Atop the Madison

By Joseph Paul Haines

When Chester Smythe arrived for his midnight to eight shift, the lightning storm which had been promised for days now had fully enveloped the city like a domed lid over a cosmopolitan entrée. Chester shivered as he stood in front of the Madison, his head craned upward in an attempt to see the uppermost floor of the grand, fifty story residential building. It was a ritual, one which he repeated five nights weekly for the last fifteen years, since he first arrived at the building to apply for his current position of night custodian. At the time, it was the only position available for an elderly, under-trained black man.

Before he took this job, Chester had always hated the first day back after a vacation. But not here. He was glad to see the building again, with its curved arches, gabled windows and carved vines. Granite gargoyles perched atop the building, amidst the brass spires in direct disregard of the late Victorian design.

Chester so loved the building that, even though heavy drops of rain beat at the top of his umbrella like an ancient, tribal drumbeat, he decided to take the long way around the Madison before making his way to the staff entrance. The grand design of the carriage-friendly port-cosher warmed Chester with its amber glow, the slick cobblestones reflecting the light from below his feet.

During the afternoon, the port-cosher was a finely organized chaos of activity. But now, a single uniformed doorman stood guard at the massive cherry-wood door, his while gloves not so much for show, but to keep him from smudging the perfectly polished brass fixtures. Chester nodded to him as he passed. There was no response. The doorman stood motionless, taking his position as seriously as if he were guarding Buckingham Palace itself. Chester breathed in deeply, smelling the wet concrete and ozone in the air, and smiled. The unpleasant memories were fading now, and all in all, it was good to be back.

He smiled and bowed his head as he entered the building and bumped roughly into his supervisor who was leaving for the night. Mr. Baker was a short man, but what he lacked in height he more than made up for in girth. He wore the proper coveralls, the residence's monogram stitched on the left breast pocket, but Chester always thought that Mr. Baker would be more comfortable in an old tee-shirt with a stubbed-out cigar clenched between his teeth.

"Smyth." It was all the greeting Chester was going to get.

"Good evening, Mr. Baker," Chester said. "Terrible weather, isn't it?"

Mr. Baker looked out the door. "Shit," he said, "it's worse than a cow pissin' on a flat rock out there." He grabbed an umbrella from the rack beside the door, then stopped. He looked Chester up and down. "You doin' okay, Smythe?"

"Sure, sure."

Mr. Baker grunted. "Well, you'd better be. We can't have any more scenes, understand?"

Chester blushed. "No problem, Mr. Baker. I'm fine now."

"Uh-huh."

Silence hung between them.

Mr. Baker chuckled. "Yeah, all right. You know, I never knew what you saw in that old broad anyway."

Chester folded his hands behind his back. "Her name was Rebecca Calhoun," Chester said, controlling his temper, "and she was my friend. I'd appreciate it if you didn't speak of her like that around me." What he didn't say was that Rebecca had known this building better than Mr. Baker could ever hope.

"Feeling all high and mighty today, huh?" He asked, his cheeks bright red. "You think you really meant something to her? She was probably just doin' a good deed before she died, tryin' to get her soul in order cuz' she knew she was dying."

Chester looked away, and said, "Yes, I guess that's true, Mr. Baker." Chester took a step back and said, "Well, I've got to get to work and--"

"I'm not finished with you yet."

Chester stepped back toward him, cautiously avoiding Mr. Baker's eyes.

"You're training a new girl tonight. She'll be here around one. Train her well, Chester. After all, you're not going to be around here forever, are you?" Mr. Baker grinned as he pulled on his overcoat. "And see what you can do about that bookcase in my office. Damned thing nearly fell on me today."

It was Chester's turn to grin.

"Maybe you should be a little nicer to her," Chester said.

Mr. Baker did a double take. "She's dead, Chester."

"Not Rebecca. The Madison. She takes offense easily, you know."

Mr. Baker grunted and raised his umbrella as he stepped out into the night.

Nobody understood the relationship he had with Ms. Calhoun. When it came right down to it, Chester never really understood it either. But when she died last month, it had been like losing his wife all over again. They had called it a vacation. Chester called it mourning.

