Victoria Palmer
15D
The knock struck sharp and impatient. Two quick raps. Like a cop with a warrant or an irritated delivery driver running late. Martha had been halfway through folding caramelized onions into a pot of rice and stewed peas. The building was quiet most days, except for the occasional hum of the elevator.
“What the hell?” she muttered, tugging on the tattered bathrobe that once belonged to her late husband. She dawdled to the door and peered through the peephole.
A woman stood in the hallway. Medium height, early thirties, though the caked-on makeup and exhausted eyes made it hard to tell. She wore a fuzzy electric blue coat over mismatched hospital scrubs. Her thick black hair had not seen a brush in days. Martha pulled the robe tighter and cracked the door. The scent of the onions slipped out into the hall.
“Yes?”
“Hi,” the woman said, her voice marked by weariness. “Does Albert Kennedy live here?”
No one by that name lives here.”
“This is 15D, right?” she said, rubbing her temples. “He’s a relative. I was told this was his address.” She glanced over her shoulder, down the hall like someone was following her.
“I was supposed to meet him here. Could I maybe use your phone?”
“No.” The word landed hard. Martha tightened her grip on the door. The woman hesitated, as if she had already made the wrong choice just by coming.
“I just need to make a call,” she said, thrown by Martha’s tone.
“I said no.” Martha’s voice rasped, harsh with judgement. “I’m not in the habit of letting strangers in off the street. You have the wrong address.”
The woman flinched and gave up her argument. Still, Martha caught the way she craned her head to look into the apartment, like she half-expected someone familiar to appear.
“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”
Martha said nothing. She glared at the woman as she turned to leave. Shutting the door hard, she listened for the bolt to click into place. For a moment, it was like the knock never happened. The silence returned. Neat, heavy. But it felt wrong this time. She hesitated, then leaned towards the peephole again. The woman had not gone far. Slumped on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees like a child lingering for someone who might not show. Her phone dangled in her hand. She shook it and stared at the dark screen. For a split second, Martha imagined her daughter at the woman’s age.
Back in the kitchen, the rice and peas sputtered. Martha turned off the burner and scraped the blackened onions from the bottom of the pan, her hand moving slower now. Why had she been so short? Had living alone thinned her patience for other people? Still, something about the woman unsettled her. She looked like someone who had not only been forgotten, but misfiled by the world. Martha had worn that same look once, waiting in the ER for a nurse who never came back for news about her husband.
She reached for the broken radio her husband had left on the counter. She turned the knob and heard faint static. The emptiness inside the apartment pressed in. It felt too loud. Too final.
“Damn it,” Martha stuttered, not to herself but to the emptiness. She went to the door and opened it again. The woman lifted her head. Not pleading, but bracing herself for another no.
“You said it was one call?” Martha asked.
“Yes.”
“And it’s local?” The woman nodded.
“Don’t touch anything. Try anything, and I’ll scream so loud the whole building will come.”
“I won’t,” the woman said, rising slowly, arms hugged close to her body. “Thank you.”
* * *
“Hi. It’s me, Emma. I’m at the address. He’s not here. Call me back.”
While she spoke, Martha sized her up. A faint bruise bloomed beneath her right eye. Emma handed the phone back, her fingers brushing Martha’s. She avoided eye contact. Her face was blank, but not unreadable. The silence returned again, dense and close. It made Martha step back.
“You hungry?” she asked, unsure if she meant it to be a question or a gesture. “There’s food. It’s a little burnt, but edible.”
“Sure. Thanks,” Emma said, surprised.
Martha gave a small nod. She glanced at the door chain, then stepped aside to let the woman in. Behind them, the door clicked shut.
* * *
They sat at the spotless kitchen table. Emma ate in small, timid bites. She picked around the peas and chewed like someone not used to eating in peace. Martha’s plate remained untouched.
“You’re staring,” Emma said, not looking up.
“You’re in my house.”
“You sound like someone’s mother,” Emma said, smiling into the fork.
Martha smoothed her placemat. “Not anymore.” Emma stopped eating.
“What do you do?”
“Ex investment banker.”
“Like Lehman’s or something.”
“Or something. I worked in private wealth.” Martha laughed for the first time in days. Dry and reluctant.
“Why an ex?”
Martha did not answer and Emma did not press. Her eyes drifted over the curated apartment. A series of paintings organized by colour and shape. Throw pillows fluffed. Jamaican and British newspapers arranged on the glass coffee table.
