Page 335 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

of dilapidated tenement buildings, a beautifully endless
complex of apartments.
As I approached the spiraling marvel, I alighted upon
the cracked stone of a narrow walkway. The path led
into and around a forest of crooked property markers,
broken birdbaths, and close-packed hordes of tacky lawn
ornaments. At last, I stood before the building, beneath a
second rain—cartwheeling paint chips, cast off from the
curdling exterior of the towering hovel. The wind narrowed
to a whisper, allowing a single, contrasting note of air to
sound out the appropriate awesomeness of the moment. In
its turn, stepping out from behind the thin curtain of sound,
came the relentless creaking of the rambling monolith, the
unsteady balance of countless buildings standing atop each
other’s rickety shoulders. I drew as close to the structure
as I could without losing sight of its swaying top, enjoying
how it conducted my vision into the boundless sky, my sight
pulled into forever. Looking back over the path I’d followed
to arrive at such a marvel, I watched as the ghost of the
glowing rain rose again as a softly radiant mist, threatening
shapes wandering its dimly visible interior. It was only
this specter of violence that at last caused my father to stir
from his rest. Yet I was in no mood for the distraction of
bloodshed—the spire called.
The place admitted me without resistance, the large door
atop a teetering, rotting porch swinging open upon barely
solid moorings. The heady odor of melancholy tumbled
beyond the threshold. The wood of the lobby was so soft,
it felt like carpeting beneath my footsteps. The surrounding
walls wore their water damage like museum art, each tone
of orange and brown expertly laid into their death and the
consequent birth of mold. Failing pillars of counterfeit
alabaster barely hefted the cathedral ceiling above my head.
They had failed altogether in numerous places, spilling the
guts of the second story across the fungal floor. The discount
simulacrum of a Grecian lobby contrasted wonderfully
338 | Mark Anzalone