Ms Fisher's House

Sadie Bunting

On the roof of Claudia Fisher’s house, Tasha watches as a cardboard-cut-out skyline casts sharp relief on a smog filled sky. A man in an expensive car revs his augmented engine, he’s far away, his ego closes the distance. The bodega on the corner’s ice creams are melting in the humid night, cheap freezers working double time with worn thin employees in worn thin denim. She’s alone again in the strange gravitational pull of witching hour. Whisper-singing the opening lines of a song on the radio, a lifetime and a week ago, all exhaust and breathless fatigue. “I came here to confess.” Yesterday it rained, heavy, warm, still. Today the remnants of that rain hang in the air and the pavement, mingling with the heat. She’s comfortable here; up high has always been safe, ever since the home took on more than there was room for. She hasn’t lost too much of Sam’s favor then; she’s heard tell of deployments underground, in the dead of winter’s slow aching cold. Good, he knows as well as she does that if she’d stayed quiet all his people would be in the penitentiary. Some deals were just necessary, no-one seemed to see that lately. It’d worked hadn’t it? If she hadn’t caved they would’ve lost everyone. Whatever. Tasha can get back in the planning room. She did it once, she can do it again. 

Soon Ms. Fisher will be back from the party, and the message Claudia is about to pass on will stir up all the secret things in this woman’s life. Isn’t it strange, the lines people will cross for a meal. Best not to think of such things, she hasn’t eaten in...too long. Tasha’s lucky, it's close enough to summer that the pavement has kept all the warmth of daytime close. Even better, today happens to be the Governor's birthday, which means every insignificant peasant in this city can look up, and see a taste of old money’s gold, while people like Claudia congregate to congratulate him. Some entertainment, while she waits. It’s starting now, she can hear it. It was just like Kyle, her neighbor back when she was in the group home had described. “Like shattering glass, and champagne.” Green light streaks upwards from some ostentatious house not far from here, up into the undersides of clouds, splintering into an ornate flower. The conservative cheers of the obscenely wealthy hang in the air. It’s beautiful, but Tasha has seen people, hands shaking, scar tissue faded and taut, who’ve made these lights. If there was a price for going through something like that, those people weren’t paid it. Besides, the green residue hides the stars. 

The night whittles itself away after that, and the hours pass easily in the still freneticism that comes for her in the dark. A carriage in muted blue rickets itself up the cobblestone street, pausing in front of the house. Claudia Fisher, all tasteful drapery and waning grace, departs with little acknowledgement for the footman holding the door for her. She climbs the steps on the stoop with an absent gait, hand trailing on the railing. The door knocker knocks in a dim irony as the door closes behind her. It’s time. 

Tasha stands on stiff knees, her stomach yelling at her with the audacity of someone used to a meal by now-- It’s always had delusions of grandeur, God knows Sam didn’t encourage those. Full-bellied people don’t work these kinda jobs.-- rubbing her eyes with a clammy hand. She waits for the phosphenes ( The only stars in this city anymore, the ones in the sky have all been obscured by remnants of the light shows.) to fade, and starts toward the back of the house. It’s not hard to get in, climb down the back wall, prop open a window, slide in. This used to give her a rush. Not anymore. She creeps out of the storage closet. Who puts a window in a storage closet? Some people have too much money. Outside, there’s a corridor of such opulence she brushes the dust off her shoulders in reflexive deference. It’s less gaudy than the usual, no gold spun curtains, no violently hued rugs. 

“She’s a real quaintrelle, this one,” her boss had told her, when she’d asked for a description. He thinks she doesn't know what it means. She didn’t, had to look it up in one of those condescendingly colorful dictionaries. He used words like that often, seemed to think it made him appear sophisticated. Sometimes it’s hard not to laugh, or scream. Blurry line. If she were inclined to have the same affectation, she’d say he was the product of many anecdoche, that’s conversations where everyone is talking and no one is listening. See. Sam’s not the only one who can pick up a dictionary. It’s rubbed off on her a little, just being around him. She’d never say any of this, sticks to the corners. That’s what she’s for, really. Listening, relaying, and relaying again. It gets exhausting. 

She creeps forwards, along the edges of old oak paneling. Stuff like this, it creaks easily, although her expertise probably isn’t what got her sent here. She’d gotten too bold, in the ways people notice. People had noticed. Stupid girl. But the corridor is running out, and these are rooftop thoughts. It’s time to do her job. 

The living room is muted, dried tracks of raindrops stretch lower on glass planes. The armchair in the corner, understuffed and faded, houses a woman much the same. She’s been waiting, clearly didn’t expect this, but she must've known someone would notice, someone would find her. Only a question of who, really. Her face is like one of those cliffs worn down with water, though her eyes are clear and look at Tasha with the suppressed humor of someone awake in this world.

“Hello,” says Claudia Fisher, and invites her to sit with a wave of her hand. Her voice is steady, still with a clarity Tasha’s never really been able to catch. No matter. Tasha steps forward. “I’ve come with a message from Sam Tagan.” 

There it is, there’s the hesitation, the gradual horrified recognition. Hah, even posh gold-spun curtain owners get crazy eyes when Tagan comes calling. Gotcha. The second Tasha gets this payout tomorrow, it’s gonna be a ham and egg sandwich. “He isn’t pleased with you, Claudia.” 

There’s a tremor in Fisher’s hand now, good. She should be worried, they all should be. “Your daughter, Jane. She’s doing well in the East quadrant, isn’t she?” A smile. Let me tell you, it took hours in the mirror to perfect the subtly threatening look. It’s still a lot of work, she has a face that tends to cheeriness. And too close, “You know the address, you know what you owe. It’ll be in our hands by 3 PM tomorrow.” 

That’s enough, now. Tasha leaves the way she came, not even looking at the shaky hands and demure horror in her wake. Ms Fisher will deliver, they always do. It’s getting late, though the fluorescent lights of the bodega down the road are still on. They’ll be there till 4 AM, painting stripes on tile. Maybe she'll stretch to a soda too, it shouldn’t eat into rent too much. This job will cover it all. Tomorrow’s a rest day, tomorrow she’ll watch more vestiges of light sidle across the sky--there’s no shortage of commemorative green lights for deep pockets-- tomorrow she’ll eat well, tomorrow she’ll wake up late and still have time to stretch from her fingertips to her dodgy ankle. Tomorrow will be a good day.