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Authors: Iris R. Dart
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building across the way. It was a two-story wooden house on a side street in a downscale residential neighborhood. The railing on the big front porch that ran the length of the house was sagging. The house next door had a side yard that was adjacent to the Sea View, and on the patchy grass were a dilapidated set of swings and a slide. Dahlia wondered how the parents ofyoung children must feel having a board-and-care for schizophrenics overlooking their children’s play yard.
“Wish me luck,” Dahlia said as she and Seth stared up at the people sitting on the porch. All of them were lined up on rocking chairs gazing quietly out over the railing as if there actually were a sea view to look at, except for one white-haired black woman, who was perched on the railing looking at the wall and talking. All of them were smoking cigarettes.
“I’m scared,” Dahlia said softly.
“You don’t have to do this,” Seth said in a voice that made her know he was wishing she’d turn to him and say, “You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah, I do. I have to do this,” she snapped. “This is a big chance for me, and I’m not gonna blow it.”
“You realize that I don’t care if you write hit songs or massage people or wait tables,” Seth said.
“Seth, my honey,” she said, trying not to turn this into an argument, but her face was hot and she was trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “You should care. Because if I get Sunny to do what I’m asking, my present life of walking in the servants’ entrance of rich people’s houses is over. I didn’t drive all the way down here to turn around and go back to that. Last week my ancient client Helene asked me if I wanted some of her old sweaters because she felt sorry for how shabby I always look. I nearly cried. She actually used the word ‘shabby.’”
“I’ll buy you all the sweaters you want,” Seth said, and she saw the adoration in his eyes, but even the tentative way he said it reminded her of her late father. The kind of man who was too nice to be aggressive in business and never destined to be a world-beater. After her father died, people came up to her at the funeral and told her stories about the times he’d graciously let them skip a few payments on furniture they’d bought because they couldn’t come up with the money. “He got in trouble with his uncle,” they said, “but he understood that some people struggled more than others.”
Seth worked hard in a publicist’s office, but he couldn’t have chosen a career that was more wrong for somebody with his too-nice personality. Publicists had to be killers, pushy and aggressive never-take-no-for-an-answer types who beat down people’s doors in service of their clients. Seth could never do that very well. That’s why he was still working at a so-so firm in a low-level position and living on a meager budget. And yet he didn’t seem to care. That was the part that bugged Dahlia so much, that he was content with so little.
“I’m going up,” she said.
Sunny. Is it possible that she could look so bad that even I couldn’t recognize her? Dahlia wondered, opening the door of the van and climbing out. As she walked up the steps, the foul air blowing at her was thick with the stink of cigarette smoke. Not one of the four men or the woman even looked at her as she walked past them into the house. The kitchen was to her right, but it was barricaded with half a dozen piled-up kitchen chairs on which someone had taped a handwritten sign that said OFF-LIMITS . Maybe kitchens were too dangerous for the Sea Viewdenizens to handle. The fire, the use of knives and other tools—it was all probably more than they were able to negotiate safely. There was a dreary living room to the left, with two threadbare sofas and a chair against the wall and a large TV in a corner, which a dozen metal folding chairs were facing.
At the farthest window, there was an old upright piano. Nobody was in
“Wish me luck,” Dahlia said as she and Seth stared up at the people sitting on the porch. All of them were lined up on rocking chairs gazing quietly out over the railing as if there actually were a sea view to look at, except for one white-haired black woman, who was perched on the railing looking at the wall and talking. All of them were smoking cigarettes.
“I’m scared,” Dahlia said softly.
“You don’t have to do this,” Seth said in a voice that made her know he was wishing she’d turn to him and say, “You’re right. Let’s get out of here.”
“Yeah, I do. I have to do this,” she snapped. “This is a big chance for me, and I’m not gonna blow it.”
“You realize that I don’t care if you write hit songs or massage people or wait tables,” Seth said.
“Seth, my honey,” she said, trying not to turn this into an argument, but her face was hot and she was trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “You should care. Because if I get Sunny to do what I’m asking, my present life of walking in the servants’ entrance of rich people’s houses is over. I didn’t drive all the way down here to turn around and go back to that. Last week my ancient client Helene asked me if I wanted some of her old sweaters because she felt sorry for how shabby I always look. I nearly cried. She actually used the word ‘shabby.’”
“I’ll buy you all the sweaters you want,” Seth said, and she saw the adoration in his eyes, but even the tentative way he said it reminded her of her late father. The kind of man who was too nice to be aggressive in business and never destined to be a world-beater. After her father died, people came up to her at the funeral and told her stories about the times he’d graciously let them skip a few payments on furniture they’d bought because they couldn’t come up with the money. “He got in trouble with his uncle,” they said, “but he understood that some people struggled more than others.”
Seth worked hard in a publicist’s office, but he couldn’t have chosen a career that was more wrong for somebody with his too-nice personality. Publicists had to be killers, pushy and aggressive never-take-no-for-an-answer types who beat down people’s doors in service of their clients. Seth could never do that very well. That’s why he was still working at a so-so firm in a low-level position and living on a meager budget. And yet he didn’t seem to care. That was the part that bugged Dahlia so much, that he was content with so little.
“I’m going up,” she said.
Sunny. Is it possible that she could look so bad that even I couldn’t recognize her? Dahlia wondered, opening the door of the van and climbing out. As she walked up the steps, the foul air blowing at her was thick with the stink of cigarette smoke. Not one of the four men or the woman even looked at her as she walked past them into the house. The kitchen was to her right, but it was barricaded with half a dozen piled-up kitchen chairs on which someone had taped a handwritten sign that said OFF-LIMITS . Maybe kitchens were too dangerous for the Sea Viewdenizens to handle. The fire, the use of knives and other tools—it was all probably more than they were able to negotiate safely. There was a dreary living room to the left, with two threadbare sofas and a chair against the wall and a large TV in a corner, which a dozen metal folding chairs were facing.
At the farthest window, there was an old upright piano. Nobody was in
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