217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
Harry was playing Ella Fitzgerald when the buzzer rang and he almost didn’t hear it over the sound of the orchestra. He spoke into the grille and his daughter’s voice answered him, and he pressed the button to open the downstairs door. These actions happened one by one, in the correct order, but they seemed to take place some distance from his body. He could not shake off the grey mist that had descended a few days ago.
Sophie came in. They hugged, and then backed away awkwardly. “It’s good...” Harry started. “It’s good to have you here.” Sophie smiled, and then stopped, not knowing which emotion to show for the best. “How are you?” she asked finally and instantly regretted how stupid it sounded. But Harry nodded and said he was OK, he was holding up. But his eyes told another tale, one written in late nights and whiskey.
A little later they sat at the table, drinking tea. Sophie asked about the arrangements for tomorrow. Harry said, “I hope you don’t mind, I’ve placed your photograph in the coffin, you know, the one taken in Rhyl. It’s... it’s what she wanted.” Sophie took his hand in hers. “What about Edna?” she asked. Harry shook his head. ‘No. No news. Not yet.” Sophie looked away. “Oh well. You know Eddie. I’m sure she’ll...” Her voice trailed off as her father pulled her hand up towards his face and held it there tightly. He would not let her go.