The night they met, Chester was cleaning the men's lavatory on the restaurant level. Even though it was just a fancy rest-room, Chester looked forward to the time he spent cleaning there. Like the rest of the building, it was overdone and divided into separate rooms: the business room, as Chester jokingly called it, was full of stalls. The entry, that Chester was busying himself cleaning, had a row of sinks on each wall, and above them, mirrors. The mirrors were separate from one another, each framed by gold-leaf trim which in turn was bordered by mahogany. If you happened to be facing one of them and looked over your shoulder, you would see the back of your head reflected by the mirrors above the opposite row of sinks, and if you lingered, you would see your face again, then the back of your head, your face, ad infinitum until the reflections curved heavenward into oblivion. Chester enjoyed the effect. It reminded him of his first haircut in the city, where the mirrors in the barber shop were much the same. He was enjoying the view when the reflection of an elderly white woman caught his attention.

She wore a lace shawl and a large, round hat. A string of pearls rested gently against her designer floral dress. Her shoes were modest, and unlike other women her age, Chester noticed that her hose did not gather around her ankles. When Chester turned to look at her full on, the skin around her hazel eyes scrunched into a thousand wrinkles and her pencil-thin lips were taut with disapproval.

"I'm not a racist," she said, "let's get that clear from the start. So I don't want to hear any of that oppression nonsense. Is that clear?"

Chester didn't know what to say, so he just stood there with his mouth hanging open and wondered what this old woman was doing in the men's restroom.

"Close your mouth," she snapped. "You look very ugly like that."

Chester closed his mouth and flushed with embarrassment as the click of his teeth echoed inside the closed room. "Yes ma'am. I mean, no ma'am. I wouldn't ever say anything like that. I'm just happy to have a job."

"P'shaw," she said, her nose wrinkling with distaste. "Are you trying to tell me that you're happy to be scrubbing toilets?"

"Some folks," Chester said, "have to take whatever they can just to pay the rent, ma'am. It's not very nice sometimes, but that the way of things."

The old woman crossed her arms and seemed to shrink in half with the gesture. "What's that supposed to mean?" She asked. "You mean, unlike rich folks like me, is that it?"

Chester felt his stomach knot. "No, I didn't mean anything like that. It's just--"

"Wait here," she said, then turned on her heel and stormed out of the rest room.

Well, Chester thought, you really messed that up. You needed this job Chester just hoped that one of the other positions he applied for would still be available. They didn't pay as well, but what else was there? He sighed and went back to cleaning.

When the old woman returned, she was alone and she wore an old pair of pants that were many sizes too big belted tightly at the waist and an old tee-shirt. On her hands she wore a pair of yellow rubber gloves that covered her arms to the elbow. "Well," she said, "let's get to it. Somebody has to teach you how to do a proper job."

"Get to what?" Chester asked.

She didn't answer him. Instead, she stomped over to his cart of cleaning supplies and pulled out a scrub brush and an industrial sized can of Comet. Her eyes met his for a moment, and she sniffed indignantly before strutting off to the bathroom stalls.

"You're being ugly again," she said, never looking back at him.

Chester closed his mouth, gently this time, and followed her into the stall where she was kneeling before a toilet, coating the bowl with abrasive blue powder. "Who are you?" Chester asked.

She turned and peered at him over her shoulder. "Name's Calhoun. Ms. Calhoun. Now get down here so I can show you how this is done."

Chester fidgeted. "Ms. Calhoun," he said, "do you really think that you should be in here? I mean, this is the men's room, after all."

She stopped scrubbing. Chester thought he could see a flush appearing on her cheeks. "Why?" She asked. "Do you have to pee, or something?"

Chester covered his smile with his hand and said, "No, no, nothing like that."

"Well then," she said, "get down here and pay attention."

"You know, I like to think that I've learned a thing or two in my life, Ms. Calhoun," Chester said, taking great care with his words, "and regretfully, one of those things was how to clean a toilet."

"Probably," she answered, "but let me show you how it's done here at the Madison."

"It's been my experience ma'am, that all toilets are pretty much the same."

She slammed the can of Comet to the floor, causing the room to echo with a hollow, tinny ring. "Don't you ever say anything like that again, do you hear me? Let's get one thing straight," she said, "nothing at the Madison is the same as anywhere else. Thinking it is can get you in trouble."

Chester blinked.

"Look," Ms. Calhoun said, softening a bit, "it's just that this place is special, and you have to treat it like it is. If you don't, you won't get anything out of it. But it you take your time, get to know it, it'll treat you plenty special back."

Chester decided not to argue. He leaned down beside her and said, "All right, Ms. Calhoun. You'd better show me how it's done then."

She returned to her scrubbing. "You don't believe me, do you?" Before Chester could answer, she continued, "Of course you don't. Well, after we're done here, I'll take you around and show you."

"Um, I don't think I'll have time for that, ma'am. I've got a lot of work to get done before my shift is over."

"I'll help you then. But this is important...what was your name again?"

