landlady knocked down, seriously injured

LACERATIONS AND CONTUSSIONS




Forty-four days ago

The landlady was mugged

And still she won’t

Allow any visitors.

The maid, the nurse, and therapist

Ascend the stairs like terrapins

Into the Queen’s lair again

And again. Messages are left

On the stoop; plucked by

Invisible time. She talks

On the phone, her voice

Is politic and controlled.

(The trembling is on the line.)

She’s still up there, fine.

The plumber still comes

And dumps out the pumps.

The newspaper drops in on time.

Upstairs, a shaken goddess.

Or is she up there?

Who’s in control this time?


May 1984

"Lacerations and Contussions" was first published in City Magic, 1987.

My landlady for the apartment on the bay was Mrs. Duval, and she was an engaging person who had led a fruitful life and been quite fortunate most of it. She was 85, so she was part of the generation before “the greatest generation” and had been born in the 1890s or early 1900s.

She was tiny, about five-feet-two and just over a hundred pounds, but she carried herself gracefully erect as a woman who had been quite attractive. Indeed, by her accounts, she had been married three times—all to wealthy men whom she had outlived. One had been an Argentine gentleman. The last one had been an hotelier and left her the apartment building in which we lived. She had plenty of money, so I think she rented out her apartments just to keep busy as she remained quite lucid and in charge of her affairs and enjoyed talking to younger people.  She had photo albums of cruises and marriages; these were available to those of us who inquired.

The apartment building was three stories and had no elevator. The first two stories held six apartments: one on each floor facing the street, one sandwiched in the middle, and the lucky one with a balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay. Mrs. Duval lived on the top floor by herself in what could be called a suite. She parked her Cadillac in a space labeled “Manager.”

She had been living in the apartment for probably twenty years, but was not aware how much the neighborhood had degenerated and how dangerous it was just a few blocks from the bay. One day she went out for ice cream and stopped a few blocks away at an ice cream parlor. Her Cadillac was like a sign saying “I’ve got money; mug me.” As she left the parlor, a car pulled up behind hers, so she couldn’t back out. She should have just sat in the locked car and honked her horn until people came to see what was going on, but instead, she stepped out to give the people in the blocking car a piece of her mind. Two men jumped out of the car, knocked her down and grabbed her purse. She fought back, so she got banged around and scraped her arms and legs when she fell. She wound up in the hospital for a couple days, and we didn’t see her for almost two months.

Here are some books about crime in Miami: