Temple Street​

Issue 15

Ray stumbles out onto the sidewalk. He tries to squint, but the sun is too bright. He takes a deep breath and lets it flow through him.
      His phone confirms the time: 4:45pm. It’s that lost time of day, when it’s too late to start over, but too early to give up and go to sleep. He’s had so many of those days recently, but almost all of them were him, alone, in his empty house. Today was a nice change, to feel an open, unpredictable afternoon, especially after the last year. Ray left the conference at lunchtime with a few others, one thing led to another, and now he’s drunk on the streets of Boston.
      The conference was a good distraction. He’d be a modern day Marco Polo, bringing insights from the new world to his office in Santa Fe: Everything is going to be on the blockchain. The people he met and drank with this afternoon gave him a sense of conviviality. He felt welcomed, like he belonged. He left the bar last, after having one more by himself, and now he was buoyant with socialization and beer.
      He heads down Commonwealth, walking through the wide park bisecting the street, a secret garden. He passes a pair of lovers gazing into each other’s eyes. He thinks about walking up and putting his hand between their faces to see if they notice. He doesn’t think they would. How beautiful, he thinks, to be in carefree love.
      On the walk, he commits to a plan—walk to the hotel, eat dinner, take a shower, go to bed, head back home in the morning. Keep it simple, that’s what his friends keep telling him. He lived in Boston a lifetime ago, but his life here feels theoretical, fragments of something, not a material truth. Pieces of it tug at him, but he shrugs them off as he walks.
      He remembers the first restaurant he and his wife visited in the city, an Italian joint in the North End. Clams with red sauce, veal, risotto. Overpriced and touristy, but novel. Life was full of novelty then—young people in a new city, making a new life. This was before everything that’s now wreaking havoc on him.
      He walks past the State House, and is smacked with a feeling of deja vu. Shreds of detail swirl around him—the golden dome of the capitol, kissing his wife’s thin lips, her dark hair tickling his face, the river shimmering in the distance. He’s perplexed—is this one memory, or an amalgam of various things from his life with her?
      ​When he booked this trip, he wanted to get away. He realizes now that he didn’t get away at all. His life followed him here, as it follows him everywhere. It was naive of him to have expected this trip to be devoid of these memories, formative in their relationship. He realizes then, standing on that corner, that their first apartment together is just around the corner.
      ​A minute later, he’s at the top of Temple Street, gazing down the block, like looking at a geometric painting—shadows at a 45-degree angle, cutting across and casting perfect half-darkness on all the buildings. 
      As he walks down Temple, the lit half of the apartment buildings give off an intense, fire-like hue. He can’t remember his address, but he knows they lived in apartment 2. Struck by a sudden sense of longing, he’s torn.
      He could turn around, go back to the hotel, and not dive into this murky lake of memories. He could continue to push his feelings down, continue to walk away from it all. He thinks, at the same time, that if he could just see his old apartment, he could get some closure, and start to pacify the raging storm inside of him. 
      Ray prowls to the end of the block and back, pacing the sidewalk like a drunk lion, hot and burning with indecision. He has another recollection, of himself and his wife coming home from a bar, late at night. He had walked up to the wrong building, trying to fit his key in the door.
      His wife was laughing. “You idiot,” she said, trying to catch her breath.
      All he could manage was, “They all look the same!”
      Now, he looks up at the buildings and smiles.
 
