First came the screaming. Then a sound like someone popping a paper bag. A shriek followed by laughter? Crying? Another muffled pop. Then the sirens, the boots clomping up the wooden stairs and finally the short, sharp staccato of three knocks on the door. It was 1:23am.
Brenda told the uniform what she had heard while a round face like a pale moon topped with dark fronds of hair appeared out of the doorway down the hall with shining eyes that were dark and bright at the same time. Murder-suicide was not a subject suitable for a four-year-old’s conscience so Brenda did something that she rarely did with Marlee. She lied. She told her that there was something wrong with the apartment next door and the neighbors had to move. When the forensic clean-up service arrived the next day it served to corroborate this falsehood.
It was on the local realtor’s listings, but the landlord took the opportunity of his rent-control tenants’ demise to raise the price for the unit beyond what the majority of prospective residents were willing to pay. Those that could afford it were in a position to acquire alternative accommodation that wasn’t burdened by the knowledge of being a grisly murder scene. Brenda was happy for the quiet and privacy the vacancy afforded her and her daughter. They were the only residents upstairs in the solid old Victorian that had been converted into a 4-plex.
One day Brenda heard Marlee chatting animatedly with someone out in the hall. She opened the door and Marlee looked up at her with a huge smile spread across her face. “Who are you talking to, honey?” Brenda asked.
“Lizzie!” she spouted.
“Who is Lizzie?”
“She lives there.” Marlee pointed to the door across the hall that still had the lockbox hanging from the doorknob.
“Do we have new neighbors?” Marlee only shrugged in response, so Brenda stepped across the hall and knocked on the door. There was no response and the narrow strip of stained glass across the top of the door frame had no light shining through it. Strange, she thought, but kids often have imaginary friends. She should probably make an effort to get Marlee in a play group.
Time and again Brenda caught Marlee in conversation with “Lizzie.” She had such a fertile imagination that she could give a detailed description of her fantasy friend, from her tight reddish-blond curls to her shiny patent-leather shoes with silver buckles. No harm, thought Brenda, as long as she knows fantasy from reality.
One day, while moving Marlee’s old crib and changing table up into the communal storage space of the attic, Brenda found a box. It bore the names of the unfortunate couple who had lived across the hall from them, James and Elizabeth Marshall. She opened the box and a photograph slipped out. It was of a little girl in a gingham dress with light curly hair and patent leather shoes. It was labeled “Lizzie, age 6.”
Literature in Small Doses 