The Woman Who Fell To Earth

Chapter 30

Saturn

Arthur took the stairs two at a time, a package in his hands. He jogged down the hall and stopped at Apartment 1F, rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Mrs. Pritchard," he called. "It's me, Arthur." He had been so excited when the package arrived, he couldn't wait to show her. There was no answer, so he knocked again. "Doris?" he called a little louder. He heard barking from little Mollie behind the door.

Surely she was home. The old lady never went anywhere without her little sidekick in tow. Maybe she was on the toilet. He waited a full two minutes, just in case, before knocking again. The dog picked up where it had left off with the yaps. Still no movement from behind the door. Doris Pritchard was not hard of hearing, and besides, Mollie's shrill barks could be heard in another dimension. Arthur's heart picked up, his mind turned to those old Help me, I've fallen advertisements.

He tried the handle. Surprisingly, it was unlocked. Perhaps Mrs. Pritchard had just stepped out to check the mail or visit a neighbor. He cracked the door, peeked his head in, and called, "Mrs. Pritchard? It's Arthur, your neighbor."

Mollie jumped up, her little paws on his shins. He reached down and rubbed her curly head. "Hey Mollie, hey girl. Where's your mama?" Mollie danced in a circle, yipping. "Doris? Your door was unlocked," he called loudly, just in case she really was on the toilet.

The apartment was laid out identically to Arthur's, but instead of mismatched bachelor furnishings, hers was full of history. A Louis XIV armchair, seafoam green settee, an upright piano. The walls were plastered with photographs, framed images of Egypt, Australia, Japan, Russia, Hawaii, Alaska. Doris in an airplane. Doris on an elephant. Doris in a scuba suit. He looked at them and smiled at the young girl in the images. On a separate wall were hung more photos. Doris with Eric Clapton. Doris with Little Richard. Doris with Ringo Starr. "What a vixen," he whispered, then whistled through his teeth.

He took the package from under his arm and set it on the coffee table, removed the brown paper wrapping. He opened the pages of the large picture book, flipped through until he found the one he wanted to display for his neighbor when she came home.

The caption under the photo read, "David Bowie, circa 1970, and an unidentified fan at The Arts Lab, Beckenham." Arthur prided himself on discovering this photo of young Doris Pritchard with her even younger lover. The words her eyes told in this photo, as she looked longingly at a long-haired, bohemian Bowie, told him all he needed to know of their affair.

He wadded the brown paper into a ball, searched for a garbage can. He walked to the bathroom, threw the paper in the wastebasket. When he turned to leave, Mollie rushed into the bedroom. His eyes followed the white fluff, and he stopped. His eyes widened. "Mrs. Pritchard?" he called in a loud whisper. He stepped silently into the bedroom where he saw a pair of slippers on the end of the bed. There were feet in the slippers and his eyes followed the feet up the legs to the torso to the arms and face of Mrs. Pritchard, her eyes closed in peaceful slumber on the bed.

Arthur tiptoed in. "Mrs. Pritchard," he called again, a little bit louder. He watched her chest, her hands neatly on her sides, not moving. She wore slippers and a matching white housecoat embroidered with pink and red roses. Her lips, once the color of the red roses, and her cheeks, once the color of the pink ones, were pale like the white of the robe. He walked slowly, almost backwards, to the body on the blankets, stretched out his fingers and placed them on her neck. It was cold. He felt her cold forehead. He didn't realize he was holding his breath until the blackness began to take hold. "Oh God, Mrs. Pritchard, no."

Mollie whined, lay down on Arthur's feet and look up at him with sad eyes. He petted her absently. He closed his eyes, folded his hands on his lap and prayed for the first time since David appeared.

He picked up the telephone on the bedside table, dialed 911. As he spoke into the receiver, his eyes focused on a framed photo on the nightstand. David Bowie, circa 1970, and an unidentified fan at The Arts Lab, Beckenham.

***

"The medics said she went peacefully," Angie, who arrived almost as quickly as the ambulance, said softly.

"God, David, Brixton was right," Arthur said, breathless. "What I'd give to go back and know her sooner. All these years in this building, and it took a complete stranger to make me see her. And now she's gone." He sighed. "Damn you, Brixton!" he cursed.

"Come now," said Angie. "Brixton didn't do this."

"But she did, don't you see? If it hadn't been for her, finagling her way into my life, Mrs. Pritchard would have be another tenant, a causal acquaintance, who passed away one day. Here today, gone tomorrow. Not a friend."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"No!" he exclaimed. "She's gone, and if I hadn't known her, I wouldn't know this pain. Even Rip, goddammit. He'd just be another douche bag rocker who'd I think good riddance as he walked out with his boxes. But now, because of her, ugh. I wish she'd never come to me."

"But then you wouldn't have met me," Angie said, smiling hopefully.

"But what about if you leave?" Arthur cried. "I'd be better off never knowing you."

"Oh, Art, you can't mean that."

Arthur rubbed his face with his hand. "I don't know, Ange. I've just, I've never lost anyone like this before. I never had anyone to lose. I feel like, maybe it'd be better."

Angie put her arms around Arthur's shoulders, pulling near. "Trust me. You are far better off knowing the feeling of love and friendship, and having to deal with the pain that comes with it, than to live a life of apathy. Come on, you should know this! It's what your speeches are all about!"

"I know. I just never imagined it would hurt so much."