Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [90]
“You have?” My heart jumped. I didn’t want to admit it to anyone, but I was beginning to have real financial difficulties. For the last two years, I’d spent an average of nine thousand dollars a year on Bahia Street—and that only included the expenses I’d recorded. I had to commute to Portland each week for my teaching job, racking up more expenses, and I wasn’t earning very much. My savings were being depleted, and now I had a mortgage. A roommate could really help. “Why do you want to move into the Central District?”
“I’m black, in case you hadn’t noticed. It’d be nice to live around some black people for a change.” I felt an affinity for Phyllis, not only because she’d spent time in Salvador and understood some of my conflicts upon returning to the United States, but also because she, like me, was a native Oregonian. Most people in Seattle were newcomers who didn’t really understand the Pacific Northwest. However, being black, Phyllis’ experience of Oregon was an interesting contrast to mine. “Besides,” she continued. “I have an auntie who lives in the CD.”
“You do?”
“Sure. She’s a lawyer. She lives near Madison Valley, in the part north of you—the middle-class part?”
“My part of the Central District is not middle-class.”
“I am aware of that.”
“You haven’t seen the house yet, Phyllis.”
“So?”
“It’s pretty bad. I’m ripping up layers of carpet. Under the carpet is ancient linoleum. The bathroom has pink fixtures and the bathroom floor is covered with pink shag.”
“Is the toilet solid?”
“I can’t guarantee that.”
“Does the house have ceiling fans in every room?”
“Well, yes, it does actually. I thought that was strange for here in the Northwest, I have to admit. It has a very strange light fixture in the living room as well, long pieces of amber glass hanging down.”
“I know that light. That house was an African-American home, with different sensibilities than you have, Margaret. I’ll feel fine.”
“Why don’t you come and see it, Phyllis? I’d love to have you move in, but I don’t know if I could expect anyone else to live here. It’s pretty trashed.”
“I’m on my way.”
When Phyllis stepped in the front door, she squeaked in alarm. “Why is your floor spongy?” she asked.
“That part’s OK. They’ve just done something very strange. The floor is covered with three layers of carpet, with linoleum over the carpet. I’ll be ripping that out soon.”
“I see.” Phyllis surveyed the dark, vacant rooms, lit only through the dusty patches where I had managed to chip the black paint from the glass. She walked into the bathroom. “Oh God, don’t let me come in here drunk,” she said. Then she turned to me. “Looks like you need a roommate to help you clean this place up,” she said. “You obviously haven’t a clue.”
When I arrived back in Seattle after a week of teaching, the house seemed transformed. It was full of furniture, and it seemed so spacious. Brilliant sun streamed in every window. The walls looked spotless. “Phyllis! What have you done? How did you get the paint off the windows?”
Phyllis looked up from her novel. She was lounging on the sofa with her feet up on the arm. She had a bright new pillow under her head.
“Oh, hello. There are cleaning compounds, you know. I just washed it off. It wasn’t paint. The people who lived here before were elderly, right?” I nodded. “The light probably hurt their eyes, and also they didn’t want people looking in, seeing what they had that someone might want to steal.”
“And the bars. They’re gone!”
Phyllis raised her hand languidly. “I had a friend come by. He cut them off. The jail feel doesn’t suit me.” She got up. “Want some tea?”
I put my bags on the floor and dropped into a wooden chair in the kitchen, one of four now tucked beneath my little table. “Next week I’m gong to Brazil,” I said. “It’s spring break and I’ve been invited to give a paper at a conference there. You’ll be all right?”
“Of course.” I noticed that she’d replaced the damaged burner on the stove. “Oh Phyllis, I’m exhausted.”
“That’s