WITNESS UNALIVE
Sharon Patricia Burtner
As Melissa drove into Nora's apartment complex, for an instant Melissa felt relieved when she spotted Nora's car. Then temporary relief subsided into concern that Nora had been home during the phone calls and something was terrib1y wrong. A voice within told her not to panic, that perhaps Nora had just returned or was painting again and simply did not want to stop long enough to return her sister's call. That would be just like Nora, Melissa reasoned.
She walked past an empty reception area with a worn, green leather couch, a large television and several somewhat-matching stuffed chairs on her way to the third floor. First, Melissa listened at the door. Then she called, "Nora, I'm here. You cannot get away with playing hooky. Nora, open the door. Are you painting? Is that why you can't open the door?" she asked, in a higher pitch than usual. Then she started banging harder and harder and screaming loudly, "Open the door, Nora, right now. This is not funny. You are scaring me. Nora, are you sick? Do you need help?" She jiggled the knob noisily.
"What's all this racket?" asked an unshaven, middle-aged man who emerged from across the hall. "Go home, lady. Looks like your friend is gone."
"Have you seen my sister?"
"I see her sometimes, helped her carry in some groceries last night, or was that the night before?"
"Did you see her today?"
"No, she's probably at work, works at that theatre, doesn't she?" he asked.
"She's not at work. They called me and said she hadn't come in."
"Wouldn't be the first time that happened to me, Sister," he chuckled. As he leaned toward her, with a wink, Melissa could smell the alcohol on his breath, rum or something sweet. She held her breath until he swayed upright.
"I'm worried," she said. "I'm afraid she's hurt herself."
"She probably just doesn't feel like watching the phones ring."
Melissa sighed.
"If it will make you feel better, why don't you ask the receptionist to help?"
"What receptionist?"
"You must have passed her on the way in. Fuzzy brown hair? Her name's Meredith. She watches television with the guys waiting for the pub to open up across the street. Go on down. You'll find her, eventually."
Melissa darted downstairs, looking about the room for signs of someone, anyone, who could help her. Seeing no one, she climbed the stairs, taking two or three at a time, back to Nora's apartment. Again, she listened as carefully as she could. She could hear nothing, not even a radio, water sounds or air conditioning. The silence seemed ominous. Attempting to break the bad omen, she yelled out loudly, "No-o-or-aah!"
Two more residents opened their doors. One, a woman, screamed, "Will you please hush up?" Another woman simply shook her head in disdain. Her orange lips were pursed. Before Melissa could respond, the man from across the hall popped out again, coming to her defense.
"Have a heart, Ladies," he crooned, while giving the first woman a knowing nod and the second a sly wink. Instantly, they were quieted.
"This young lady," he said, pointing at and swaying towards Melissa, "is concerned about her sister, our very own neighbor, on our very own hall. How the heck is she supposed to get her attention when she won't open the door?"
"Won't open the door?" The orange-lipped woman asked.
"Why, she always opens her door," the other one confirmed, stepping into the hall as she pulled the tie more tightly around her blue terry-cloth bathrobe. "Why, we'll help you," she said and began pounding the door with her fist. "Oh, Dear, if it would not be too much trouble," the woman began. They listened. The man even held a glass up to the door for Melissa to listen more closely. They all took turns listening and calling.
"You should get Meredith," the orange woman suggested. She not only wore orange lipstick, but orange fingernail and toenail polish as well as an orange striped shirt over her brown cutoffs.
"Who?"
"The receptionist," the man answered. He appeared to be sobering up.
Melissa knocked one final time before running back downstairs. Sure enough, there sat a woman with frizzy hair on a stool behind the counter in the entryway. She was leaning on her elbows watching a soap opera. The room smelled of stale potato chips and dirty socks.
"Where have you been?" Melissa demanded.
"I beg your pardon," the woman responded sarcastically.
"You were gone."
"So arrest me. Listen, I work twelve hours a day. I get two breaks. God help me if I take a potty break in between and my boss shows up."
"Can't someone cover the desk for you while you're gone? Leaving the desk unoccupied is not very safe."
"This isn't a jail. We have residents, not inmates," quipped Meredith.
"I'm sorry," Melissa replied. "My sister's car is parked outside, but she won't answer the door or pick up the phone and she didn't show up at work."
"Is your sister that pretty girl? Lenora, was that her name?"
"Yes, have you seen her?"
"No, not recently. You don't look much alike," Meredith commented, eying Melissa with obvious dissatisfaction.
"Listen, can you open her door? Do you have the keys?"
"Mercy no. You think Ulysses would let me have the keys?"
"Is Ulysses the Manager?"
"Yeah, he's the warden."
"Can you call him?"
Meredith smiled at her advantage and said nothing.
"Please? Not for me, for my sister. I'm afraid she's hurt."
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