Unlucky Catkill Court (part 1.06)

Wednesday, Feb. 5, just before eight

The sun has finally poked its entire, tired head above the horizon, evaporating the heavy morning mist and washing away the broad paint strokes of dawn. Ms. Avila’s car no longer sits in the L’Enfant driveway, but a new splash of black skid marks curve across the asphalt—evidence of her latest visit.

A last trickle of students crosses Catkill Court on their way to school, one of the de la Rosa girls included. They chatter loudly about the pains of hair care, probably in reference to a girl with a brilliant magenta undercut, whose hair texture has suffered immensely from bleaching.

“But at least the fuzz is still soft!” exclaims Faith de la Rosa, reaching out to touch the pink-haired girl’s head as the group at last finishes crossing the street. They all laugh, an odd chorus of cackling and serene giggling that continues until the group is too far away to be heard from Catkill Court.

With the children gone, the adults finally poke their heads out into the cold morning air. Mrs. Kovacs bursts through her green front door, face red and mouth open as she wheezes. She looks every bit the strict old lady, dressed in a heavy woolen coat with cream faux fur trim that seems like it could have come out of the nineteenth century. Her black lace-up boots and tiny feet are almost Victorian. Mrs. Kovacs does wear pants though, so she isn’t entirely a relic.

She slams her door behind her and spins on her toes, looking angrier and wrinklier by the second. “Now you stay in there, Andrei!” she shouts. “I’ve had enough of your nonsense. You’re a ghost! There’s nothing you can do about the neighbors.”

Naturally, Mr. Morandi and Ms. McCrae step out just as the old woman finishes. Mrs. Kovac’s leathery, wavering voice leaves an echo that bounces off the buildings for far longer than physics should allow, and she shakes her finger at her house again.

“I’m warning you, Andrei!” she shrieks. “One more wrong move and I’ll ask the priest to come get rid of you! Stop playing with my voice!”

Mrs. Kovac’s voice does not echo this time, but it does repeat in Mr. Morandi and Ms. McCrae’s heads, ringing like the false echo that lingers after the final note of an orchestral piece. The younger pair watch, tense and concerned, as Mrs. Kovac stomps down her front walk and waddles towards Catkill Street. She must be taking her morning stroll.

When it is clear Mrs. Kovacs moves too slowly to be interesting to watch, Ms. McCrae begins a slow, cautious descent to the street. Her little red car sits just to the right of her front walk, windows frosted over in a thin, monochrome sheet of grey.

Mr. Morandi lopes towards his garage and slides open the keypad to open the door. He is just about to confirm the passcode when he notices Ms. McCrae about to open her car door, and he waves to her with a grand sweep of his free arm.

“Irene!” he calls, in a tone neither light nor serious, but somewhere in between. “Who was that?”

Ms. McCrae jumps, shivering as she rubs her jacket sleeves with her gloved hands. She is almost offended. No one should stall people when they’re outside, freezing their fingers off and about to step into a car and blast the heater. “No ‘good morning’ first, Roger?” she calls back, trying to sound witty instead of sarcastic. Brooke’s teenager tendencies are rubbing off on her.

In his bright, sparkling tenor, Mr. Morandi chuckles. He lowers his briefcase to the ground and steps forward. “Sorry. Let me try again.” He smiles and waves, exaggerating the motions and taking in a huge breath to bellow, “Good morning, Irene! Who was that?”

Swinging open the car door, Ms. McCrae offers a bemused shrug. “Mrs. Evelyn Kovacs,” she yells. “Maybe you’d like to save her history for when we’re not on our way to work?” Though she sounds airy, like work is a joke, the message is clear. She really does need to leave.

Mr. Morandi waves her goodbye and turns back to his garage, letting out a frustrated sigh when he has to punch in his passcode again. His garage door rumbles open, smooth but still loud, and he sighs again when he sees the inside.

The garage is empty except for a tiny car that does not look big enough for all of Mr. Morandi’s average-sized body. It has a garish yellow license plate from some faraway part of the country, and that little yellow plate is the only bit of color in the room. His car is grey, and the garage’s floor and walls are bare, boring cement and plaster.

Even worse is the emptiness. There is room enough for three pickup trucks, and with only his tiny compact car inside, the space feels lonely and surreal.

Mr. Morandi rubs his temples and picks up his briefcase. His head hangs, hiding the wet glimmer in his eyes.

“Why?” he asks himself, voice ragged and soft and raw. “Why did I buy this house?”