His body is moving, and he’s on the stoop of one of a building in the middle of the block, pressing the buzzer for apartment 2.
      A voice says, with real curiosity, “Hello?” 
      “Uh, hi. My name is Ray. I think I used to live here. In your apartment? A long time ago, like 15 years ago.”
      She says, “Come on up.” He walks into the lobby, and sees the familiar red wine colored carpet and the banister of dark carved wood, worn smooth by thousands of human palms. He has an instant kinship with the building, remembering himself walking upstairs like these countless times.
      As his hand glides along the banister, he remembers the last meal he had with his wife, at the tapas place. He thinks about how her bare elbow balanced on the smooth curvature of the bar. He knocks on the door to apartment 2. It opens a crack, and he sees a small woman looking at him. She has glasses and dark hair, her face is wrinkled like a raisin.
      “I’m sorry to bother,” he says. “I just wanted to see the apartment? I used to live here.”
      She looks at him, and then says over her shoulder, “He says he used to live here.” She looks back at him. “Come on in.”
      He walks into an apartment that seems like it’s been lived in for centuries. It’s the home of a couple—a pair of men’s black loafers next to his feet, and two coats and a hat on a rack. Gazing to his left, he sees the kitchen, which has a table set with two glasses, two plates, and two sets of silverware.
      He quickly says, “Sorry, I made a mistake.” He turns to leave, and she says, “No no, come in. Sit, sit.” She guides him to an old armchair, the color of the red carpet in the hallway.
      She sits on a sofa across from him and says, “We’ve lived here since 1972.”
      He wants to stand up. His eyes are drawn to the evidence of a worn-in home—pictures, an empty flower pot sitting by the window—things that were put in place and never moved again. A family that was together for a long time. He says, “I should go. I thought this was my apartment. But clearly it’s not!”
      She smiles at him, still peering serenely through her glasses. She looks over her shoulder and says, “He seems lost.”
      He smiles at her, confused by the person he hasn’t seen yet. “Is your husband here?” He remembers an old couple at the tapas restaurant that night, eating fried potatoes in a tomato sauce with toothpicks. At the time, he imagined him and his wife getting old, having many unremarkable dinners together.
      The woman yanks him back to the present. “My husband’s been dead for 10 years. We still talk. The bond, you see, it’s strong. He helps me through things.” She rests her hands in her lap. “Do you talk to people who are gone?”
      He feels pinpricks rolling across his arms. “What? Definitely not.” He thinks about how he talks to his wife, late at night, apologizing, asking her to forgive him.
      She says, “Maybe try it. It brings some peace. You know, the past isn’t going anywhere.”
      ​Quickly, he pushes himself up out of the armchair, walks to the door, opens it, and says over his shoulder, “Well, thanks again, nice to meet you!” He hustles down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, nearly tripping on the last step. He gets outside and doubles over, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, feeling like he’s going to vomit.
 
He needs to shake off the creepy old woman who talks to the dead. The next thing he knows, he’s pressing the button for apartment 2 at the next building. A soft voice says, “Hello?”
      ​“Hi, I think I used to live in this apartment, a while back, with my wife. Would you mind if I come up just to look around?”
      ​​“Hmm,” the man says. “You’re not a murderer or a cop or something, are you?”
      ​Ray laughs. “I’m just a guy here for a conference.” That seems to have done it, and he’s buzzed in. Same carpet, same banister, same trip up the stairs.
      ​The door to apartment 2 opens, and a tall, thin man stands there, in a white tank top and shorts, his blonde hair and pale skin making him look translucent.
      ​He stares at Ray, who feels self-conscious in his gaze. All Ray can manage is, “Hi.”
“So, you lived here?” The man flips his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Yes,” Ray says. “With my wife.” He keeps mentioning his wife, to make him more relatable, but every time he mentions her, it’s like a knife cutting him, a razor sharp memory that still draws blood.
      ​The man sighs. “Okay, come in, I guess.” It’s a spartan apartment, with only a futon and a big drawing table covered with art supplies. The man, who looks about 25, sits on the futon, crosses his legs, then his arms, and looks at Ray, irritated.
      ​Ray looks around. The kitchen is on the right side, not the left, like his apartment. As he turns to leave, the man says, “How long ago did you live here?”
      ​Ray turns to the man with a puzzled look. “I think it was a different building on this street. Weird, right?”
      ​“Not really,” the man says. “All the buildings look the same. But it must not have been that great if you can’t even remember the address.”
      ​“No, it was,” Ray says, trying to will the past back with only the positive. “It was great!” His mind goes to him and his wife, strolling the Common, holding hands. He wants to cry. He pushes out the memories that butt in, the sight of his own blood dripping down his forehead as he sat upside down, the rotating police lights, the sirens.
      ​​The young man says, “This was the first place I found. I had to get away from my parents.”
      ​Ray laughs, attempting to bond with the young man. He says, “I know how that is.”
      ​The man doesn’t move, his arms and legs remain crossed. “Did your parents ever tell you that you were ‘rotten to the core’?”
      ​Ray takes a step back. “Probably not exactly. But they thought I was an asshole.”
      ​“Yeah. Well, mine hate me.” The man stands up and walks around Ray to the drawing table. “I moved into this place to get some space. To work on some stuff.” Ray looks down at the drawings. They’re all of menacing animals with sharp teeth, fierce looking, ready to attack. They’re shaded in charcoal and pencil, smudged and monstrous.
      ​The man says, staring at his drawings, “My folks are ashamed of me. So I just have to be invisible for a while.”
      ​“I’m sure they’re not,” Ray says, quickly. “I’m sure they love you.” He thinks about how little he knows about love. “Just be yourself. And keep working on this stuff. Seriously. It’s good.”
      ​“Thanks,” the man says, without looking up. Ray backs toward the door slowly, imagining the wolf on the drawing coming to life, baring its teeth at him.
      ​He moves out of the apartment wordlessly and walks slowly back down the stairs, massaging his temples. On the street, the sun is setting behind the buildings, the sky bluish purple. The shadows are growing longer on the sidewalk. He’s disoriented, but feels a little jolt. He must keep going.
 
