EXCERPT FROM PATHWAY INTO DECEPTION by JB STALLWORTH Red, Red All Over St. Paul Street Baltimore, Maryland The morning traffic jam on St. Paul Street has subsided to a constant trickle. A delivery truck pulls up alongside a parked silver Saturn. The driver swiftly gets out the truck holding a small package and jogs up the steps to an Italianate style row home. He leans against the deep recessed French archway as he peeps through the stained glass casement windows. Impatient, he knocks mercilessly on the mahogany oak doors. An angry man of late pops out of the front entrance of the adjacent building. “Stop that damn banging boy!” the crotchety man yells. “All that ruckus in the morning.” The driver asks, “Will you sign for this?” The man hobbles over the bridge path that connects the two buildings. His hair has more salt than pepper, mostly due to the large pieces of lint from his ratty old sweater. “Now, I dont do that. I dont get in nobodys business, and they dont get in mines. Especially the likes of those types, anyway. They carry on all times of the night. Im an old fashion Baptist country boy. That their business is not my upbringing.” The old man steadily approaches the driver on the stoop. The driver listens on, trying not to be disrespectful. The old man continues, “You know the type?” The man spreads out one hand, shaking it rapidly back and forth. The driver squints in confusion. “On the sugary side,” the old man whispers. The driver finally grasps the meaning behind the old mans words. Often, he finds himself in these situations. Too many times than he can count, people have expressed their contempt towards gays around him-- totally unaware his sister, whom he loves dearly, is a lesbian. Normally, the young man gets defensive, but the man is from another generation after all; a time when these types of comments were acceptable and commonplace. So, the driver opts to contain himself. “Look sir, Im just trying to deliver this package. It specifies not to leave it at the front door,” the driver petitions. The old man stutters; fearing he spoke out of turn. “Oh yeah...well, I think my front door key will do. The landlord, he owns both these here building.” The old man finally gets the door opened after a few attempts. The driver graciously thanks him before heading inside. “Just one unit for each floor. Ill wait here outside to lock up.” Despite the ill-lit narrow hallways, the driver beelines up the staircase. On reaching the top, he notices the apartment door slightly ajar. “Hello,” he cries out, before inching closer. Nothing. The hardwood floors creaks and cracks under his feet with every movement. The driver calls out again; hoping the first attempt went unnoticed. Perhaps the feeling he has of something being amiss is unfounded. Suddenly, he hears a faint, almost undetectable breathy voice in the distance. “Here…help...help.” The delivery guy rushes to the apartment. At first glance, he sees no one, only furniture tossed about haphazardly. Its apparent to the driver that there was some sort of break in. He hesitates to go further. He hears a hollow gasp coming from the far end of the sofa. He soon finds himself there. “Oh, my god!” the driver says, horrified. “HELP!” The young driver runs to the door yelling. “Somebody has been shot!” He races back to where the bloody body lies; large pieces of the womans skull floats in a pool of blood surrounding her close-shaven head. The blood is rich, dark, and red like the color of her dress. Shaken, the man pulls his cell phone and dials out. “9-1-1, do you need police or paramedics?” the operator greets. “Yeah. Hey, Im a delivery guy. I found a woman shot in her apartment,” he says, distracted by the hollow gurgling death rattle escaping from the womans dry lips. “Is the victim alive?” the operator probes further. “Hello sir, are you still with me? Is the victim alive?” “Hold on lady! Please dont die on me,” the mans plead. The young man checks for a pulse. Nothing. Something inside him turns frightfully cold at the sight of the womans fixed haunting eyes. She is gone. Just then, the old man appears at the doorway. The elderly man dares not to enter. Instead, he calls out. “You say what?” The delivery guy rises from his crouched position, listless. “Sir…sir, are you still on the line? Where are you located?” the operator persists. The young driver snaps out of his lethargic state in time to answer. “1893 Saint Paul Street.”
Posted on: Thu, 30 Jan 2014 03:54:30 +0000
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