"Chester. Chester Smythe."

"Well Chester, you're too damned old to be scrubbing toilets for a living and if you're going to make it around here, you're going to have to let the Madison help you. Where are your kids anyway? Your family, I mean. Don't they support you?"

"No ma'am. My wife just passed away last year. And our kids?" Chester looked away. "Well, they got their own lives to lead, I suppose. Can't have 'em spending all their time worrying about their old man now can I?"

She looked into his eyes and Chester saw a deep sympathy there that made him blush. She understood all too well. "I'm sorry to hear about your wife, Chester. Losing your spouse is a hard thing."

Chester crossed his arms. "How long have you been living here, anyway?"

"Twenty-five years," she said. "And I'll die here. Nowhere else on earth I'd rather be. So don't worry if you can't finish all your work tonight. I'm a fixture around here and I'll tell that nasty Mr. Baker that I hauled you off to help me with a project or something."

"I appreciate the thought ma'am," Chester said, "but I don't let a job go unfinished. I just don't work that way."

She smiled at him. "That's nice to hear, Chester."

Over the next couple weeks, with Ms. Calhoun's tutelage, Chester learned more about the Madison than he thought possible. Every night as Chester cleaned the men's room on the restaurant level, he would look up from whatever sink he happened to be scrubbing and see Ms. Calhoun's reflection in the mirror. The first couple of times he almost came out of his skin, but after a few nights, he began to expect it. He never could figure out how she managed to enter without his hearing her though.

Chester couldn't understand all the technical details, but he enjoyed Ms. Calhoun's tours all the same. She told him stories. One elderly resident, who'd since passed away, tripped in the hallway once and could have been hurt very badly. The resident swore that floor had literally swept up to meet her and cushioned her fall. Chester didn't give much credibility to such tales, but learned to respect the Madison all the same. Every morning, as he'd leave work for the day, he'd run his hand over the same dark grey stone column as gently as one would stroke the hair of a little girl off to her first day of kindergarten, wishing it a good day.

It wasn't long before Chester began to notice oddities, himself. He worked alone at night, but items that were on his cleaning list for the evening would be clean by the time he got there. It was as if someone had come along in front of him and cleaned everything except for a small portion of the room, or hallway, or bathroom. No matter how spotless the rest of it might be, there were always a small number of items left for Chester. In the men's room on the restaurant level, it was always two sinks that needed to be scrubbed, giving Ms. Calhoun the chance to sneak up on Chester and pop up in the mirror's reflection.

It didn't take long before Chester found himself believing Ms. Calhoun's tales about the Madison, and made certain that he thanked the Madison for its help. In time, he began to prefer being at work to the lonely hours he spent at his own, small apartment.

Chester and Ms. Calhoun became friends. Though they maintained an appropriate distance required by people of their age, every night they would spend an hour or two sharing the stories of their lives with each other and with the ever present ears of the Madison. The three of them were inseparable.

Chester looked up from his work--he was cleaning the nooks and crannies of the woodwork on the fourteenth floor--at the deep humming of the elevator. He stopped his work. It seemed the Madison itself was still in mourning as dust saturated every crevice. Chester's nose tickled from the scent of polish.

The elevator doors opened. The young girl who stepped out looked completely out of place. She walked straight toward Chester. Her dirt-blonde hair sat in a loose bun atop her head and her eyes hid behind a pair of dark sunglasses that rested on the tip of her nose. She wore baggy coveralls; the cuffs of her pants scraped the carpet. She looked over the top of her sunglasses and said, "Hey, pops! You wouldn't happen to be..." --she smoothed out a piece of crumpled paper-- "...Chester Smith-ee, would'cha?"

Chester normally hated being called pops. For some reason, when she said it, it made him smile. "Yes, and you are?"

"Tilly," she said, and grabbed his hand firmly, the cleaning rag still in it, and pumped it up and down twice. "I'm the new girl." She turned around in a circle, open admiration showing on her face. "Wow, this is one intense place. Late Victorian, isn't it?"

Chester nodded. "And then some. Want a tour?"

They walked through the building, Chester pointing out everything he had learned from Ms. Calhoun when he could get a word in edgewise. Tilly was one of the worlds' great nonstop talkers, but unlike so many that Chester had met, what came out of her mouth--once you got past the slang--was well thought out. Chester even told her about the gargoyles on the rooftop.

"Gargoyles, huh?" She said, her bottom lip twisted in consideration. "That doesn't seem to fit, either. But then again, it does. I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"Perfect sense," Chester said.

