What Fades Away

chapter 1: soggy clothes and breezeblocks

Mrs. Anderson walks her dog every morning, same time, same place. 

She takes the trip around her block, enjoying the semblance of quiet that occurs in Brooklyn right before the sun comes up and everyone starts their day. Moms and dads wake up their little ones for school, grumbling about how no one can ever find their shoes. Construction workers walk into job sites, steaming cups of coffee warming their hands, while they crack jokes about how the new guy is always late. Mrs. Anderson likes watching and hearing it all, even if it's 20 degrees outside and she can't feel her fingers wrapped around the leash.

People like to think that no one in these big cities looks out for their neighbors, or for strangers even. Mrs. Anderson is not one to shy away from helping someone out, so when her Pomeranian starts yapping at something- no, someone - lying off the side street near her walk-up, she cautiously approaches. This winter has been one of the coldest New York has seen and sadly the homeless are usually the first victims.

As Mrs. Anderson approaches the bundle of clothes, her heart starts beating a little faster. Her husband was a cop for almost 30 years and the sense of awareness that he taught her is still present. Tentatively, she wraps her dog's leash around a nearby pole and steps even closer to the bundle. Sticking out are shoes, actually boots. They are black, with heels, like she would have worn downtown when she was younger. They are shiny, with red bottoms. The realization makes her palms sweat and the pounding in her chest is even louder. Homeless people don't usually have $2,000 boots. The dog is still barking loudly, pulling at his leash. It makes her nerves even more on edge.

Mrs. Anderson sticks her hand out to pull back the blanket, silently praying to find a girl who passed out after a date, or a sex worker who needed a place to sleep.

Her prayers aren't answered.

Her scream can be heard all the way to the construction site three blocks up.

***********

Kate Bishop is stressed. That would actually be an understatement. She is "freaking the fuck out". At least that's what she texted Mara approximately an hour and a half ago. On the ride up the elevator to Mara's place, Kate scrolls through the messages that she has sent her best friend since this morning. None have been read or responded to, which makes Kate even crazier.

8:06 K: dude

8:07 K: DUDE

8:07 K: Sam Wilson just called me.

8:11 K: you know...like FUCKING CAPTAIN AMERICA. He wants to meet this morning. At 9.

8:16 K: I NEED YOU TO ANSWER. I'M FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

8:45 K: GOD I'M GONNA THROW UP

Kate practically runs the final few feet to Mara's door once the elevator opens up. And Mara got mad because I made a copy of her key, Kate thinks as she unlocks the door. It probably would have gone over better if Kate hadn't stolen the key to make the copy in the first place. 

Opening the door, Kate sighs to herself. It looks like a bomb went off. Shoes are strewn about the front hall, making Kate kick them out of her way. Clothes are scattered across the living room, which is illuminated by the morning sun, making the golden brown hardwood floors gleam. Brick walls are covered with pictures of Mara and Kate, old black and white family photos, and a print of the Brooklyn Bridge. Kate starts collecting beer bottles and wine glasses off the counters and coffee table, placing them in the recycling and the dishwasher. Based on the evidence, she doesn't think Mara is going to feel much like cleaning.

A groan comes from the couch, startling Kate. She knows Mara is going to freak out when she tells her about what Sam said. That might be putting it mildly, but Kate is willing to take the risk. Maybe the hangover will mean less yelling.