The Ooze from Apartment 9B

Wheeled suitcase in tow, Abigail noticed an offensive odour heavying the hallway air from the cracks of apartment 9B. She paused aside the faded door, its yellow paint chipped and freckled to carpet; a strange sight, as the specks had never been given the chance to collect and pile as they did now. She avoided the door’s peephole in a crouched snoop, her nose twitching like a rabbit, inhaling deeply. At first gasp, the scent was putrid; rancid, with a lingered, off-putting sweetness that lured her closer to the gaps in the doorframe. She extended her legs from the crouch and continued to breathe in the thick, spoiled air; curious, and repulsed.

After knocking for several minutes‒her urgent thumps echoing through the narrow hall‒she concluded he must be dead. The thick, lemon light was suddenly overwhelming, and she closed her eyes, the image of his lifeless body pressed to the inside of her lids. The harder she clenched them, the more red everything became, hallway fluorescents fighting for entry, the image of his body filtered with a crimson tint.

She couldn’t deny that the assumption of death seemed irrefutable, her memory of a similar scent pulled to the front of her mind like a heavy fishing line, slowly, then all at once. The smell she recognized‒the unmistakable tang‒was that of soured meat.

Her pulse quicked.

Months prior, bent to fridge in spring cleaning, she had pulled a forgotten Tupperware from its bottom shelf, thoughtlessly peeling the lid back with a small pop, unaware she’d just unleashed an oozing stench. The smell had spilled from the plastic, as though dripping to floor, instantly unraveling the apartment’s fragrance of bleach and chemical soaps. Bile had rushed up her throat like river rapids, the various shades and textures of mold forcing her eyes to the ceiling, her gags relentless, as she wrapped the container in layers of plastic bags. She had then driven several blocks to dispose of the contaminant in a department store dumpster, ridding her home of the ooze.

The memory metamorphosed to brain-scramble. She cringed from the door, chilled in thought of the image she’d momentarily blinked free: a vision of his stout body, lying cold and stiff on the grey berber carpet, inches from where she stood. His eyes were wide and glazed like frosted glass; his mouth overflowed with a milky, bubbling froth.

Abigail stood frozen, her eyes locked on the glare of the peephole. She wasn’t sure if human decomposition held a similar stench to rotted Tupperware steaks, but the implied likeness seemed obvious. Or, she could be jumping to conclusions. She could be overthinking, as she often did. He could be on the other side of the door, alive, asleep in his favourite leather chair, a deep dream masking her desperate knocks. Exhaling, she grasped her suitcase handle, knuckles white with pressure, and gave one final bloodhound whiff before trudging to her apartment three doors down. The stench lingered in her nose, clinging, like crystalized honey to the sides of a jar.

Safe in her apartment, she unzipped the front pocket of her suitcase, sliding her phone free. No; there was no way she could rationalize ignoring the smell. But then, why hadn’t anyone called the police? She stared at her screen, thumb dangling above the number nine. Maybe no one had smelled it. Maybe she had been the first. Maybe everyone’s noses were clogged with allergies, or colds. She locked the phone, her worried reflection staring back from the black, finger smeared screen.

People did avoid Frank’s side of the hall, that was a fact. Maybe they didn’t smell it because they were busy avoiding him. She tapped the phone to her chin, sniffing, testing the odour’s reach. It seemed to be contained to the hallway. God, she was overthinking things, right? What if no one had called, because it really was…nothing? What if she called the police, and they scolded her if it turned out he was fine? Would they be upset with her for wasting their time? Mortifying. She chewed the inside of her cheeks and resisted the urge to return to 9B.

Abigail sank into the cushions of her armchair, palms pressed to forehead. God, Frank. I’m gone for one week. Her chin wobbled, eyes upturned, resisting tears she couldn’t hope to contain once freed.

