I Break In Half

I could see that the shout barely registered to the rest of them, but it hit my ears like church bells. I saw my knuckles turning white before I felt my fingers ache; if the mop handle was wood instead of aluminum, it might have snapped. If I looked, I would see, and I didn’t want to see. I was still seeing. The girl’s terror. The man’s hatred. The train. Eyes down. Keep moving. Count the tiles.

But I had to look because none of the others would. They didn’t want any part of anyone else’s problems. The safe thing was not to notice. Not caring got you home for supper. Being a hero got you dead.

It was a man’s voice. Too high. Too hard. It was always a man. If she responded, it was too quiet to hear, not that he would have listened. Not that anyone would have. Wipe. Wipe. Back and forth. Lift and plunge and look. There he was, the hoodie, chin raised, eyes stabbing her back. She is trying to be small. Head down, shiny ponytail swaying with disbelief. Why him, sweet girl? Why any of them?

They’re easy to spot when you see them every day, and none of them sees you working a job that doesn’t even recognize a name. At your worst, you’re better than them on their best day. Except that day. You could see it coming. You knew he was going to throw her. You didn’t do anything, but at least the floor was clean when the police came. Still haven’t washed their questions away. Haven’t cleaned yourself of their judgment. You were at your worst on that day, weren’t you?

“So, let me get this straight,” said cop#1. “We had six people on the platform and you. You were the closest. You heard the argument. The situation was escalating with a clear and present danger to the girl, and you did nothing? You didn’t think to do something? Yell? Throw the mop at him? Dump the sludge water on him?”

“I should have tried to stop him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s a little late for ‘sorry’ now, isn’t it?” said cop#2.

Yesterday was a year since that terrible night. A year later, I still can’t tell which was worse, the cruelty of his abuse or the cruelty from my fear.

Sure, the cops finally got that guy, but he was only one out of the hundreds I see every day. The gate jumpers, the addicts, the gangs of bullies, terrorizing anyone of their choosing. The husbands and boyfriends who treat their women like they own them, like property or pets. Swaths of the indecent, while I am only one. Maybe once I was good. Maybe once, I was whole.

I shouldn’t even be here, but it was all that was left for me. I suppose someone has to; even if the system doesn’t work for most of us, they have to make it look like it does.

Mom said, ‘Good things happen all the time,’ and for a while I saw them. A kindness from one stranger to another. Someone pays the toll for the one behind them. Holding the train doors open. Seeing trash put in the bin, rather than tossed on the platform. But the number of those examples paled in comparison to the negative ones. The entitled youth, looking upon others as less, and the racist, bigoted remarks. The daily onslaught of condescension from men to women, and sometimes worse, women to women.

It hurts. Each instance of cruelty, violence, abuse, anger and desperation makes me feel smaller, like my heart is shrinking and bones feel thinner. I stay bent over the mop pail, or the sink, or the toilet, trying to wash away the pain with the little strength that remains. How many times have I seen my tears fall because hate has become our first instinct toward another? Where has love gone?

Where was mine when that man threw his wife on the tracks? What good have I done with my life? What good can I do? I’m like the rest of them; no one sees you until you’ve done something wrong.

The announcement over the public address system told everyone that the train was coming. Wipe. Wipe. Back and forth. Lift and plunge and look. Good thing too. If the train had been late, that might have been another trigger for the angry young man glaring hot daggers into the young lady’s back. Now those problems would move down the track, far enough from me that I won’t hear or see what happens.

**

You look so much smaller than I remember, but it’s you, of that, I’m sure. The same wiggly wisps of hair, grayer now than that ink blank you used to be, free from its band, dancing over the left side of your face. I remember it was like that when you first saw me. I thought it gave you a sweetness, a motherliness, and I trusted you right then and there. I needed help, and I barely had to ask before you were putting the key in my hand.

This place hasn’t gotten any less crowded. Look at them, only noticing her when they bump into her wash bucket, annoyed that they had to look away from their phones. Like she was the rude one for being in the way, when she was the one making sure the washroom was clean and their fancy shoes weren’t stepping in garbage and gunk.

Her jacket is too big for her. She couldn’t have shrunk that much, could she? I’m sad that you’re still here, but I’m glad I found you. I’m going to tell you what you did. You’re going to know that you saved me. Not my family. Not the police. You saved me.

I’ll wait until the train leaves, then I’ll come to you. You’ll disappear past the stairwell, but I know where to find you; it’s where you put me. It’s where I stayed safe. It’s where I healed.

**

People with big lives don’t know what it’s like to live small. My small job, my limited opportunities; even if I make supervisor, it’s a small job. Home to others held big things, loud and busy nights. Children at home, making supper, doing chores, being a parent, a husband or wife, good or bad, easy or hard, it was a loud and busy life. The younger crowd had younger things to do and places to be. Restaurants, clubs, movies and friends. Most of the time, even when it wasn’t great, it wasn’t that bad.