He’s now at next building and when he presses the button for apartment 2, a raspy female voice briskly says, “What is it?”
      ​Ray responds, “Hi. This sounds strange, but I used to live in your apartment, a while back, I think, with my wife. Probably before you lived here.”
      ​The woman snorts. “Oh yeah? How do you know how long I’ve lived here?”
      ​He gives a forced laugh. “I’m in town for work. I’m trying to find my old apartment, to re-spark some memories. I think this is the building.”
      ​“You’re not re-sparking anything here, buddy.” After a moment, she continued. “I’ve lived here for 20 years. You sound lost. I get it, it’s a crazy world. I don’t really go out there. I’m here waiting for things to slow down a little bit.”
      ​Ray says, “Yeah, I get that. Everything happens really fast. Do you,” he starts, then pauses. “Do you miss it out here? Out in the world?”
      ​“It’s a different kind of life,” she says. “But it’s a life. Anyway, see ya, buddy.” With that, the intercom clicks off.
 
Ray’s sober now. The day, and the trip, are weighing on him all at once. He can feel the knots in his shoulders. He thought that if he could see his old apartment, he could start to understand it all further. But now he’s not sure. Maybe it’s time to give up, he thinks.
      The crash comes back, like it often does. He and his wife were driving back from dinner. He can see the two-lane road, brownish-green brush just off the edge, the sky deep orange as it goes behind the hills. He only takes his eye off the road for a second, to play a song for her. “Landslide,” to make her smile. And just like that, a quick series of flips, cracks, and he’s upside down. He doesn’t remember looking over at her. He doesn’t remember much beyond that. Just the song playing, “and I’m getting older too,” the sound of the ambulance, the aftermath.
      Since then, he’s been alone to deal with it all. For weeks, people were in and out of his house like ghosts, bringing food he never ate. Someone gave him an orchid, which seemed like a cruel joke, giving him the responsibility of keeping a plant alive. A friend suggested a therapist he could talk to. He didn’t call. Now he’s alone, in a city he doesn’t live in, drunkenly knocking on people’s doors. He had shaken off his hopelessness during this trip, but now it was back, in full force.
      He stares at the brick building across the street, his elbows on his knees, chin resting on the palms of his hand. It’s a windowless fortress of red that takes up the whole block. He’s trying to remember what the building was used for, but his mind is blank.
      He’s nearly catatonic as he hears two people talking loudly. He turns and sees a man and a woman, both with thin builds and shoulder-length brown hair, walking toward him, sauntering like the photo from an album cover. The man is wearing shorts and a t-shirt, the woman a tie-died dress. He stares in astonishment, wondering how they look so much like each other.
      ​They stop in front of the building next door, and see him staring.
      ​The man says, “Do you live on Temple Street?”
      ​Ray laughs. “Funny story. I thought I did.”
      ​They look at each other, communicating without saying a word. “Okay,” the woman says, drawing the word out to five syllables. “Do you need help?”
      ​His façade breaks down. “Honestly, I don’t know. I was…looking for something.”
      ​“Huh,” says the woman. “I’m Naomi. This is Sam.” She points at the building. “Do you want to come up for some water? You don’t look good.”
      ​He follows them up the same colored stairs, and, of course, to apartment 2. Naomi unlocks the door, and Ray follows them in. He watches their identical movements as they enter—the way they both take off their shoes by bringing their knees up to waist height, the way they take a deep breath and exhale loudly as they look around the apartment.
      ​Naomi says, “Come in. Sit down.” To the left is the kitchen, like his old apartment. He sits down in a wood chair at an old kitchen table. She hands him a glass of water, smiles, and leaves the small room. He takes a long drink and sets the glass down on the dark wood.
      ​Through the opening in the kitchen wall, he can see the living room, and how discordant the apartment is with these two young people. Everything feels prehistoric. A vinyl sofa with brown cushions, heavy brown curtains on the windows, thick brown carpeting.
