Chapter 6 - The Stairs of 412 Elm
The hallway of 412 Elm Street smelled of urine, fried cabbage, and wet dog.
The stairs creaked loudly under Harrison’s Italian leather soles. There was no light on the second-floor landing, only a dull green glow from an exit sign that had lost half its neon tubing years ago.
He found door 2B at the end of the hall.
The wooden frame was split around the deadbolt, as if someone had kicked it in years ago and it had been repaired with two long wood screws that stuck out slightly from the oak.
Harrison stood outside the door for a long moment.
His heart was pounding—a fast, hollow rhythm that felt entirely out of place in his disciplined body. He adjusted his silk tie, took a deep breath, and lifted his hand to knock.
Before his knuckles could touch the wood, he heard voices inside.
"Don't touch it, Lily," Emma was saying. "It’s too hot."
"I want the tea," Lily cried softly. "My throat hurts too."
"The tea is for Mommy," Emma’s small voice came back, firm and tired. "We have the cold water. Put the spoon back."
Harrison didn't knock. He pushed gently against the door. It wasn't locked; the latch was worn down so far that it slipped from the strike plate with a small click.
The door swung open two inches.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by a single floor lamp with a yellowed shade. A tiny space—no bigger than the walk-in closet in Harrison’s master suite—contained a sink, a two-burner stove, a small table with two plastic chairs, and a narrow hallway leading to a back room.
Sitting on the counter, right next to a wide-mouth Mason jar filled with pennies and crumpled bills, was a blue crayon and a rubber band.
Emma was standing on a wooden stool by the stove, holding a chipped ceramic mug with both hands. When the door swung wider, she turned her head quickly.
Her eyes met Harrison’s.
She didn't scream. She didn't look surprised. She simply looked at his face, then down at his dark coat, then at his leather shoes.
"Did you bring the green bottle?" she asked.
Harrison stepped inside, closing the door behind him to keep out the cold draft from the hall. He felt too tall for the room, his six-foot-two frame making the ceiling seem dangerously low.
"No," Harrison said softly. "I didn't bring the bottle."
Lily, who was sitting under the table with her knees pulled up to her chin, let out a small, trembling sigh and hid her face in her arms.
Emma’s face didn't change, but her shoulders dropped half an inch. She turned back to the stove and carefully set the mug down on the cold burner.
"You can't have the cans then," she said quietly. "The law says you have to bring the medicine first."
Harrison looked down at the little girl. Up close, in the dim yellow light, he could see how thin her arms were inside the pink jacket. He could see the dark circles under her eyes—dark circles on a five-year-old child who should have been sleeping ten hours a night after playing in a park.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket.
Emma watched his hand nervously, her fingers twitching against the edge of the counter.
Harrison didn't pull out his wallet. He pulled out his gold fountain pen—a heavy, custom-made instrument he used to sign corporate mergers—and a small white card with his name printed in raised black lettering.
He laid them on the table next to the pickle jar.
"My name is Harrison," he said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet he barely recognized it as his own. "I don't have the green bottle because I’m not a doctor. But a doctor is coming up those stairs right now."
Emma looked at the card, then up at his eyes. "A real doctor? Not the lady from the city?"
"A real doctor," Harrison said. "The best doctor in the state."
"Does he cost three hundred dollars?"
Harrison looked at the pickle jar. He reached out, his long fingers touching the dusty glass, and turned it so he could see the scribbled ruled paper inside.
Oct 12 — Cans — .43
"No," Harrison said, his voice catching slightly in his throat. "He doesn't cost anything."
"Everything costs something," Emma said, her voice entirely flat. "Ray Barlow said nothing is free except dirt."
Harrison looked down at her—this tiny, fierce child who had already learned the cold mathematics of the world before she was old enough to read a textbook.
"Ray Barlow is wrong," Harrison said, kneeling down on the dirty linoleum floor until his eyes were level with hers. His multi-thousand-dollar suit trousers pressed directly into a smudge of grease near the stove, but he didn't care. "Ray Barlow doesn't know anything about how the world works."
At that moment, heavy, rapid footsteps echoed down the hallway outside.
The door burst open, and Dr. Mercer entered, carrying a large black medical case, followed by two paramedics hauling a portable oxygen generator and a folded stretcher.
"Mr. Vance!" Mercer said, breathless from the stairs. "We got here as fast as—"
"In there," Harrison said, standing up and pointing toward the dark bedroom. "The mother. Her name is Clara. Her lungs are wet. Fix her."
Mercer didn't ask questions. He motioned to the paramedics, and the three men vanished down the narrow hallway, their heavy boots making the floorboards hum.
Lily came out from under the table, creeping over to stand beside her sister. She looked at Harrison’s shiny shoes, then reached out with one finger—a finger smudged with blue crayon—and touched the hem of his dark trousers.
"Are you the king?" she whispered.
May you like
Harrison looked down at her. He felt a tear—hot, heavy, and completely uncontrollable—spill over his lower eyelid and slide down his cheek.
"No, sweetheart," he said, dropping back down to his knees and taking both of her tiny, icy hands in his. "I’m just a man who forgot what matters."
