On the Roof

Prompt: Write a story that begins and ends with someone looking up at the stars.

On the Roof

A short story by Peter Lamb

2200 words

"Excuse me," she said.

The man on the roof didn't move, so she tried again, this time augmented by an introductory cough.

"Excuse me!"

He turned his head toward her.  It wasn't an attractive head, she decided. Much of his hair was lost to the ravages of time, or some other unfortunate event. His clothes were suitable for a manual worker. Or a man who enjoyed dirt.

"What?"

"Excuse me, yes.  Would you be the hitman who lives in apartment twelve?"

The unattractive head rolled away again, resuming his examination of the cosmos.  "I live in apartment twelve, but I'm not a hitman."

"Oh.  It's just that everyone says you are."

"Nope.  I drive a bus."

"Can I come closer?"

"Go ahead."

She completed her climb of the ladder and arrived on the black asphalt via an awkward lurch.

"What are you doing up here?" she asked.

"Star-gazing."

"Are you an astronomer?"

"Nope.  I'm a bus driver."

"Can't you be both?"

The man shrugged, and in the roof's grime he formed a minimalist dirt-angel with the top of his grubby jacket.  The movement caused a ripple through his overly large belly, which progressed toward his feet. She wondered if he was stuck in his current position, and his cosmological interest was enforced by circumstance.

"Do you need help?" she asked.

"Nope, I've been doing this single-handed for years."

"No I meant… It doesn't matter."

He continued to gaze upward, his only movement being the rise and fall of his prodigious stomach. Periodically he would squint or close his eyes completely. Small breezes toyed with what little hair he had, flicking it into experimental styles across his pate.

"I was rather hoping you'd be a hitman," she said, wanting to sit despite the nature of her surroundings.  She found the galvanised edge of a ventilation cover and, tucking her dress behind her, she sank toward it as though it was her first attempt to use anything other than a chair.

"Why," he asked.  "Who do you want whacked?"

"My husband."

"Is he no good?"

"It's a lengthy story.  I thought hitmen had little interest in why."

"I'm a bus driver.  We are more inquisitive than contract killers."

She looked up at the sky and wondered what was holding his attention.  The stars exist, of course, but so does grass.  People don't lie in their gardens staring at it.

"Looking at anything in particular?" she asked.

"Just the known universe. Half of it, I guess. Beats the view from the bathroom."

She didn't ask what the bathroom view was like. "This is my first roof," she said.  "I meet most people in the lift."

"The people who said I'm a hitman?"

"Yes. Why is it called the 'known' universe? Is there an unknown version?"

"Why do you want your husband whacked?"

She looked down at her feet.  "He's taken everything I had."

"But you can afford a hitman?"

"I figured one who lives in this building would be cheap.  Your turn. The unknown universe?"

The man rolled over like a punctured ship and examined her.  Slim, attractive in an old money way, more accustomed to brunches than roofs.

"The known universe surrounds us like a sphere. No way of seeing past it. It's also called the observable universe. Why not just divorce him?"

"He refuses. Not going to kill the golden goose. What about a telescope?"

"Do I look like I want to drag a telescope up here?"

"No, I mean, with a telescope you'd see farther.  Surely the bigger the telescope, the more you'd, um..."

"Know?"

"Yes."

"Up to a point," he said. "Would you be happy if he was dead?"

"Happy?  I don't know.  Relieved, more than happy." She twiddled her fingers, elbows on knees, fidgeting some gravel with the point of an expensive shoe.

The man rolled back to resume his tour of all that's knowable. "Relieved?  That's a strange word to use."

"Why?"

"Because you'd be banged up in jail.  'Thank Christ for that' isn't your typical inmate response."

"Are you an ex-con?"

"Nope.  I'm a bus driver."

"Can't you be both?"

He performed his body-wobble shrug. "Fifty grand," he said.

She turned her head toward him and wondered if he was serious.  "I don't have fifty grand."

"How much do you have?"

She struggled off the ventilation cover and distanced herself from the asphalt-strewn man. "I thought you said I'd go to prison."

"You would.  The police aren't stupid.  But hey, you'd be the relieved inmate, remember?  The annoying chirpy one."

She paced the rooftop. "Couldn't you do it so they wouldn't suspect me?"

"Nope.  It's always going to be you.  Doesn't matter who pulls the trigger."

"Then I'm sunk.  I might as well shoot him myself."

He rolled over toward her again. "Join me," he said.

"What?"

"Down here.  Come on."

"Why on Earth would I do that?  It's… filthy!"

"Only the top part's filthy.  Beneath the crap, it's clean as a whistle."

"Do you have any idea how much this dress cost?"

He appraised the item from his less-than-ideal location and she stopped him from lingering on her legs. "It's a Valentino!" she said.

"Is that right."

"And the shoes are Louboutin. The red sole?"

He rolled back again. "Well don't I look the fool! Offering you half the universe when you already own a dress and some shoes."

"I can offer you twenty grand.  Cash. Tomorrow."

He thought it over.  "Twenty grand plus you get down here."

"Not going to happen."

He added some flourish to his dirt-angel with another shrug. "I'm no expert in the human condition, but I'm guessing most people study stars more often than they contemplate murder. You must have grown up in a different neighbourhood."

"I did."

"So why are you living here? Isn't there a grand palace to scuttle back to?"

She sat down again. Carefully.

"My family built an empire and left me in charge.  I married a man with nothing."

"Nothing but expensive tastes, I'm guessing."