The stench of death was unmistakable. That much she knew. She also knew this day would come; the inevitability of the old man’s death was a practical, unavoidable fact she often pushed to the deepest parts of her mind. Yet in the time she’d befriended the geezer, the topic of death arose often– it was a conversation he never shied from, and it was often the subject of their shared, morbid jokes and laughter. So when the thought of his passing did cross her mind, she had always found comfort in the certainty that she would take his death in stride, purely in knowing he had lived a long, full life. But now, she could feel the heaviness build, the grief mushrooming through her chest.

It was clear the anticipation of death was incomparable to the sinking reality. Nothing had prepared her for the shallowness in her core; the heaviness in her temple and chest. Abigail gave in, allowing the tears to fall, thin, and heavy.

Frank was by all means, a cartoonishly grumpy old man, eager to trap hallway trekkers into hour long, one-sided dialogues. The man was oblivious to sagging armfuls of groceries, and impatient dogs tugging at leashes; irritable apartment occupants became sucked into his monologues like crumbs to a vacuum. In the time she’d watched and known him, Frank had never mentioned the weather, or offered casual greetings; he trapped audiences with confused (if not exaggerated) tales of a life in Italy, hoping to entice listeners with wild tales of deceit and romance. Most residents had learned to evade the old man’s chatter through the strategic bolt of door to stairwell, wireless earbuds pushed deep into ears, eyes to ground. It had taken Abigail three conversations with Frank‒two of which, Mussolini was a recurring story character‒for her to realize the man was starved for attention. And she had quickly learned it was easier to accept Frank’s offerings of tea, than listen to his ramblings in the hall.

* * *

“Abigail?”

She met his eyes. His face was covered in warts and bumps from eyelid to nose, a thin, pearl scar protruding along his sagging chin. His once black hair was greyed, thinned, and kept from his eyes with a slick oil. She set her teacup on its mismatched saucer and waited for him to continue.

“Abigail,” he repeated, “back’s-a… no good.”

She retrieved an extra pillow and positioned it behind him.

“Better?”

He nodded.

“You took your afternoon ones already, right?” she asked, pointing to his pill box with her chin. She had asked this earlier, but was unsure if his previous “yes” had been an unintentional lie.

He grunted. “Abigail. I’m-a not slow.”

His accent and emphasis on the word made her fight a smile; she had taught him to say “slow” in place of an outdated, offensive word she’d once gently scolded him for using. Mumbling, he’d obliged, never repeating the old word, and never failing to say the new word with bite.

“Okay Grandpa, just making sure you don’t die on me.”

Frank grunted again, giving her a sportive squint, his drooping eyes peeking over the upturned mug he sipped from, the one she’d bought him the previous Christmas: “World’s Best Grandpa”. She’d taught him to enjoy the irony of the shared joke; she in no way viewed Frank as a grandfatherly figure, and she’d made that clear. “I have two grandpas already, don’t need a third,” she’d often say, teasing him. Instead, she slipped the word “friend” into conversation as often as possible.

Abigail side-eyed his pill organizer. She would get him a transparent one for Christmas this year.

“Hmm,” he started. She returned her eyes to him. “I don’t like this one. Hand me the uh... the box, the box.”

“I thought you loved Wheel of Fortune,” she said, handing him the remote. Frank held it an inch from his eyes, carefully reading the buttons she’d colour-coded with nailpolish.

“No, no. Same stuff, over an’ over. There’s-a no good programs no more, all the same stuff.” He pointed the remote, angling it high above the old, cube television. Abigail gently reminded him to lower his hand.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pick up a few tapes before Saturday? They added a new Blockbuster down the street.” She had tried to convert the man to video streaming, but the attempts had been disastrous and confusing; DVDs held a similar effect. Instead, she’d taken to thrifting Frank his VHS tapes, referencing it as trips to the “video store” to ease his confusion.

“No, no, no.” He waved his hand, shooing the idea. “You got a-lots to do.”

“I’m going anyway Frank, my sister wants me to bring a few movies to watch when we’re back at the hotel,” she lied. “And I’m done everything– I’m all packed.” She watched him pause, before finally nodding in agreement.

