A Room With A View

Chapter Fifty-Seven - Phineas

December 1, Friday

Phineas stared at a spot on the wall. It hadn't been there before. There was a nick in the hardwood, and it shone white against the varnish. It was conceivable that the doorknob had smacked the wall too forcefully the last time the door had been opened, but surely Phineas hadn't done that. He had always gingerly opened a door, just like he had been taught. You'll ruin the hinges otherwise, Phineas's father said in his head.

If Phineas squinted, the scratch in the panel resembled the letter "P". How fitting.

"Phineas?"

Phineas started violently, knocking the papers from his desk.

"Yes?" he asked, the word catching in his throat. He leaned down to pick up the letter he'd been drafting and redrafting. It was intended to inform Joshua Margova of the rent increase on the late Agatha Newman's apartment. She had been living in a rent-controlled space, but now that she was no longer the tenant, it was within Phineas's right to increase the unit's rent. And he needed to, in order to cover the rising Manhattan property taxes.

He needed to.

Madeline Mills crept into the office and took the seat across from Phineas. She sank down into the leather, her sternum barely rising over the desk's edge.

"It's December 1st," she said quietly. She wouldn't make eye contact with Phineas. He appreciated this.

"Yes," Phineas said again. He shuffled the papers on his desk. He glanced down at the topmost draft. Mrs. Newman's name rose up from the text in bright bold. Phineas felt something clawing at his throat. He flipped the letter over.

"I do not have the funds to cover my rent for the remainder of the year," Ms. Mills said. The words sounded rehearsed.

Phineas sighed. He interlocked his fingers and leaned forward on his elbows.

"Is there no one who can grant you a loan?" Phineas asked.

Ms. Mills's eyes filled with tears. It made Phineas distinctly uncomfortable. He wished he could offer her a tissue, but he had used the last box just that morning.

"N-no," she said, her voice breaking. "I have no one."

Phineas suddenly remembered Alice saying something similar on her fourteenth birthday. They'd sat huddled together on the cold, marble floor of Phineas's ensuite bathroom, Alice's mascara making deep rivers beneath her eyes.

But Ms. Mills wasn't Alice.

"Then I am sorry, Ms. Mills, but I must request that you find another place to live."

To Ms. Mills's credit, she didn't cry. She simply gritted her teeth and nodded, as if she had expected his response.

If she had been expecting Phineas to tell her to relocate, than she needn't have come to his office in the first place. They could have avoided this unpleasantness if Ms. Mills had simply seen fit to find a new apartment before coming to Phineas. Why must everyone come to him and ask him for special treatment? No one is special. You are not special, Phineas.

The words rang out in his head, but they were not his own.

"Okay," Ms. Mills said simply. She stood, her hand pressing against the desk in support. "I'll be out by the end of the month."

Phineas frowned. Yet another tenant he would now need to find.

Ms. Mills paused at the door, as if wanting to say something else, but it was Phineas who spoke first.

"Madeline," Phineas said. She didn't turn. He continued anyway.

"It has been a pleasure having you in the Watley."

Ms. Mills's hand tightened on the door jamb. She stood for a second longer, then left, her curled hair disappearing into the hallway.

The office was silent. Phineas hadn't realized just how quiet it truly was until Ms. Mills had left. He didn't normally listen to music, but perhaps he should. At least then the orchestrations might drown out the sound of his pen scratching against paper.

The first few drafts of the letter to Mr. Margova had begun with condolences, but with each new cobbled together phrase, Phineas could hear Shaina reprimanding him for using false words and ideas. "Speak from the heart", she would say, "not from your ass".

But Phineas didn't know how to speak from the heart.

There was a knock at the door. A cold sweat broke out along Phineas's collar. He looked up, fear making him see Theodore standing in the doorway, coming to tell him that another tenant had passed away, but it was just Brian Cooper, looking positively furious.

"You're evicting Madeline," he said. It wasn't a question.

Phineas breathed a sigh of relief. No one had died during the night.

"Yes." That seemed to be the only thing Phineas was able to say today.

Mr. Cooper stormed into the room and took the seat Ms. Mills vacated a mere ten minutes ago.

"Why?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss—"

"Why?" Mr. Cooper asked viciously. A fleck of spit flew from his mouth and landed on the desk. Phineas would have to disinfect the entire thing.

"Because," Phineas began, his gaze sticking to the tiny wet dot on the mahogany, "it is Watley policy that all residents must be in good financial standing. I am not at liberty to discuss anything further, but you may take up this conversation with Ms. Mills herself."

Mr. Cooper seemed to deflate into the chair. "She can't pay her rent," he said, more to himself than to Phineas.

Phineas let the comment hang in the air, choosing to see it as rhetorical.

A crease formed between Mr. Cooper's brows. It was a curious expression. Phineas wasn't sure if he'd ever seen the adage "wheels turning in one's mind" personified quite so explicitly.

"Who's taking Ms. Newman's apartment?" Mr. Cooper asked suddenly.

"I am not at lib—"

"For god's sake, Phineas, who is taking that apartment?" Mr. Cooper asked, cutting through Phineas's response.

Phineas froze mid-speech. He was becoming increasingly irritated with Mr. Cooper's presence. Strong, forceful emotion had never been something Phineas had appreciated.

"It has fallen into the possession of Mr. Margova. You are welcome to discuss the unit with him," Phineas said evenly.

Mr. Cooper tapped a quick beat with his fingers.

"Alright," he said. He stood and left the office without a goodbye, leaving Phineas to ponder why Mr. Cooper had even bothered to show at all.

Phineas rose from his chair. He closed the door and locked it, as an afterthought. He returned to his desk and downloaded a music app onto his phone. Smooth jazz poured out from the tiny speaker. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

With a soundtrack now in place, Phineas set to work finishing the letter to Mr. Margova. It was crisp and clear and completely devoid of emotion. Satisfied, Phineas slipped it into an envelope and licked it shut. He would tuck it under their door before turning in for the night.

Now that his task for the day was complete, Phineas had nothing else to do. He had cancelled his appointments for this week and the next, and the building had undergone a full maintenance check-up at the start of November. Everything was in tip-top shape. And with the weather cooling drastically with each new day, there was no gardening to be done.

Phineas's eye was dragged back to the nick on the wall. He picked up his phone and dialed the handyman's number. It rang through twice, before Phineas's thumb pressed "end call". He stared at the scratch. Perhaps he should leave it there. After all, weren't marks like these just proof of a life that was lived?