“She’s back,” Leah said out loud in a
voice filled with joy, as she watched the small woman in the brightly patterned
dress slowly rock back and forth. Seeing the woman framed once again in the
third of three windows on the sixth floor of the building across the street, a
small gray cat in her lap, Leah felt the world was spinning properly on its
axis once again. After an absence of three days, “Martha” was again at the
window.
Martha, as Leah had named the woman, first
came into view three months ago on a miserable winter morning. Sidelined from
work by a bad cold, Leah had decided to use the large windows of her apartment
on 9th Avenue like a movie screen. For several hours a day, she would bundle up
against the chill that leaked through every tiny gap in the aging window frames
to watch the people on the street below. Not content just to observe, Leah began
constructing stories for many individuals passing by, all inspired by the old
films she loved. So, the man from two buildings down—the one who always wore an
immaculately crisp trench coat—became a spy, exchanging secret documents in
Central Park with similarly clothed figures. Another tale revolved around a
dark haired woman who favored large hats. Hat Lady, who appeared several times
a week in the late afternoon, was transformed into a society girl with dreams
of the stage who was secretly taking voice lessons from a former opera star.
Leah’s street observations continued long
after her cold dissipated. Though now she could only indulge her passion on the
weekends, it still provided a diverting change from a dull job and a rather
colorless life. At the window, she could create a world full of adventure and
imagine she lived among people doing bold and dramatic things. It was better
than any entertainment crafted in Hollywood.
On one
unusually warm day in that winter, Leah watched Hat Lady enter the building
across the street. Sliding herself towards the end of her chair, Leah felt sure
that this time she would catch her at one of the windows. Eagerly scanning for
signs of that striking blue and green chapeau, she instead caught a glimpse of
Martha out of the corner of her eye. Though there was nothing striking about
the woman’s appearance—a plain face showing the lines typical of a woman of
about 60, dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail— something about her expression
drew Leah in. It suggested an endless well of disappointment and Leah quickly
realized that plumbing the depths of that sorrow could feed a need much deeper
than her craving for momentary fantasies of spies and aspiring thespians.
The fascination grew into something of an
obsession as Leah soon lost all interest in the other people coming and going
in the streets. Even Hat Lady, who she finally figured out was just a housewife
with an attentive and wealthy lover, no longer intrigued her. Just Martha, who
wore her loneliness like an invisible shawl.
When curiosity got the better of her, Leah
crossed the street and entered the building. A quick walk around the 6th floor
helped her locate the apartment she had been observing. Knowing the woman was
currently at her post, Leah knocked on the door several times but received no
response. Finally, she slipped a note under the door that said simply. “Are you
alright?” with her name and phone number.
As Leah awaited some kind of response, she
could scarcely contain her joy. Surely Martha would respond and then, perhaps
something resembling a friendship might come from it. Leah envisioned the two
of them sitting quietly together, with two cups of tea resting on the window
ledge. Leah was even willing to obtain a cat for such visits.
But an answer never came, and the day
after Leah left the note, Martha disappeared. When her absence persisted for a
third day, Leah decided to go back across the street. Her mind envisioned
Martha ill or perhaps struggling to get up. Just as she was grabbing a coat to
hasten her exit, Leah saw the lights across the way come on. Martha, looking
smaller and much more fragile, came into view. Slowly, and with a facial
expression that suggested pain, she walked across the living room to her chair.
Under her arm she cradled the grey cat. Taking her seat, Martha’s eyes scanned
across the way until they connected with Leah. Lifting a brightly colored
shawl, she waved it, as if she was sending a message to her distant companion.
Then Martha dropped the shawl, turned to her left and sunk down deeper into her
chair. Soon the only things Leah could make out were a few strands of hair
escaping from her ponytail.
The next morning when Leah awoke, the
blinds across the way were closed. Two nights later, there was a knock at her
door. When she stepped out in the hallway, all she saw was a small basket
containing a tiny grey kitten. The kitten was resting in the folds of the
colorful shawl, to which the note Leah had slipped under the door had been
pinned. Carefully detaching the note, Leah saw a new message, written in a
crisp neat hand. “I am fine now,” the message read. “But my friend needs a
home.”
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