“If you’re already going. Take-a some money from my–”

“Don’t worry about it, I still owe you from when we ordered Gino’s a while back." Another lie. "I’ll bring ‘em by Friday, okay?”

Abigail drained the rest of her tea into the sink, cleaned the cup and saucer, and left.

* * *

In all the excitement for her trip, she’d forgotten to bring Frank his tapes.

Abigail cried quietly, despite wanting to wail, clutching the bag of tapes to her chest. Her forehead throbbed; had she offered him a polite goodbye the last time she saw him? Told him she’d see him soon? She prayed she’d at least smiled, but Abigail knew she’d probably left without so much as a wave. The two were accustomed to her constant coming and going, and she often left without so much as a word, his eyes and ears fixed to the television.

But he had probably waited for the tapes, unlocking the door bright and early Friday morning, listening for the twist of doorknob. Waiting, and waiting, watching the inside of his hideous yellow door, not wanting to burden her with a phone call, certain she would bring the tapes she’d volunteered to bring; the tapes she’d made such a fuss over. He’d probably watched Friday slip by, checking the calendar to make sure his dates were right, hoping she’d simply changed the plan to drop them off Saturday before boarding the plane. But then Saturday had slipped by too. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t checked in.

Perhaps being forgotten had been his breaking point.

Abigail’s sobs caught in her throat, and she coughed, choking on the awkward twist of air. No, no– it would take more to break Frank. He would have teased her about the tapes, pretending it wasn’t a big deal, even if it was. Abigail knew her friend was a product of his generation: stoic, and openly softened by very little. In the time she’d known him, she had seen him tear up once, in his recollection of a wife and daughter whom he’d lost years prior. Otherwise, he’d offer small smiles and frowns, and most often, a seemingly deadpan stare that she’d come to recognize as contentment. This was a man who’d fought a war; a man who’d left his parents and siblings for Canada in hopes of giving his pregnant wife the best life he could. A man who retired in his seventies, a full decade after losing the wife and daughter he’d worked his entire life to provide for. If Frank was gone, it surely wasn’t over some lousy tapes.

Abigail wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeves and dialled her landlord’s number. He promised to be there in ten.

* * *

Nearly thirty minutes later, he knocked at her door.

“Okay, show me.”

Abigail led him to 9B, arms crossed over her chest, eyebrows tilted to nose. Her landlord gave her a look, partly in recognition of the smell, and partly as though to tell her what an inconvenience it was to request a wellness check on a Saturday night. She sneered in thought of their phone call, when he’d asked if the matter could wait until morning. He knocked repeatedly, without response.

“Shouldn’t we call the police, or something?” she asked, exasperated, his key already positioned in the doorknob.

“Honey, if there’s something to call the police about, I’ll call the police.” He turned the lock, and pushed the door open with a surprising gentleness.

The odour released all at once, like track-horses through their gates.

“Frank?” Abigail called into the apartment, the bodiless entranceway bringing little relief. Her landlord squinted at her from over his shoulder, swearing though his pinched nose.

“I got it from here, go back to your place,” he huffed, nasally.

“He’s my friend,” Abigail insisted, stepping closer to the opened door, pinching her nose between thumb and index. The apartment was one large shadow; the blackout curtains tightly closed, no hint of light in the room except for the dull inhale of yellow from the hallway.

“Go home, ma’am. If this is what you think it is, you’re not gonna wanna see it.”

Abigail ignored him, shoving into the apartment. She flipped the switch to her right and immediately made eye contact with the source of the smell.

“Jesus Christ!” the landlord yelled. Bent over, his stomach gurgled in a release of phlegm and bile, spat to carpet. Abigail’s cheeks ballooned, her fingers pressed flat to mouth in an effort to contain the vomit. Instead, it spluttled down her chin.

In the center of the room, where Frank’s leather chair normally sat angled at the window, was the decomposing body of an animal laid carefully across a dusty, blue tarp. Abigail recognized the curly ears of her neighbor Kelly’s poodle.