Tilly shook her head and chuckled. "You know, I can't figure out if whoever designed this place was a genius or just bugfruit."

Designed the Madison? The thought stopped Chester in his tracks. He'd never thought about who designed the building. That there might be a conscious plan behind her had never before entered his mind. She just...was.

The walked on for a while, and near the end of the tour, Tilly stopped and said, "This is going to sound crazy, but I knew I was going to get this job the moment I stepped in the building. I mean, I completely blew the job interview with Mr. Baker--he thinks you're crazy as a loon, by the way--but I knew he'd hire me anyway. Don't ask me why, I've never had a premonition like that before in my life. I just knew."

"You're a very perceptive young lady." Chester said.

Tilly nodded her head in agreement and then, as if in sudden realization, spun and stared at Chester. "How'd you learn so much about this place, anyway?"

Chester took a deep breath. "There was this woman who used to live here..."

The last night Chester saw Ms. Calhoun, she had brought him a birthday present. It was the first one she had ever given him. He started to unwrap the small box and looked up to share his smile with her. She was as white as angel's wings and she wasn't smiling.

"Ms. Calhoun? Are you all--"

She fell.

Chester lurched forward to catch her and stopped. He watched even as his mind swore that what he was seeing couldn't be real. Her fall stopped short, and then, she floated to the ground as easy as a feather and she settled gently upon the frescoed tile floor. He kneeled down over her and grabbed her shoulders. Shaking her softly, Chester said, "Oh God. Please don't leave me Rebecca. You're all I have."

She whispered back, "Haven't you learned anything yet? I'll always be right here, Chester. And that's Ms. Calhoun..."

While Chester ran to get help, Ms. Calhoun died in the embrace of the Madison. On top of the building, the gargoyles wept.

Chester later discovered that she had left half her estate to the Madison Historical Preservation Society, and half to him. For his birthday, she had given him a sterling silver pocket watch. On the back was the inscription, "To Chester, from the two of us."

Even though he was now financially secure enough to live the rest of his life in leisure, Tilly and he gathered up the cleaning supplies and attacked the dusty, fourteenth floor hallway anew. His birthday present hung from his belt and rested comfortingly in his right front pocket.

The work made Chester sweat. It was harder than he remembered and the Madison didn't seem to be helping out as much as it once had. After an hour of continuous labor, Chester offered Tilly a break. She refused, saying that she couldn't stand all this dust in the hallway, so Chester found a chair inside the equipment closet and sat down.

He watched Tilly for a few moments, but she was lost in her work and didn't notice as Mr. Baker snuck up on them. Chester let out a heavy, tired sigh and so he couldn't even cry out when Mr. Baker shot his head around the corner and yelled, "Ha! I thought I'd find you slacking off, and you don't have that old bat around to protect you any more, do you?"

Chester leaped to his feet. "I'm sorry, Mr. Baker." Tilly stopped cleaning and cautiously walked toward them. "I was just--"

"Wasting time, that's all you were doing. Well, that might have been all well and good when Mrs. Calhoun--"

"Ms." Chester said.

Mr. Baker shoved his belly into Chester's. "I don't care if it was Mister! When I fill out this report to the general manager, you're going to be out of a job."

"Look, I'm sorry," Chester said. "It won't happen again. I promise."

"You're damned right it won't." As Mr. Baker spoke, Chester could see Tilly's face grow redder by the second. "That's cuz' you're out of here Chester." He leaned in closer and whispered. "You had no business messing around with a white woman, anyway. I've always hated it when nobodies like you cuddle up next to the residents and try to get special treat--"

Chester heard a crack, and watched as a tuft of Mr. Baker's thin, white hair flew over the front of his brow. Mr. Baker spun around and Tilly was twisting up her damp washcloth for a second strike.

"Mr. Baker," Tilly said, her voice sugar and honey, "why don't you go do some deep knee-bends over the nearest fire hydrant? Okay?" Her eyes challenged him to make a move, any move. Chester saw no hint of fear in her eyes.

Mr. Baker shot a quick glance over toward Chester. He face flushed. He turned back to Tilly and mumbled, "You're fired." He then stormed down the hallway toward the elevator.

Chester shot out of the elevator. "Now just wait one minute--"

Tilly and Chester watched as the carpet rippled under Mr. Baker's feet like an ocean wave. It pushed his feet out to the side and Mr. Baker fell face first, his arms not quick enough to break his fall. Chester winced at the sound of crunching cartilage echoed through the hallway.

Tilly shrank up and began to babble. "Ohmygodohmygoddid you see that?"

