Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

to the Lower Haight, and its only street sign had been all but obscured by graffiti and antiwar stickers. What’s more, the address they were looking for—437—was not displayed on any of the houses. They located 429 and 445, so they had to assume it was the house between them, a Victorian cottage made Spanish in the twenties by a flat stucco facade. The Band-Aid–colored plaster was falling away like so many scabs, exposing the laths beneath. The window’s colorless curtains were drawn.
    “Alexandra’s love nest,” Otto said sardonically.
    “Well,” said Shawna, “it could have been heaven on earth, considering her shitty childhood. Maybe it was nice when she lived here. Maybe there’s a garden in back.”
    “Maybe Jeffrey Dahmer has a workshop in the basement.”
    It irritated her that Otto was trying to fuck up Alexandra’s happy ending—or, at least, her happy middle. Who was Otto to point fingers? His own little alley studio was way depressing, but it could still be incredibly sweet on a rainy evening when they were snuggling after sex. She needed to know that such pleasures had come to Alexandra, however briefly, that somewhere between the child rape and that flesh-eating disease someone had made her feel safe and loved and at home. Shawna was beginning to think she couldn’t scatter Alexandra’s ashes anywhere without some reassurance of that. There would be nothing to celebrate but her death.
    “It looks deserted,” said Otto.
    “Why? Because it’s run-down?”
    “Well … yeah.”
    “So let’s ring the bell and see.”
    “Why not just look through the curtains?”
    She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Like that’s any less invasive than ringing the bell?”
    “I didn’t say that. I just think it might be advisable, under the circumstances. Wouldn’t you like to see how they live before we see who comes to the door?”
    This did make a certain sense, so she looked both ways down the sidewalk to make sure they were alone before sidling over to the window, a featureless rectangle of aged aluminum, speckled with corrosion. She peered through the foot-wide opening in the curtains to what she could see of the living room, then reported back to Otto.
    “It’s not the tidiest place, but it’s not Grey Gardens either. It’s kind of homey, actually. They’ve got a Snuggie.”
    “A what?”
    “You know. Those ridiculous blanket things with sleeves. As seen on TV?” She grinned at him. “That soul-sucking corporate appliance you want no part of?”
    He gave it right back to her. “It’s a good thing you’ve got one, then, or I never would’ve known what a Snuggie is.”
    “I’m gonna ring the bell.”
    “Go right ahead.”
    “If somebody’s here, we can show them the picture. If not, we can go home and fuck.”
    Otto held up crossed fingers, smiling.
    She pressed the dark Bakelite nipple of the doorbell. It made no sound at all, so she pressed it again. “Do you think they can hear it inside?”
    He shook his head. “It’s dead.”
    She rapped on the door, and, almost immediately, a dog began to bark.
    “Hey there, little buddy,” Otto crooned, when the apoplectic dog appeared in the window to confront the intruders. It was tiny, though, and its tail was wagging.
    “I guess he’s the doorbell,” said Shawna.
    They waited for someone to show up. No one did.
    “C’mon,” said Otto.
    “Just a little longer.”
    “The neighbors are noticing, Shawna.”
    Across the street an old woman with garish red hair was eyeing them as she poured water from a saucepan onto a potted plant on her doorstep.
    Shawna strode over to talk to her, with Otto close behind. “We’re looking for the people who live here.”
    The woman regarded her dubiously. “Are you here for the environment?”
    “No, no.” Shawna grinned. “Not at all. I mean … we’re totally for the environment, but … we’ve just got something we’d like to show them.”
    “Them?”
    “Well … whoever lives there.” Realizing how shady this was sounding, Shawna got specific. “We have some information about someone who used to live there back in the nineties. Alexandra Lemke?” She pulled one of the photos from her shoulder bag (the gorgeous grown-up shot taken at the fabric store) and showed it to the neighbor. “This is probably ten or fifteen years old, but … maybe you recognize her?”
    The woman said nothing.
    “That may have been before you lived here, of course.”
    Shawna’s effort at a