Ms. White
When Johnny opened his back door, the humidity took his breath away. He bent over and coughed into the shrubs. He looked closely at the phlegm. It was bright yellow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then lit a cigarette.
His landlady was sitting in the rose garden behind his apartment. “You’re killing yourself with those things.” She pointed her hand trowel in his direction.
“Morning, Ms. White.” Johnny watched as she struggled to pull a weed. With her dirty hand, she wiped the sweat from her face, spreading soil on her cheeks.
Johnny went back into his apartment and filled a glass with ice water.
“You have to drink a lot of water, if you’re going to be out in this heat.” He gave her the glass. She took a small sip. Then set it in the dirt.
“You going to the hardware store today?” she asked.
“Might have to.” Johnny sat on the stoop.
“Hanging around the parking lot of the hardware store with all those Mexicans is no way to earn a living.” She paused to catch her breath. “You know most of them are illegals?” Johnny stood up and walked into the garden.
“Watch my roses.”
“I won’t hurt your flowers, Ms. White.” He picked up the glass and put it in her hand. She drank fast, water dripping out the corners of her mouth.
*
When Carlos heard Johnny’s voice, he switched from Spanish to English. “What’s happening, Johnny?”
“Nothing. That’s why I’m calling.” Johnny walked over to the air conditioner. Held his hand in front of the vent.
“There’s not a whole lot going on on my end either.”
“What about your cousin? Does he have any work?” He went to the fuse box and flipped the circuit breaker. The a/c came to life.
“If there was a job, you’d be the first to know,” Carlos said. Johnny held the phone away from his mouth and coughed. “You sound like shit.”
Johnny hung up and went into the kitchen. He moved the dirty dishes out of the sink and coughed up phlegm. He rinsed the sink. Then went to the bathroom.
In his medicine cabinet, he had half a dozen inhalers. He put one in his mouth and gave it three pumps. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and saw stars. He went to the bedroom and laid on top of the comforter.
He woke to the sound of car horns. He went to the window and cracked the blinds. The road outside his apartment was four lanes, two going in each direction. Ms. White was in the center of the southbound lane, walking towards traffic. Some cars stopped. Others simply swerved.
By the time Johnny got dressed, the cops had Ms. White in the back of their car.
“It’s okay, officers.” Johnny came running out, a glass of water in his hand. “She’s fine.” He took Ms. White’s hands and cupped them around the glass. “Just a little dehydrated.” He brought the glass to her lips.
“This is getting to be a real problem,” the heavier of the two cops said. “How many times have we been out here this month?” he asked his partner.
Ms. White let go of the glass. It shattered on the pavement. She pulled her shirt up over her head. Her sagging breasts were held up with a flesh colored bra.
“Ms. White, no.” Johnny pulled her shirt back down.
“It’s so hot.” She kicked her shoes off.
“You’ve got to keep your shoes on. Look at all this glass.”
“We’re going to have to call her son,” the cop said. Then, to Ms. White, “Do you know your son’s telephone number?”
“Please, Johnny, don’t let them call my boy.” She jumped to her feet. “He’ll send me away.”
“No one’s sending you anywhere.” Johnny took her by the arm and guided her through the glass.
“She’s going to end up hurting herself,” the cop said.
Johnny stepped into his apartment and shut the door. He listened as the cops drove away.
Ms. White sat on the couch and put her head in her hands.
“Everything’s going to be fine.” Johnny removed her shoes and socks. He set her legs on the couch. He put one throw pillow under her feet and the other under her head.
“I’ve got so much work to do, Johnny.” She tried to get up but Johnny wouldn’t let her.
“You’ve done enough for today.” He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. He went into the kitchen and soaked a washcloth in cold water. He rung it out then placed it over Ms. White’s forehead.
“That’s so cold.” She closed her eyes.
He sat in the easy chair and waited for her to fall asleep. Then he removed the washcloth and went outside.
Sitting on the stoop, he smoked a cigarette. When he was done, he stepped into the garden, got down on his knees and took hold of the weed Ms. White had been working on. He pulled as hard as he could. But it was no use. The roots were set too deep.
Michael Cuglietta is a Florida writer. His stories have appeared or are scheduled to appear in NOON, The Gettysburg Review, Tampa Review, Passages North and elsewhere. His chapbook, Vertigo, was the winner of the Gertrude Press Fiction Chapbook Contest. Also, he was a finalist for Tampa Review’s Danahy Fiction Prize.