“What’s with the clippings?”
“I like obituaries.”
“Jesus. That’s dark.”
“They’re honest. No fluff. No small talk. Just truth.”
“I get that,” Emma said.
“You do? You’re used to death.”
“Yeah. I’m a hospice nurse.”
The air shifted between them. It made the past feel louder than the present. Martha leaned forward. “Why are you looking for Albert Kennedy?” Emma’s voice dropped.
“Thought he might want to know who I am.”
“Who is he to you?”
“Not sure,” Emma said, halting. “Kind of like your clippings. An unclaimed body. An unknown father.”
“Albert Kennedy may be your father?”
“I think so. Someone told me that.” She glanced up. “Your husband’s name wasn’t Al or Albert?”
“No,” Martha said. “Not even close.”
Emma sat back. Her lips tightened. “Then they lied. Or he did.” She blinked fast, like someone trying not to give an old wound fresh air.
“Or they made a mistake.”
Emma remained quiet. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a creased slip of paper. “It’s in his handwriting,” she said. “Albert Kennedy. 15D. That’s this place, right?”
Emma stared at the paper a moment longer, like it might change if she gave it time. She folded it with care, as if the weight of the truth depended on the creases lining up.
“Guess I got what I came for,” she said, her voice thinning. “Thought it would feel like an answer.”
“You can wait here,” Martha said. “Until you hear back.”
“Really?”
Martha looked away, fiddling with her tea cup. “You’re already here.” She shrugged.
* * *
Emma curled up on the couch, bare feet tucked under the cushions, watching an old detective show on mute. Martha reached for the red-and-black striped wool blanket folded at the end of the couch. The one her husband would use when he read the Sunday paper. She draped it across Emma’s knees. Their fingers brushed. Neither pulled away.
“You ever get tired of talking to dying people?” Martha said.
“All the time,” she said. “But it’s worse when they stop talking.”
Martha nodded, more than she meant to. She remembered the stillness of the phone that never rang the day her husband left the apartment without saying goodbye.
“My husband dropped dead from a heart attack in the middle of the street. No one helped him.”
“I used to steal pills,” Emma said suddenly. “From the hospice pharmacy.”
Martha froze. She felt a heaviness in her body. “For yourself?”
“Sometimes for others. Sometimes just to have them. One time, I gave too much to a patient who asked for it. She couldn’t sleep. Said she didn’t care if it stopped her heart. So, I gave her what she wanted.”
“Did she die?” Martha inhaled before opening her mouth.
“Not then.” Emma paused. Her jaw tightened. “But later. I think about that night a lot.”
“That supposed to scare me?” Martha asked.
“No. It seemed fair to say.”
Martha studied her. Emma was not ashamed. Just tired. Martha let out a genuine laugh.
“Could be a draw between us.”
Emma gave a small smile, but her hands stayed wrapped around the tea cup like it might cool the heat rising behind her eyes.
“You ever get tired of people disappearing?”
Martha did not answer. She got up and adjusted the radio dial again, out of habit.
“I keep thinking it might catch something,” she said softly, not really expecting Emma to reply. “Like a message got stuck and it’s still on its way.”
Martha figured Emma would laugh. Instead, she listened.
* * *
Later, the TV flickered blue shadows across the room. Emma’s head tilted on a throw pillow, already dozing.
“You think he ever existed?” she asked, barely audible. Martha sat beside her, not too close, but close enough to hear her breathing.
“Some men don’t want to be found,” she said. “And some only show up in the paper after they’re gone.” Martha shuffled through her clippings of small truths that never ask for permission.
Emma’s breathing slowed. The blanket rose and fell with it. They were both holding on for something that had already come and gone. Martha sat in the kitchen. The cordless phone sat untouched on the counter behind her. It never rang and probably never would. She heard the radio whisper its usual static. Soft, distant, stubborn. She turned the volume up. Not enough to disturb Emma, but enough to make the apartment not entirely quiet.
Victoria Palmer
Victoria Palmer lives in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in the Best 10-Minute Plays Anthology from Smith and Kraus, and she is an alumna of the 2021 Kennedy Center Playwright Intensive. Her plays Tea Spilling and Fault Lines have been produced in the DC/Baltimore region. Her work has earned support from Tin House, Storyboard, The Yale Writer’s Workshop, and Kweli’s Art of the Short Story. She is a 2025 Kimbilio Fellow and is working on a linked short fiction collection and a novel.