In Every Building a Story

I wasn’t looking to buy another two-flat, but a flier came on my doorstep in August of 1999. A two-flat a couple of blocks away was up for sale. It was a greystone, rather classic style. And the price was unbelievably cheap.

I drove by the building and then went and called my realtor.

“What do you know about the building?” I asked her.

She didn’t even know it was on the market, but quickly got some information for me. The price was so good, I wanted to see it right away. She arranged it.

The owner was a 91-year-old who had just been admitted to a nursing home. She’d lived in the house for over 50 years. The family was from out of town and wanted to get rid of the property.

The building was badly outdated and in need of work.  But structurally it was sound. I made an offer, stipulating that it was my only and final offer and that I would be happy to clean out the owner’s unit, which was left with furniture, clothing, and even food in the refrigerator. The other caveat was that I had to close in less than a month.

They countered. I stood my ground. And I closed in less than a month.  I had two weeks to ready one apartment for rental.  I spent that time, plastering and painting, alone, sometimes late into the night.

It was a good time. I felt the presence of my deceased father, watching me, smiling. I had, after all, learned a few things about plastering from him.

It was a little less pleasant when, during my late-night painting, I heard noises in the unit below. I was alone. It was an empty building—I called the police.

Nothing. No one there. But the police officer who did the walk-through told me a story I would have not discovered otherwise. The old lady who’d lived there had needed a caretaker in the last few years. A live-in caretaker.

One morning the caretaker did not come around at the usual time to get her out of bed and dress her.  The old lady yelled for the caretaker. No answer.

She managed to get up and find her walker and inch down the hallway to the bathroom.

The door was party open and the caretaker (an obese young woman) was sitting on the toilet. The old lady yelled at her, taking her to task for her laziness. When there was no response at all  from the caretaker, the old lady pushed the young woman’s shoulder to make her point.

The caretaker fell off the toilet onto the ground. Dead. She’d evidently died on the toilet.

So the noise that night? A ghost, I decided. As a few weeks later when I moved into that apartment, I started to hear things at odd times, started to see movement now and then in the distance.  The caretaker still there. Some unfinished business.

Every space has its own story.

I think of that because I have just moved into a building that is over 100 years old. I know nothing of the history of the place.

But I wonder who lived and died here? Who was born here? Whose heart was broken here? Whose dreams were smashed here?  Who fell in love here? Who . . .

I do not know the stories. But I will make my own.