lenora was her name, i think. though it is hard to remember. it was many years ago. i could see into their apartment from the misses bedroom when i'd go in to feed the babe in the afternoons. the place was always empty by then, so i'd get a good watch in. not that they were...discreet people.

anyway, the misses and mister were out of town on one of their trips, and i had fallen asleep in their room by the bassinet. that's when i heard the shouting. it was not atyical, you see. we had all seen it many times before. she stepped out of the black car, this must've been well after midnight, and her husband came round from the other side. she wore a red silk dress, and he, his black tie ensemble, unbuttoned and lax. he was not well-liked among the neighbors. handsome, but silent and detached. he worked downtown in acquisitions. he was gone most mornings by 6am and did not return until well after 10. she was a debutante from atlanta, and she spoke reverentially of her grandfather who owned the rail lines that connected wilmington, charleston and savannah. but now living in boston, she spent her days raising money for "the unhoused." that's where she was coming from, one of her charity balls, burdened by the weight of her diamonds. the man in question was a filthy little bugger. he'd been sleeping beneath the dumpsters in their alleys, and gave them both a fright when he came tumbling out, a near empty bottle in his hand. he'd hardly formed his mouth to speak before she opened her purse. here, she said, take this. let me give you a ride to the local shelter. it was late, and she was tired and had done her bit. but her husband, true to form, had little patience. he threw the man by the tattered collars of his hand-me-down trench coat. he threatened to call the police. charlie, she said, as though scolding a child. she put the money back in her purse, and the two went inside. what happened then we know only from rumor and conjecture.

presumably they went inside. the servant quarters and common spaces were on the first level. up the front stairs were the guest rooms. but the family's private living quarters were in the rear and up a flight of stairs in the back, leading up from the kitchen. she might have been met by her sister who lived with them and worked as lenora's personal assistant, scheduling meetings and luncheons, coordinating the housekeeping and home repairs. they had an au pere and a children's private tutor, too. the children would have been asleep already. a perfunctory report on their lessons would have been delivered as ambient music over the evening's nightcap. it was said that husband and wife fought over his churlish behavior. he could not understand the work she was doing, and how would it look, she asked, were the neighbors to see him shoving the homeless, or 'persons experiencing homelessness' as she was heard to say, as though reading from the psalms. you're a fucking bitch, was his response, or so we can assume. he took his drink and locked himself in his study. don't wait up, he'd say.

i can't imagine she was so inclined. but then that evening, she woke from her sleep to the sound of a strange noise, like an endless zipper being perpetually undone. turning in their bed, she found charlie, still in black tie, face first like a corpse. she attempted to shake him awake, but he was drunk and snoring. useless, she no doubt thought. as usual, she would have to do things herself. she looked at the clock. 3:33am. and the sound showed no sign of abating. she buzzed the intercom and woke her sister. come to the family room, she said. her sister came from the front of house, the au pere at hand, rubbing her tired eyes. the three women stood in the living room, saying nothing, only listening to the sound which seemed to be coming from outside. turning to the bay windows which faced the alley, they could see little more than the darkness. they walked in a pack from north to south, until they were at the final window tucked back behind the kitchenette. there, outside on the fire escape, was 'the person suffering homelessness,' standing there, facing the alleyway, empty bottle in hand. the sound explained itself. he was pissing off the fire escape, into the dumpster down below, the endless stream hitting the bags like a summer downpour on a campers tent. shock and disgust erupted like tear gas, and they held their faces in disbelief. how did he even get up here, her sister asked. i'm going to call the police. no, said lenora, grabbing her sister by the wrist. i don't want any fuss. the neighbors will see, and we don't want to subject ourselves to comment. we can handle this ourselves.

lenora approached the shuttered window and knocked. the fellow did not respond, but merely stood there, arms outstretched in a way, shoulders and head arched back in sweet sweet release. she turned back to her company for a sign of encouragement, but they said nothing. she knocked at the window again. hello! hello there. can we help you? this is our fire escape. how ever did you get up here? still nothing. not a word. nor did he show any signs of stopping, as though all the water in his body were draining itself into the dumpster. summoning the courage, she did the only thing she could think of. she unlatched the window and threw it open. hello?! she cried. the man froze, as if suddenly caught, but he did not lower his arms and did not turn so much as he rotated on an axis. the women stood back in horror. his eyes were colorless whites, his toothless mouth in a twisted grin, his shirt was torn and damp with blood, his stream a violent red. and turning turning turning, it flooded into the living room, a torrent on the three women below.

death by chemical burn was the coroner's ultimate determination. the children found them, poor things, huddled there in a mass of smoldering flesh. they say they'd been so badly burned that their bodies stuck together and had to peeled apart like, ripping arms from elbows from legs from faces. they say they'd never seen anything like it, and the stench that filled the house was ungodly, as though someone had roasted a stray dog right there in the room. when i saw the husband led out in handcuffs and put into the back of a squad car, i assumed the worst: that he had finally snapped and murdered lenora. but the news that followed was stranger still. for in the dumpster beneath their bay window, they found the body of a john doe in a tattered trench, stabbed violently to death 83 times, the empty liquor bottle still in hand.