d want to wake up to every day, and then, my own parents fought like cat and dog. Couldn’t see living the same way.

Maybe I’ll be sorry when I’m older, but not so far. I like my independence.”

If Bridey wasn’t sorry yet, Faith doubted she ever would be. The woman was close to ninety if she was a day. The cane leaning against her chair was the only sign of any infirmity.

“Tea would be fine, but please let me make it.” Over the woman’s protests, Faith got the tea and soon they were sitting at the kitchen table over their cups like two old friends.

“After I lost my apartment in the West End, I moved farther up on the Hill—Beacon Hill. It was a nice place, but I hated what was happening all around me. Thank the Lord my parents didn’t live to see it.

They loved the West End. Everyone together. It wasn’t just the Irish. All races, all religions, you name it. Everybody got along. We never thought not to.

“I was working at Chandler’s in those days, the bookkeeping department. Now, that was a lovely store. When they went out of business, I went over to Filene’s, but it wasn’t the same.” Bridey sighed deeply.

This was a woman who still wore a hat and gloves to church, Faith thought. Bridey was neatly dressed in a navy skirt, white blouse, and pink cardigan with a little enameled forget-me-not brooch at her collar.

“Then the rents on the Hill began to go up like crazy. My brother had bought this building and he told me I could have any apartment I wanted. I took this one because it was up high. He’s done very well in real estate,” she confided.

“What about the other people in the other apartments? Aren’t you friendly with any of them? I noticed some of the names as I was ringing buzzers.

There was one, for instance, Deane, just below. Their apartment must be like yours.”

“Well now, that’s a strange story if you ask me.” Faith was. “Yes?”

“Only here on weekends and sometimes, very rarely, for a week at a time or at night, then out the next morning, early. I know because I’m up at five myself. Never could lie about in bed, and I go down to get my paper. Something fishy, I thought, and I was going to tell my brother, but then I met her and I can’t imagine she’s involved in anything wrong. A nicer girl you’ll never meet, that’s Lora.” Lora! Lora Deane was renting this apartment herself! And one in Aleford!

“Has she told you why she’s on this peculiar schedule?”

“No, but I’ve figured it out. I think she’s a nurse or some kind of live-in worker and this is her permanent address. She’s never had time to come in for a cup of tea, but I know she will one of these days. She always stops to ask how I am when she sees me. Brought me some cookies she’d baked at Christmas. Now, you can put that down on your form, because it is neighborli-ness. I’d go to her for help in a minute if I needed it.

Not like some I could name. Why the Macombers have lived here for years, and if I get a nod of the head, I count myself lucky.”