      ​Sam and Naomi walk into the kitchen and sit down at the table, side by side, staring at him like it's an interrogation. Ray breaks the silence. “So, how long have you lived here?” He looks at them, back and forth, spreading his attention equally.
      ​Naomi laughs. “Oh, this isn’t our apartment. This is our dad’s place. He passed away a few months ago. We’re trying to figure out what to do with all this stuff.”
      ​Sam smiles. “We haven’t done anything to it. It’s how he liked it.”
      ​Naomi looks at Sam, then at Ray. “It’s all pretty dreary, isn’t it?”
      ​Ray quickly says, “No. Seems nice. Authentic?”
      ​Naomi gives him a sly look. “Authentic. Yeah.” She looks at Ray. “So, what’s your story?”
      ​“I used to live on this street. I’m actually not sure where. I’m here for work. I’ve been going through some stuff. I thought seeing my old place would help. I’ve just been buzzing apartments, talking to people. Sounds insane, right? I have no idea what I’m doing, to tell you the truth.”
      ​The twins look at each other again. Sam says, “Sorry. That sounds kind of heavy.”
      ​Ray says, “It’s been interesting. Met some characters.”
      ​​“I bet,” Naomi says. “Our dad would have had some stories for you. But we’re just stuck here, watering that plant over there, like he’s going to be back any day now.”
      ​Sam looks down, examining his long, delicate fingers. “I think he would have wanted us to keep the apartment.” He looks at Naomi, who keeps her gaze fixed on Ray.
      ​Naomi says, “So, are you going to keep knocking on doors until you find your old apartment?”
      ​Ray shakes his head. “I’m really not sure. It’s been intense, kind of fun, but now I feel kind of…sad again.”
      ​Naomi says, “Maybe it’s this apartment. It’s so sad. I could never come back, and that would be fine with me.” Her mouth tightens, exactly as her brother’s did before.
      ​Sam looks at Ray, but is talking to Naomi. “We owe it to him. To keep this place. After everything that happened.”
      ​Naomi responds to Sam, also looking at Ray. “We don’t owe him anything. He’s not here anymore.”
      ​Ray has to play the mediator. “I’m sure he’d be fine with whatever you two decided. When my wife died, I wanted to throw everything out, immediately. That day, actually, I threw out a bunch of her shoes. Only shoes. There was still fresh laundry lying around. The house still smelled like her, the oil she used to put on in the morning. It was driving me nuts. But I went for the shoes. Piles and piles of them, I just stuffed them all into big, black garbage bags and threw them out the front door. It doesn’t make sense now, but grief is strange like that.”
      ​Sam looks down, and says softly, “Sorry for your loss.”
      ​Ray looks back at Naomi. “Thank you. Could you maybe take the plant, and some of the other stuff, to one of your places? And sell this one?”
      ​Sam pushes his chair back loudly and storms out of the kitchen. Naomi gives Ray a smile. “He thinks we have a responsibility to keep this place as a museum or something. We talk about it, but we can’t make progress. We end up back here, just stumped.”
      ​Ray says, “It’s tough, losing someone close.”
      ​Naomi doesn’t look like she’s listening. Maybe they forgot about his loss already. “We both missed phone calls from dad on the day he died. We were working. Sam can’t get over it.”
      ​Ray says, “I understand. Guilt is a killer.”
      ​He wants to stay and spend more time with Naomi. He finds himself looking at her shoulders, where her t-shirt starts to fall to one side, and realizes he needs to get out of there.
      ​He stands up quickly and says, “I’m so sorry about your dad. But I should go.”
      ​Naomi stands too, and says quietly, “Oh. Okay.” She reaches up and touches his hand. “I’m sorry about your wife.” He looks at her, and they hold each others’s stare for a moment.
      ​He pulls his hand back and walks out of the kitchen, and Sam’s standing there. Ray could tell he had been listening to their conversation. He looks Sam in the eyes, and somehow feels comforted to see that he had the same eyes as she did, flecks of green and gold sparkling inside brown, shining in the hallway light. “She doesn’t know how I feel,” Sam says. “We both have to live with this.”
      ​Ray forces a smile and says, “I’m really sorry.” He is sorry—for them, for himself. He feels claustrophobic and dizzy. He angles past Sam, opens the door, and bounds down the stairs. How many times has he run down stairs today?
 