“Frank!” Abigail called, side-stepping past the corpse, toward his bedroom. She knocked on his door before letting herself in. By the light of the hallway, she saw that he lay peacefully, snoring. With a blurred scan of his bedside table, she saw the hearing aids she forgot he wore.

* * *

“I no, uh… I don’t-a it for a long time,” he explained, sheepishly.

Taxidermy. He’d talked about it once to Abigail in passing, and apparently Kelly had also fallen victim to the unsettling rant. Abigail knew that in his youth, Frank had helped his father in the stuffing of countless ring-necked pheasants, which apparently, was enough for Kelly to trust him with her newly deceased, beloved pet. When confronted by Abigail’s demanding knocks, Kelly had opened her door, leaning in its frame, unphased by Abigail's fury. She wore a thin, sheer bathrobe, drooped lazily over her shoulders, lipstick smeared, mascara clumped. Abigail's fury grew with the bored, muttered explanation of events.

“So you're telling me, you asked a ninety-two year old man with early onset dementia to stuff your dead, fucking dog?”

“It was gonna cost me like, a grand. He said he’d do it for fifty,” Kelly said, her voice even and unphased.

“His apartment smells like a goddamn slaughterhouse, you thought that was normal?”

Kelly shrugged. “I don't know, thought it was like, part of the process.”

It had taken everything in Abigail not to slap the woman’s expressionless, botoxed face.

After being bribed with more than Abigail would have liked to spend, (fifty of which, came from Kelly) her landlord agreed to handle the animal. How, she didn’t know. Nor did she care. She led Frank to her apartment, her anger persevering, her cheeks flushed, her head throbbing.

“You have no idea how worried I was, Frank. I thought you were dead.” She wrung her wrists, pacing the length of her living room. She stopped, sitting in the chair across from his. “I leave for a week, and you have a dead animal in the middle of your fucking floor.”

Frank’s face was still, his brows furrowed stubbornly.

“How long has it been there like that?” she asked. He didn’t answer. “How many days Frank?!”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! Cazzo! I don’t remember it, if I did, I tell you! You wanna hear me say I’m-a slow old man who don’t remember? Slow idiot man who can't-a no take care of himself? Porca puttana! I don't remember!”

Abigail had never heard the man’s voice tremble or crack as it just had. She felt her shoulders fall. Frank, in all his uncertainty and confusion, radiated endless confidence, to the point Abigail often had to remind herself he was slowly but surely losing grasp of his memory and senses. But now his hands shook, veins protruded and teal, his head lowered to chest. She felt her jaw soften, unclenched entirely when she noticed the two, pale tears falling in unison from his bowed head, blurred by the backdrop of carpet. Her own tears reignited.

“If I remember, I tell you. I tell you.”

“I know.” She paused, cupping her hands over his. “I didn’t mean to yell. I was just scared.” He didn’t respond, and she thought for a moment, clueless of what to say next; there were no words to undo the condescending tone she’d taken with the man thrice her age. She could see the embarrassment in his slumped shoulders; she had heard the pain in his voice, the humiliation in his confusion. As much as she thought of him as a friend, he was still a man who had lived a life she had yet to live; and she had yelled at him, impatient and demanding like a mother screaming at a disobedient child.

She exhaled. Freeing one hand, she reached for a tape from under the coffee table, the awkward rustle of plastic bag concealing her sniffles. She held the tape to his line of sight, and he stared, slowly lifting his chin. For a moment Abigail wondered if he had forgotten about her promise to bring the tapes that day. But then his lips twitched; quivering like a spinning top nearing its fall, while the rest of his face contorted into an expression she’d never seen him make. His face, wrinkled and grooved, was suddenly young in its mimic of a child’s oncoming sob. She could hear the cry contained in his chest, his mouth clenched, damning the sob to his throat. She swallowed the silence between them, enveloping him into a hug, his muscles untensing in the embrace.