Behind The Ivy

A flurry of sound interrupted Rosalina’s quiet summer night; a balcony door thrown open, a smack against something solid with a startling crack. Heavy steps. The click of high heels. From the thirty-third floor of her father’s Manhattan high-rise, midnight generally ferried one day to the next with little more than an occasional elevator hum or ever-present drone of distant traffic.

In the two months since Rosalina moved from the penthouse down to the thirty-third floor, she’d not once seen or met her next-door neighbor or neighbors it seemed, judging by the duet of strained whispers.

“I’m sorry, Tony. I wanted to tell you in private,” a woman said, on the other side of the ivy-covered trellis. “One day you’ll thank me.”

Rosalina tucked her chin, her wrap held snug to her chest to ward off both the late-night chill and the storm brewing on the balcony next to hers. She didn’t make it a habit to listen in on private conversations, but if she moved, her haste to distance herself might disrupt the palpable and precarious balance between reconciliation and loss.

“Greta, please. We can get past this,” a man replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you. If you want, we can wait to get married.”

“No. It’s over. You can have this back.” The unseen Greta spoke with a hint of remorse.

 “Wait—Please don’t.”  

“Listen, darling. You and me, we had a lot of fun. You’re a good guy. Easy on the eyes. Maybe I’m not the marrying type. You’ll find someone. You will. Someone far more . . . domestic.”

“Greta . . . is there someone else? . . . Greta?”

“I’m sorry. Goodbye, Tony.”

The click-clack of heels faded. Rosalina held her breath. Tony stood within arm’s reach, one fisted hand appearing and disappearing beyond the iron railing between him and the street far below. If she dared to stretch out her hand, she could touch his. Who was she to intercede? No one. A cripple abandoned to number 334; an embarrassment to her wealthy father’s new wife.

Rosalina winced at the sound of shattered pottery and mumbled curses. Heavy steps receded.

Finally free to pull in a lungful of air, she leaned back in her wooden chair and reached down to turn the wheel, but heavy steps grew louder. The trellis shuddered. Feet shuffled. Furniture scooted over the concrete. Likely a chair. A clink. Ice in a glass? Liquid pouring. Pouring again.

“Lord . . . forgive me,” he whispered, the words barely audible.

Wait—no! Her pulse quickened. A clink of glass on glass. A spinning wheel? What was that? Hands trembling, she leaned toward the trellis. “Is someone there?”

 The man stuttered and fumbled as if guilty of some high crime, apologized, then apologized again. “Sorry if I woke you, miss.”

“No—you didn’t wake me. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No bother. I just . . . just needed some fresh air.”

She knew he needed far more than fresh air. “I’m afraid with the bank closures and all, well, the whole mess is keeping a lot of us awake.” Rosalina chewed her lip. Could she not say something a touch more encouraging?

“Is that what has you up past midnight?” He asked, his gentle voice sifting through the ivy vines.

“I’m a night owl, really.”

“Maybe that’s why we haven’t crossed paths yet. Heard the previous tenant lost their lease a few months back. Things going okay with you?”

Rosalina ran a hand over her wasted leg. “Sure.” Unlike the majority of New Yorkers, her financial situation remained secure after the crash. “Have you lived in this building long?”

“Going on two years now. Not much of a neighbor, am I? My name’s Tony. If not for this privacy hedge, I’d shake your hand.”

“Nice to meet you, Tony. I’m . . .” She didn’t want to tell him her name: Rosalina Madera, the millionaire’s daughter crippled by polio. She plucked a leaf from the trellis. “Ivy. . . My name is Ivy.” She scrunched her nose, her convenient namesake a little too obvious.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ivy.”

An awkward silence fell over the faceless introduction.

“Tony?” She brushed her thumb over the slick surface of the plucked leaf. “I’m generally out here on the balcony about now. If you ever happen to need midnight air again, I’d be happy to share it with you. You know, neighbor to neighbor.” She prayed he’d warm to her open-ended offer.

“Thank you, Ivy; I’d like that.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Tony.”

“Wait. Are you going in for the night? What I mean is, did you intend to stay out here after I’d gone? I can go.”

If he needed a sympathetic ear, she’d stay out here all night long. “I’m not going in for a little while yet. Having someone to shoot the breeze with is a welcome bonus.” Shoot the breeze—she sounded like her father rather than a young woman whose only friends were fictional characters dreamed up by Austen and Dickens, her experience with casual conversation limited to visits from her father, doctors, and daily caregivers.

“Ivy, how long have you lived in Manhattan?”

She inched her chair closer, fingers curled over the edge of the planter box.

“Twelve years, give or take a few months. I came to New York with my father when I was seven.”

“You’re only nineteen?” His voice rose in pitch with every word.

She shrank back from his question, hands heavy in her lap.

“I thought you, what I mean is, you sound a good deal older. If I had to guess, I’d have put money on you being in your late twenties. I’m all of twenty-four. Got a few things to learn yet.”

“Don’t we all?” He’s only twenty-four? Rosalina rubbed over the warmth building on her neck. What did that woman call him . . . easy on the eyes? In a world without hedges, Tony wouldn’t give her a second look, except to pity her.

“You see, Ivy, I thought I had it all figured out. Made it big in the markets—until last week. Thought I was big stuff. Have to say, going from a somebody to a nobody in one week is a real gut punch. Listen to me carrying on. Like you don’t have nothing better to do.”

“It’s all right, Tony. I like your honesty.” She not only had nothing better to do, she had nothing to do—ever. Nowhere to go, no one to see, the hours passing by as uneventful and monotonous as a slow drip in a metal bucket. At the end of every day, the bucket is emptied, the process starting all over again. Drip, drip, drip. “What will you do now?”

“Find me a job. Gonna be tough going since everyone else is doing the same. I’ll get by. What about you, Ivy? I asked you earlier how you were doing. You didn’t sound so convincing. Now that we’ve had a chance to get to know one another, mind telling me how you really are?”

“Are you a priest on the side?” she teased.

“Never thought of that,” he replied with a low chuckle. “Maybe it’s an option. This prohibition thing, it doesn’t restrict the flow of communion wine. I might be feeling the call of the cloth. Let me take a stab at it, since we’re here at this confession hedge. How long, Ivy—I mean, my child, has it been since your last confession?”

Rosalina brushed her sleeve over her grin. “This is my first confession at the hedge, father.”

“Father? Okay, let’s back this up a bit. I’m not feeling the father thing. How about . . . I don’t know—counselor? That square with you? Or better yet, friendly neighbor. Hurry up, Ivy, I’m getting demoted over here.”

His reply made her laugh, the pleasure of it like sweet water for her thirsty soul. A few quiet seconds settled between them which strangely enough, felt comfortable. “Tony?”

“Yes, Ivy.”

She held to a leaf on the trellis as if it were his hand. “Everything all right?”

“It is now, thanks to you. Better let you go inside; it’s getting cold.”

Not wanting to say goodbye, she stopped before speaking her thoughts. Tony had other things on his mind. Things he needed to work through. Things that were none of her business. “Until next time?”

“Yes, Ivy. Midnight tomorrow?”

Rosalina didn’t feel cold at all. “Yes. Midnight tomorrow.”

* * *

Antonio Rizzo waited until certain his new acquaintance had turned in for the night. Fully intending to keep his midnight appointment with Ivy, he stood, head bowed, fingers laced through the vines. “Thank you, Rosalina.” He owed the reclusive heiress his life. Perhaps they both needed saving.

He pulled the gun from his pocket, opened the barrel, and took out the bullet.

The End

Image: Alexis Fotos