"Right. This building wasn't always this way.  It had style back in the day, but a faded apartment is all I have."

"Where's the rest?"

"He took it.  In his name.  I'm an idiot."

He smiled.  "We never know what life will throw at us.  One day we're up, the next we're on our backs looking up at the stars."

She toyed with the gravel again. "You never told me why a big telescope doesn't help."

"Help with what?"

"With seeing the entire universe.  You said it would only help, 'up to a point.'"

"You can't get down here, can you."

"I don't want to, it's disgusting."

"I watched you move.  Watched you get over the parapet.  Watched you sit.  It ain't the dress, lady."

"Tell me about the telescope!"

"Did he hurt you?"

She made her own dirt-angel with a shoe. "I asked for a divorce.  Again."

"I'm guessing middle back.  Kidneys."

"What are you, a surgeon? I thought you were a bus driver."

"Can't I be both?"

She stood up again and winced a little.  "Listen, if I get down there, will you kill my husband for me?"

"Let's see what happens."

She teetered around the roof in search of something to protect Valentino from the natural urges of pigeons. An unlikely variety of pizza cartons availed themselves, which she laid out next to the man from apartment twelve.  "I can do this," she said, and with noble disgust she descended to the lowest she'd ever been.

Lying next to each other, they looked toward the sky.

"See that star there?" he said, pointing a finger so fat it could have indicated half a dozen celestial bodies.

"Yes," she said, with scant regard for accuracy.

"That star is a thousand light years away."

"Wow."

"Do you know what that means?"

"Not at all."

"It means it's so far away, the light from it takes a thousand years to reach us.  We're seeing the star as it was a thousand years ago."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. We're looking at the past.  That one over there is a million light years, so it could have ceased to exist almost a million years ago and yet there it is, twinkling away, even though it's dead and gone."

"How is this germane to our previous discussion?"

He rolled his head and was surprised to see her looking at him.  "When you kill someone they are like stars. They don't go away the moment they drop. They linger with you, bright as ever."

"I thought you were a bus driver."

They returned to the mysteries of the half-universe. "And the telescope?" she asked.

"Telescopes find things farther away, so you get an even bigger tour of history. But you can't see stars from when there weren't any stars. There's nothing there. It's black.  It's nothing at all. Try as we might, we can't see for ever."

"Is that why you don't use a telescope?"

"Have you taken out twenty grand in cash recently?"

"What?  No. But I will, if you agree."

He smiled.  "Okay, you introduced Valentino to the pigeon shit, I guess it's my turn.  Where's your husband?"

"Asleep in the apartment."

"Good. Call him."

"What, now?"

"Now."

She retrieved her phone, illuminating the cheese-stained bed.  A male voice answered.

"Victoria?  Where the hell are you?"

The fat man gave a prolonged sigh. "She's on the roof."

"What?  Who is this?"

She watched him as he spoke. His eyes didn't leave the stars and the tone of his voice conveyed nothing at all. "This is the guy from apartment twelve."

"Apartment… No, no, what's she been…"

"You know who I am."

"… You're the…"

"She's in a red Valentino dress, Louboutin shoes, twenty grand in a brown paper bag, not the happiest she's ever been."

"Let me talk to her. Let me explain!"

"Twenty grand. Your time for explanations has run out."

There was silence on the other end.

"You know why, I assume?"

"No.  No, she wouldn't!"

"Sign it all back to her, divorce the lady, walk away."

She prodded his arm, and he held the phone to his chest.

"What's he saying?"

"I think he's crying."

"Really?"

"Yeah, listen."

She put her ear to the phone and nodded.

"Why did you marry him?"

"He has lovely teeth, and that salt-and pepper hair.  He takes excellent care of himself and—"

The fat man shook his head and went back to the crying phone. "Wipe your eyes, blow your nose, pack a bag and leave.  Tonight.  I'm holding the money until she brings me the signed paperwork. If I don't see her and the paperwork, both in pristine condition, well, a job's a job. A man has to do what he's paid for."

He handed the phone back to her as though it were covered in mucus.

"All I can hear are scurrying sounds," she said.

"I've heard those before."

"What if he calls the police?"

"I said nothing incriminating.  Your bank statements don't show anything. You came up here to watch the stars."

"I don't know what to say," she said.

"No need.  I've enjoyed the company."

They lay together for a while. The known universe and the universe unknown, existing together on the roof of a building that was once in better condition. Ten stories below, the terrified growl of a BMW raced off toward the city.

"That was him," she said.

"I know."

"I didn't…"

"Want him dead?"

"No. I just wanted him gone, somehow. When everyone called you the hitman, after the punches tonight… I needed him gone from the only place I have left. Do you think he'll come back?"

"Nope."

"How are you so sure?"

He turned his head toward her and that was answer enough.

 "Thank you. I feel so… I have the money. I'll get it to you—"

"—I don't want your money."

The stars rolled overhead.

"If you won't take my money, I'll bring you a telescope.  You can go back to when no stars haunted you."

"That would need to be one big telescope."

The sky arched over them as they lay in their grime of astronomical endeavour. The man barely moved, save the rhythmic necessities of breathing, and she occasionally stole a look at the stranger who had changed her life.

"You could lose some weight dragging it up here," she said, finally. "And have you considered the bald look?  Better than the comb-over.  And your clothes, too."

"Just look at the stars, Victoria."

"I mean it. Tidy up your appearance and who knows? I'll bring some jackets tomorrow.  Maybe a few shirts."

"Look at the goddam stars."

"Okay, she said, and wondered why they twinkled.