Bedbugs

her leg. Susan clutched at herself, howling, and went sprawling onto the sidewalk. Prostrate and writhing, she saw that Andrea Scharfstein was sitting at the top of the stoop, dressed in a wrap of eerily bright vermillion, waving her thin arms wildly, shouting, “Look out! Susan, look out!”

She craned her neck upward just in time to see a gigantic double stroller hurtling out of the sky. She leapt to her feet and stumbled back, and the carriage hit the sidewalk. The stroller exploded and blood burst out of it, as if the thing had been a gigantic sloshing balloon full of blood; erupting in waves of blood, cascades of it, vastly more blood than possibly could have been inside those two poor little girls. Susan was splattered, covered, drenched in blood. She wailed, wiping the blood from her eyes until she could see the small corpses of the girls, their battered pulpy skeletons, strapped into their little seats in the side-by-side double stroller, hands clenched together … she screamed again, woke herself with screaming, woke to find her hands balled into fists and grinding into her eyes.

Susan took a series of ragged breaths until her hands quit trembling. Then she staggered out of bed and into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror for a long time, wiping intensely at herself with her palms, as if the blood of the dream was still caked on her cheeks and clinging to her hair. At last she tiptoed back into the bedroom and stared at Alex, who slept peacefully, undisturbed. The glowing red lines of the bedside clock told her it was 5:42. Susan unplugged the baby monitor from the bedside table and took it downstairs, certain she was up for the day.

5

Susan did not meet the “nice gentleman” who acted as Andrea’s unofficial, part-time maintenance man until Wednesday afternoon.

It was a little after one, and Susan was returning from yet another epic morning of errands when she turned off Henry Street onto Cranberry and heard the panicked, terrified wailing of a child. Her heart lurched in her chest —Emma—and she burst into a panicked sprint, the heavy plastic-sheathed bulk of the dry cleaning shifting in the crook of her arm, shopping bags flapping against her legs.

Emma appeared to be unharmed, thank God. But the girl was red-faced and screeching, crying with a ferocity that Susan rarely witnessed, standing at the center of an anxious tableau at the bottom of the stoop, just past the squat black wrought-iron fence that separated the brownstone from Cranberry Street. Andrea was crouching beside the girl, patting her uneasily on the shoulder; Marni hovered over them, wringing her hands and looking around stupidly; a few steps to Marni’s right, standing with one foot up on the bottom step, was an older black man with a bald pate and a massive gut, looking anxious and flustered. The sun glinted off the man’s smooth scalp while trickles of sweat dripped into his eyes.

“Mama!” screeched Emma, holding out her thin little arms.

That’s him, Susan thought as she launched herself into the scene and scooped up her daughter. That’s who I saw in the yard that night. That’s him. She cradled Emma to her chest and murmured, “Oh baby, oh baby, it’s OK my love. It’s OK.” And then, to the rest of them: “What happened?”

“Emma got upset, the dear,” said Andrea, straightening up and nervously readjusting the gold-grey kerchief knotted in her hair.

“I can see that. Why?”

“She was trying to get into the basement.”

“What?”

Andrea gestured to a cramped plywood door under the steps, secured with a heavy padlock. Susan knitted her brow; she had never noticed the door before.

“I was upstairs, but I guess she was at the door to the basement, fussing with the lock, and Louis saw her and he rushed over to stop her.” Susan looked at the stranger, who nodded steadily but said nothing, just pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and ran it over his brow. “Which, in Louis’s defense, he was absolutely right to do,” Andrea continued. “That basement is no place for kids. Power tools, flammable materials—”

“Wait. Stop. Who is Louis?” Shifting Emma to her other arm, she pivoted toward the man. “Who are you?”

“Well, my name is Louis,” he said slowly, and Susan rolled her eyes. It’s like an old-folks home around here. “Yes. I got that.”

“Louis is the gentleman I mentioned,” Andrea said. “I told you. He handles things for me, repairs, blown fuses, light fixtures.”

“Oh. Right. OK.” To Susan, Louis seemed an extremely unlikely handyman: he was portly, to put it mildly, and looked like someone’s kindly but absentminded great-uncle, emitting none of the quiet confidence Susan associated with mechanical aptitude. Plus, if the guy was any younger than Andrea, it was by five or ten years, tops; he looked like he would struggle to carry a bag of groceries, let alone haul a toolbox up the steep stairs of 56 Cranberry Street.

Emma’s sobbing had subsided into a series of arrhythmic, pained hiccups; Susan squeezed her tighter and smoothed her pale hair.

“Did you tell her not to go down there, or did you raise your voice at her?” she demanded of Louis. “Did you touch her?”

“Oh, Lord, no,” Louis said, shaking his head, aghast. “Absolutely not.”

Andrea shook her head too, insistent, no no no. “Not Louis. He would not have put a hand on the child.”

“Not in a million years,” said Louis, shifting his stance and crossing his heavy arms across his stomach. Susan was not liking this — not one bit. This was the person who would come up to the apartment? To switch a fuse or unclog the toilet? Who would know what you’re supposed to do about gapping floorboards? She turned to Marni. “And where were you during all this?”

“I was right here. I was fighting with the stroller.” Marni fidgeted with the hem of her tight American Apparel T-shirt, looking like a child, ready to burst into tears. “She wandered away for two seconds, and the next thing I knew she was down there, and he was there. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t. He just spoke kind of, like, suddenly …” She glanced apologetically at Louis, who looked at the ground. “And I think that’s what did it.”

“You can’t let her wander away.”

“I know.”

“For any seconds.”

“I know. I’m really sorry.”

Susan fought to stay calm, knowing that getting upset would make it harder for Emma to regain her equilibrium. She turned back to Louis and forced a smile.

“Well, it’s not a big deal. I’m sure you didn’t mean it. Anyway, nice to meet you.”

Louis grinned, relieved. “Likewise. Any friend of Andrea’s.”

“Right. But can I ask you one more thing?”

“Of course. Anything you like.”

“Were you standing in the yard last Sunday night? Right after we moved in?” As she was asking the question, Susan realized how strange it sounded — strange, or accusatory. “Like, looking up at the bedroom window? For some reason?”

“No.” Louis shook his big head, and turned to Andrea. “I most certainly was not.”

“OK,” said Andrea, and Susan nodded. “OK.”

Louis retreated to the backyard, and the rest of them tromped in a ragged line to the top of the stoop, Susan hugging Emma to her chest, Marni struggling behind with the pile of dry cleaning and the other bags, the carry-strap of the collapsed strolled looped across her chest.

“Did you find Staubitz the other day?” Andrea called, a few steps behind.

“Yeah,” said Susan, not looking back. “I found it.”

From the top of the stoop, Susan peered over the side at the door that had been the source of the morning’s drama. It had a foreboding, dilapidated appearance, old and half rotted and probably laced with termites. The door