Chester laid his hand on her shoulder and shook her gently. "Just hold on a minute, Tilly. I'll explain everything. But first..." Chester walked to where Mr. Baker lie on the ground holding his nose. Chester withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Baker, kneeling down in the process. "You know, it really doesn't matter what you do to me. You're my boss and I've always followed your instructions with a "yes, sir" and gone about my business no matter how badly you treated me and I haven't complained once. If you want to fire me, fine. But Tilly over there, I think you're going to have your hands full with her. And you know, the Madison doesn't seem to like the idea of you firing her." Mr. Baker's eyes darted around, on the look-out for another attack. "So why don't we just forget all about this little scene?" Chester offered his hand to Mr. Baker, who looked at it as if it were a dead fish. Chester watched as the carpet bubbled underneath Mr. Baker.

"Yeah, yeah," Mr. Baker said and grabbed Chester's hand.

Chester pulled him up to a standing position, the handkerchief still clutched to his glowing red nose. He stared at Chester for a minute, searching his eyes, and then stormed down the hall to the elevator.

Chester looked down at the single drop of blood that had fallen on the carpet. The blood soaked in and vanished before his eyes.

An hour later, Chester could no longer put off cleaning the men's restroom on the restaurant level. He left Tilly alone to keep working on the hallways--she seemed obsessed in making sure that the job was finished. Even with Tilly here now, the Madison still felt hollow without Ms. Calhoun, and Chester knew that cleaning the restroom would only make it worse. He had tried only once since Ms. Calhoun's death, and the loneliness of the experience had broken him down into uncontrollable, sobbing tears. He was forced to take vacation soon after. Chester thought he had seen Ms. Calhoun's reflection. But the job had to be done, and done right. He pushed open the swinging door and stepped inside.

The glare of the brightly lit room made Chester squint, and after a moment of acclimation, he inspected the area. Two sinks required his attention.

Taking his sponge and a can of Comet, Chester went to work. He kept glancing in the mirror, hoping and yet fearful that he would see Ms. Calhoun's reflection there, her visual echo stretching to infinity. He told himself he wouldn't do this again. He didn't want to feel the disappointment of looking into the mirror and seeing only her absence. It was bad enough that he knew she wouldn't be there, but to have this knowledge proven again and again twisted the knife in deeper.

He looked into the mirror. A gargoyle perched on a sink behind him.

Chester dropped the can of Comet and spun around. There was nothing there. Cool beads of sweat ran down his forehead and he wiped them off with the back of his sleeve. You've got to get over this, Chester thought. You can't go on like this for very long. He turned around, picked the comet up off the floor and stood up to return to cleaning the sink.

In the mirror, Ms. Calhoun stood behind him, her eyes no longer bright hazel, but the grey and black of granite.

Chester refused to turn around. Instead, he kept working on the sink.

"Good evening, Chester," she said.

Chester kept scrubbing, hoping that this hallucination would fade as had the others. He stole a glance in the mirror. Ms. Calhoun was moving toward him. Chester squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a hand slip onto his shoulder with the rough scraping sound of stone against still cotton.

"Chester?"

He opened his eyes. She stood directly behind him, her skin stone. Her hand fell quietly from his shoulder.

"Look at me, Chester." Chester put both hands over his ears, but it didn't stop him from hearing, "Please."

Chester turned. Her skin was smooth, again the pale alabaster he remembered. Ms. Calhoun looked him in the eye. "Do you miss me, Chester?"

"I'll never stop missing you," he said.

"Chester, take my hand"

He reached out to her. Her silken skin slipped into his hand.

"Now look," she said, nodding toward the mirror. He looked in the mirror and saw himself slumped over the sink.

Tilly walked into the room just in time to watch Chester's body slump to the floor. She fell to her knees beside him and rolled his body onto its back. Her ear went first to his lips, then to his chest. She mumbled and tears formed in her eyes. She brought both palms to his solar plexus and began c.p.r. Chester glanced over at Ms. Calhoun and said, "Hold on a minute." He walked up behind Tilly and laid his hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, and Chester whispered in her ear, "Take care of her, you hear me?" Tilly gasped. Chester re-grasped Ms. Calhoun's hand and left Tilly there, sobbing and laughing in equal proportion.

"Lead away, Ms. Cal--"

"Call me Rebecca," she said.

The two of them entered through the mirror, and after a momentary disorientation, Chester realized that they were atop the Madison. Rebecca led him to a spot near the lip of the building, and Chester hunched down, perching there as he felt his skin hardening. His wings sprouted from his back and then folded around him like a warm blanket.

On top of the Madison, the gargoyles slept.