But me? A small apartment, quiet and alone. Mom gone, Dad too. Tom was good for a while, but when Mom’s inheritance ran out, so did he. At least it was only me he abandoned. Now look at you in this big mirror, too old, and what have you done that mattered to anyone? Funny thing, they don’t break the mirrors, not even the addicts. I guess people like looking at themselves too much. What do they see? Are they like me, wondering who it is that’s looking back at them?

It’s alright. Someone has to clean the sinks, toilets, floors and mirrors. It might not matter so much, but it still counts, and you’ve finished another day. You didn’t harm anyone. You didn’t hate anyone. You made your small spaces clean so people with big lives felt a little less dirty. Maybe even a little less sad. The world isn’t garbage, and neither are most people. It’s a funnel, and sometimes the dirt plugs things up. Someone has to clean it.

**

“Maggie? Are you in there?”

What? Maggie? Nobody calls me Maggie. Not since Mom. Foolish old bird. You’re hearing things now. Of course, Mom’s not at the door. Why would she be? If she was—calling from the other side—why here? Oh god, there’s a shadow between the floor and the door. Would a ghost have feet? But I was only Maggie to Mom.

“Maggie? It’s alright. It’s only me, Carly. Do you remember?”

Carly? I don’t know any Carly. “Go away! I don’t know any Carly, and nobody knows me!”

“I know you, Maggie. I’m here because of you.”

“I’m not opening the door. I know what kind of people are out there and what they do for fun! I just bet you’ve got a pile of friends hiding around the corner with their phone cameras ready to record you making a joke out of a foolish, old woman.”

“It’s only me out here, Maggie, and you in there, where you hid me, where you let me stay. I still have the key.”

You can remember if you try. You didn’t throw that girl onto the tracks, and you didn’t make her be with the man who did. Bad things happen, but good things do too. You can’t save them all, but you saved one. “The key…you say you have the key…it still works.”

Metal teeth clacked into metal grooves. Two clicks. The stainless-steel doorknob turned. I watched the door open. The daylight bulbs cast a halo around her, but I knew that face. The pretty, young brunette I found tucked behind the garbage cans, crying her sweet little eyes out. She told me her name was Carly.

Her boyfriend threw her out onto the street after he’d beaten her up good. Carly walked in on him with another girl on the couch, having sex. Carly said she hadn’t even had time to get mad before he was on her, throwing her down, his hands landing on her like she was a punching bag, not a person.

The poor thing had nowhere to go. Her mom had died, and Carly never went back to school. She never knew her father. The police would only put her in jail so that social services could put her somewhere worse.

She’d gone into the subway, believing that, like in the movies, she would find a secret tunnel or hole where she would hide from a world that seemed to hate her.

She told me that after I found her, half-covered in newspapers, trying to look like the garbage the world told her she was. She was my chance to matter, and I was going to save her.

I took my key ring, slipped off the big gold one with the square end, pushed it into her palm, and wrapped her fingers around it tight. I told her I would keep her safe, and she could stay as long as she wanted. I showed her the utility room. It was small, but it had a sink, running water and power. I showed her my hotplate and the cot. I showed her the storage closet inside the room, where she could go for extra safety if something scared her.

I brought clothes and food. I kept magazines, books, and anything I found left behind on benches or thrown in the trash. There were times when I found flowers, even balloons.

I almost never saw Carly. Not face-to-face, though we catch each other’s eyes on the platform where we both tried to remain invisible.

One day, a few months after I’d found her, she was gone. “Thank you, Maggie. I will never forget you,” written in lipstick on the mirror in our little room, was her goodbye.

Now she was here. And she was beautiful.

“I’m so glad I found you, Maggie.”

And I was in her arms the same way she’d been in mine.

“I have a good life, Maggie. It’s a small life, but it’s good. This is my first vacation, and I came to find you. Or hoped I would. I want to return your kindness. Come with me, Maggie.”

“I—I don’t understand. I—don’t need—”

“—Yes, you do, Maggie. You do, and you deserve everything I can offer. It’s all set. We’ll live together in my little apartment. I have a job waiting for you at the hotel where I work. There are places better than this, Maggie. The people I see every day are happy and kind. We’re important. We’re treated with decency, respect and gratitude. Say you’ll let me take you with me.”

“What would I say? How could I explain?”

“To whom, Maggie? Explain what? Step outside that door with me, and we’ll forget this place. You’ve kept it clean long enough. You care about others, Maggie. I’ll show you a life where others care about you.”

Outside the room, I pushed the door closed, and the place sounded as hollow as it felt. We bent, both of us shooting our keys through the gap between the door and the floor. We walked away and did not look back.

I watched Carly tapping a finger on her phone. Up the escalators, then up the stairs, and we were beneath the stars. A small car pulled to the curb. Carly opened the door, and I followed her in.

“Good evening, ladies. I see we are going to the airport. Taking a vacation?” the driver asked as the car pulled away.

“We’re going home,” Carly answered. “My aunt is coming to live with me in Spain.”

I looked at Carly. I felt her hand on my knee. Aunt? Airport? But I said nothing.

“WowWee! Spain is very good. The people there are very nice. Much better than here. This is good news! A happy day, yes? Don’t worry, Aunty, now you will be very happy.”

And I began to feel that I would.