Up Down

by Mary Sanford

It was meant to be a quick run into the city. Estell had to meet with the paint guy to show him fabric swatches and an ocean-hued canvas painted by her late husband.The painting--he called it Zero--was given as a Valentine's Day gift to her fourteen years ago today. It was an abstract piece, done in acrylics--Eric didn't use anything else--a picture of two oval-shaped blobs stretched lengthwise, full frontal against a checkerboard background. Smoky greys and grey greens dominated it. Estell loved it and loved him for painting it for her.

Barely a year later he was dead; a drug overdose the coroner said. Estell didn't believe it and told everyone it was a heart attack. Simple. The painting, which once hung over their bed in a place of honor, was shoved in the linen closet.

Now, she was selling the house and needed the right color to work the walls and furniture. The trip today was to see this painting guru, a zen master of color and shade recommended by her friend with the impeccable taste. This guy was an expert--her friend Suz told her so and she should know. She had a fabulous house, all painted in ultra-hip colors, and all staged the way her high-end real estate friends did it. Staging a house with perfect paint was the way to get the big bucks, Estell was told. This guy--even though he was in the city--was a color genius, pricy but worth it. And if he could get her the right colors to go with the painting--oh, she nearly swooned at the thought of the painting, and hugged it closer to her chest. The panting was Eric and he was the painting, their life, their love. She knew he could see her and was proud of her for taking this first step of getting on with her life.

The train lurched forward and the electric conductor's voice announced the stop as the final destination. Estell slung her purse over her chest, slung the fatigue green army backpack containing the fabric pieces over her back, gently picked up the painting from the seat beside her, and pushed in with the morning commuters. It was 9:50 by the station clock.

To get to the street level in this station, one could take the elevator five floors up, cross a skybridge, drop down two floors to E. Montgomery, then catch a city bus into the Enclave, the industrial brick work/residence loft where the painter had his studio. Or, one could simply take the escalator six floors up, cross the street and walk eight blocks to the back entrance of his building. Estell took the escalator. The ride always made her feel like she was cantering on horseback. She loved looking at herself in the stainless steel siding, always, always amazed that she looked so good for someone like her.

One. Two. Three. After each floor climb, you walked across 20 feet of checkerboard flooring, filthy with the grime of years of spilled coffee and street mud, then jumped on the next one. On it went. Estell stood on the right side of the moving stairs and let the power walkers roughly pass by. What was the point, she thought. It's an escalator! Why can't people just chill out and enjoy the moment? That was her new mantra. Still. Be still. Yoga was teaching her that, to calm down, and be in the moment. She closed her eyes and felt the slick black plastic handrail slide under her hand, the firm cool steel wall swoosh over her back like a high-speed massage tool.

Starving, she suddenly remembered. I have to make time to eat. It was a busy morning getting to the station. Her current beau didn't want her to go--what was the point, he argued. Just go to Home Depot and get some swatches. Who cares? The market is hot and people are buying any old crap. No one will even notice the color and besides, the painting is, well, weird. Estell ignored him and remembered Eric.

She did care. She knew she would always love Eric. She even forgave his passing on, and cherished him like a parent cherished a child. Eric was her first and only love. She could never imagine loving another even though boyfriend number two certainly met her family's approval a hundred times over.

"He's perfect for you," they quietly gushed a few months ago over dinner, "smart, funny, and handy, too. He even wants kids! The perfect match! So what if he has cats and you have dogs?"

Estell hated cats.

"Don't worry," they said. "You'll work it out."

Hmm, Estell thought, and kept looking for signs from Eric. Since his passing she found herself noticing signs from him all over the place, little reminders that he was still very much a part of her life. The turning of a flower head her way, the clouds filtering over the sun on certain days, the shape of a puddle in the middle of her block. These had all Meant Something. They were Eric Speaking to Her, Eestell was convinced. She listened to them devotedly and then always knew what to do.

Up up she climbed. One more floor, she noted, and made the last trek across the ugly floor. This escalator had stopped--broken, apparently, so Estell decided to keep walking on the escalator stairs even though you really weren't supposed to do that. Scores of people ignored the little metal Out of Service sign and plowed ahead.

Five then ten steps. Estell shifted the heavy backpack digging into her with its claws and reminded herself to get back to the club. She was in crappy, crappy shape--hot, sweaty, and feeling like a blob.

Then without warning the escalator began to move and her right foot gave out. She fell backwards into the anorexic-looking woman with the shit-kicker cowboy boots standing suddenly behind her, smashed her face into the pointy metal spines that made up the escalator steps. The painting slipped from her arms towards her face and Estell's arm went through the canvas, elbow first, her manicured nails ripping the paint like a berserk handyman messing with a remodeling job. At last, her chin poked into the canvas and she was down, down for the count, ass over heels, feeling like the biggest asshole in the world.

The thin lady screamed and asked her if she were having a seizure. "Seizure! Are you all right? A seizure, right? Can you breathe? Help! We need help! Help! Someone help!!" Her perfume smelled like bad farts. Help ... her ... someone ... echoed down the urban canyon.

Then it stopped, the escalator stopped, the digging of the metal grooves stopped, and in a minute it was over. People swarmed all over her. Estell grabbed someone's hands, felt arms around her. She was carried to a nearby bench. Blood slowly started puddling up through the knee area of her right leg. Thank God for jeans. Her hand had braced her fall. Still, the metal escalator grooves made a nasty gash across the back of her hand, now purply-black.

Don't cry, she commanded herself. Be strong. Don't be a baby.

A transit cop was talking at her. "Are you all right ma'am? Looks like you banged yourself up a bit? Didn't you see the sign, ma'am? That escalator was closed, they're doing work on it. Gotta watch your step, ya hear? Ma'am?"

Sign. A sign. Who was he talking to? Ma'am? She didn't see the sign, or saw them all too clearly--signs from Eric, the one she loved. Lovenotes. These signs were. Or no notes at all. What signs. There were none. She looked for the picture--her picture--and saw someone had gently leaned it next to her backpack. It was ripped mostly off its frame, the frame half-twisted into a helix, and smeared with her blood. Ugly. Crude. The painting was childish, a ten-year-old's efforts. Where was Eric? What had she missed? Eric?

"Ma'am?" The transit cop was gently trying to get her attention. "Should I call your husband? An ambulance? Your painting is destroyed, ma'am. I hope it wasn't a gift?"

"No." Estell said, getting slowly to her feet and putting her bags over her one good arm. "Not a gift. Yard sale stuff. It was ... I thought I might ..." She stopped herself.

"Just throw it out. Okay. Can you do that? I'm all right now. Fine. Really, I am. Just fine. Where's the down escalator? I need to catch a train."

The Author

Mary D. Sanford makes her home in SE Seattle, the "neighborhood of nations." She is a community college professor by trade, working with future teachers, and shares her Ikea-studded home with two humongous doggies, one of whom drools like Niagara Falls. A New Yorker, she loves the Northwest and the rain, but she misses NY pizza, Chinese food, and good ole regular deli coffee. Most recently she was published in Letter X Magazine and the Beacon Hill News/South District Journal