Back on the street, it’s dark, and the street lamps are shining isolated halos on the sidewalk. He has to get back to the hotel, to go back home. But to what? The prospect of going home, to the empty house, a huge hole in the middle of his life. Defeat sets in. This day has been a series of bizarre interactions, like Ray looking in a mirror, seeing himself the same as everyone he has met—broken and scattered.
      He goes, almost unwittingly, up to the last building on the block, still thinking about Naomi and Sam, sitting silently, a vast sea of brown in between them. He pushes the buzzer for apartment 2.
      A woman’s voice answers. “Hello?”
      ​Ray says, “Hi, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was in the neighborhood, I used to live on this block, and I’m wondering if I could just look into the apartment, just to see it?”
      ​The woman replies, with a hesitant exhale, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
      ​“I understand,” Ray says. “I get it. My wife, she and I used to live in the apartment, I think. I lost her recently. It just, it would mean a lot.”
      ​After a moment, the woman’s voice says, again with a sigh, “Okay. Come up. For a minute.”
      ​He walks up the flight of stairs, and the door to apartment 2 is open. A small girl with pigtails stands in the door, squinting through glasses. “I’m Maggie,” the girl says. “This is my mom, Laura.” Behind her stands a woman, the mom, in a white sundress. 
      ​Ray leans down. “Hi Maggie, I’m Ray. Is it okay with you if I just look inside the apartment quickly?”
      ​​Maggie shrugs her shoulders and turns around. He follows her inside, and turns to Laura. “Thank you so much. Here’s my business card. Just so you know that I’m a real person.” Laura smiles at him, and Ray notices a dimple on the right side of her mouth. How strangely beautiful, he thinks.
      ​As he walks inside, the apartment transforms in front of him, into the one that he used to live in. He takes a deep breath, trying to counter the lightheadedness. The memories hit him. Cooking in this kitchen. Stumbling in late at night. Carrying coffee to the bedroom, so many times. Dancing in the middle of the room to “Landslide,” spinning on the old record player.
      ​He stands there, while Maggie looks up at him. “So, you used to live here?”
      ​Ray finally exhales. His voice catches. “Yeah, I did.”
      ​“Neat,” Maggie says. She stands there, looking around like he does, seeing her current life, while he sees his former life. “Ray,” Maggie says, “do you want to see something I’m working on?” Ray looks over at Laura, who nods.
      ​He’s trying to hold back the dam, barely keeping the force of his memories at bay. “Sure, yeah.” Maggie sits down, cross-legged, next to a shoebox in the entryway. She pats the floor next to her, motioning for him to sit down. “It’s a time capsule,” Maggie says, looking up at him, smiling.
      ​“Oh wow,” Ray says. He sits down awkwardly, his back against the wall. “Very cool. What are you going to put in there?”
      ​“Well,” Maggie says, ready to explain. “My parents and I each put something really meaningful to us in here, and then in five years, we’re going to open it back up, and see what we remember about the things that we put in there.”
      ​​“That’s excellent,” Ray says, genuinely interested. “So, what did you put in there?”
      ​“It’s supposed to be something we have a strong memory about. So, my mom put in a Mother’s Day card that I gave her, which she really loves. My dad put a cassette tape in there, from when he was younger. I think my mom gave it to him. Mom, is that right?” Laura nods again. "I’m putting this doll in there.” She holds up a small doll, also a girl with pigtails.
      ​“That is so cool,” Ray says. “What do you think you’ll see in here in five years?”
      ​“I don’t know,” Maggie says. She looks at Laura again. “My mom says memories are important, but that sometimes we have to put them away to make room for new ones.” She pauses, and looks at him. “You know, Ray, since you used to live in the apartment, and we’re going to keep the time capsule here, maybe you can put something in, too?”
      ​Ray gasps, and a half-laugh escapes. “Oh! I don’t know if I should do that.”
      ​She says, in a serious voice, imitating an adult: “It’s okay. If you give me something that’s important to you, it’s still yours. You don’t have to forget it forever. But you can set it free.” 
      ​Ray can now feel hot tears running down his cheeks. His hands are trembling. Without thinking, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an earring. A gold hoop. He carries it in his pocket everywhere he goes. “It was my wife’s.”
      ​Maggie seems unfazed by a stranger sitting on her floor, crying. “Does she need it?”
      ​Ray pauses and says, “No, not anymore.”
      ​Maggie looks at him with a neutral expression. “Well that’s good. It seems like it’s a memory you can put away. I’ll take care of it. But now you’ve made room for a new one.”
      ​Ray scrambles to his feet, and manages to say, “Thank you. Bye, Maggie. Thank you, Laura.” He rushes out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out of the building.
      ​​He stands in front of the building, looking down the block, seeing the street lamps, standing still, protective, like angels guarding the gates. He walks slowly to the end of Temple Street. He turns the corner without looking back.

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RJ BEE is a high school math teacher, and runs a podcast called the Helping Friendly Podcast, which focuses on music and storytelling; and a podcast called Library Card, which focuses on discussions of books and short stories. He lives in Merion Station, PA, just outside of Philadelphia.

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