Page 37 of Demo
I try to remember the moments and hours after the shooting, and how I came upon Celia Stewart. She told me she lived across the street from where the shooting took place. Standing on the street now and looking at the modest Colonial with dirty white siding, a crooked shutter hanging from the far left window and crinkled blinds covering the insides of the windows, I really don’t want to go knock on the front door.
But I do.
I knock a few times, wait, and then knock some more. Louder this time. I can hear movement inside; I assume the sound of someone slowly making their way closer to the door. After what sounds like the unlocking of more than one deadbolt, the door creaks open a few inches, but the chain lock remains intact.
The face of a middle-aged woman peers around the door. She is petite and several inches shorter than me. She has day-old makeup on her puffy face and her hair is falling out of a knot on the top of her head. Her arms are crossed around her middle, holding a bulky sweater closed.
“Can I help you?” she asks, and her voice surprises me. It’s soft. Kind. It doesn’t sound like it belongs to someone who looks like she’s been partying like it’s 1999 all night long. She stares at me for a beat, waiting for me to respond.
“Yes, sorry! Um, is this … Does Celia Stewart live here?” I ask.
She looks genuinely confused as she slowly shakes her head side to side and curves her lips downward.
“Huh.” I look around, not sure what I am looking for. “About three months ago I talked to her, and she said she lived here.”
The woman unwraps her arms, places one hand on the door, resting the other on her hip. Her sweater falls open, revealing a long sleep shirt with Charlie Brown characters on it.
“We moved in about a month ago. I don’t know anything about the previous tenants,” she says politely.
“We?” I ask.
She looks at me with athat’s none of your businessface, but then replies, “My boyfriend and I.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your day. Sorry to bother you.”
I start to turn away as she closes the door, but then I hear the chain rustle and the door reopens, wider this time.
“But if shewasthe person living here before us,” the woman continues, “she left some goods behind.”
I pull my brows together.
This time it’s her who looks around, then she re-wraps her sweater around her body and re-folds her arms. “We found drugs stashed in a couple places throughout the house. In the back of the fridge, under a squeaky floorboard, even in the water tank behind the toilet. Looked like crystal meth.”
I glance down, and she answers my unspoken question.
“I tend bar downtown, along with Pete, my boyfriend. We’ve both been behind the pine for a lot of years. We’ve seen it all. We know what that shit looks like. And, for the record, we stay away from it.” Then she gives a half-laugh and shrugs. “We prefer booze.”
Figuring there is nothing more this woman can do for me, and thankful for her insight, I start to back up. “Thanks again for your time.”
I begin heading down the steps but stop when she blurts out one last piece of information. “Try the shelters.” I look at her, head cocked to the side.
“The shelters,” she says. “If this person you’re looking for is into what I think she is, she’s probably spent all her rent money on blow. I’d try the homeless shelters downtown.”
I ponder that for a moment. “Thanks again.”
“Bring some Lysol,” I hear her say as she backs into the house. “Those places are filthy.”
***
There are a few shelters in the city and it takes me time to locate them. I had to go through the Department of Social Services, which is about as user-friendly as a chop saw without the safety engaged.
I finally found an address, and here I am at one of the sites. But I haven’t had any luck.
Another shelter isn’t too far from this one, so I start heading down the street in that general direction. When I get there, I am equally as surprised to learn it isn’t hard to gain access. I just walk right in. I walk up and down the rows of cots, having no luck.
Just as I am about to call the whole mission a wash, someone catches my eye. Entering the room of the gymnasium with only a grocery bag holding a few items, is a young pale woman. She has the same medium build and the same wavy, dark brown hair down to her shoulders. But I’m not sure it’s her.
I make my way to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She startles a bit when I speak. “Celia? Celia Stewart?”
