Interpreter of Maladies

taken it down before flying back to Earth, But I did not have the heart to tell her. 
    Friday morning, when my first week's rent was due, I went to the piano in the parlor to place my money on the ledge. The piano keys were dull and discolored. When I pressed one, it made no sound at all. I had put eight one dollar bills in an envelope and written Mrs. Croft's name on the front of it. I was not in the habit of leaving money unmarked and unattended. From where I stood I could see the profile of her tent-shaped skirt. She was sitting on the bench, listening to the radio. It seemed unnecessary to make her get up and walk all the way to the piano. I never saw her walking about, and assumed, from the cane always propped against the round table at her side, that she did so with difficulty. When I approached the bench she peered up at me and demanded: 
    "What is your business?" 
    "The rent, madame," 
    "On the ledge above the piano keys!" 
    "I have it here." I extended the envelope toward her, but her fingers, folded together in her lap, did not budge, I bowed slightly and lowered the envelope, so that it hovered just above her hands. After a moment she accepted, and nodded her head. 
    That night when I came home, she did not slap the bench, but out of habit I sat beside her as usual. She asked me if I had checked the lock, but she mentioned nothing about the flag on the moon. Instead she said: 
    "It was very kind of you!" 
    "I beg your pardon, madame?" 
    "Very kind of you!" 
    She was still holding the envelope in her hands. 
    On Sunday there was a knock on my door. An elderly woman introduced herself: she was Mrs. Croft's daughter, Helen. She walked into the room and looked at each of the walls as if for signs of change, glancing at the shirts that hung in the closet, the neckties draped over the doorknob, the box of cornflakes on the chest of drawers, the dirty bowl and spoon in the basin. She was short and thick-waisted, with cropped silver hair and bright pink lipstick. She wore a sleeveless summer dress, a row of white plastic beads, and spectacles on a chain that hung like a swing against her chest. The backs of her legs were mapped with dark blue veins, and her upper arms sagged like the flesh of a roasted eggplant. She told me she lived in Arlington, a town farther up Massachusetts Avenue. "I come once a week to bring Mother groceries. Has she sent you packing yet?" 
    "It is very well, madame." 
    "Some of the boys run screaming. But I think she likes you. You're the first boarder she's ever referred to as a gentleman." 
    "Not at all, madame." 
    She looked at me, noticing my bare feet (I still felt strange wearing shoes indoors, and always removed them before entering my room), "Are you new to Boston?" 
    "New to America, madame." 
    "From?" She raised her eyebrows. 
    "I am from Calcutta, India." 
    "Is that right? We had a Brazilian fellow, about a year ago. You'll find Cambridge a very international city." 
    I nodded, and began to wonder how long our conversation would last. But at that moment we heard Mrs. Croft's electrifying voice rising up the stairs. When we stepped into the hallway we heard her hollering: 
    "You are to come downstairs immediately!" 
    "What is it?" Helen hollered back. 
    "Immediately!" 
    I put on my shoes at once. Helen sighed. 
    We walked down the staircase. It was too narrow for us to descend side by side, so I followed Helen, who seemed to be in no hurry, and complained at one point that she had a bad knee. "Have you been walking without your cane?" Helen called out. "You know you're not supposed to walk without that cane." She paused, resting her hand on the banister, and looked back at me. "She slips sometimes." 
    For the first time Mrs. Croft seemed vulnerable. I pictured her on the floor in front of the bench, flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, her feet pointing in opposite directions. But when we reached the bottom of the staircase she was sitting there as usual, her hands folded together in her lap. Two grocery bags were at her feet. When we stood before her she did not slap the bench, or ask us to sit down. She glared. 
    "What is it, Mother?" 
    "It's improper!" 
    "What's improper?" 
    "It is improper for a lady and gentleman who are not married to one another to hold a private conversation without a chaperone!" 
    Helen said she was sixty-eight years old, old enough to be my mother, but Mrs. Croft insisted that Helen and I speak to each other