The Landlord's Daughter

On the last Friday of every month, Florence's landlord sends his daughter to collect the repairs list. It has been the arrangement since she moved in. A written list is left on the table, and someone who knows which of the old building's problems can wait picks it up.

In the first months, the visits last two minutes. The daughter stands in the doorway, reads the list, nods and writes in a small notebook. She is calm and practical, with paint on her sleeves and a screwdriver in her back pocket.

Then the visits begin to grow. One month there is tea. The next, there is a long debate about a radiator that knocks all night. In the spring, they sit on the kitchen floor to look at a stuck cupboard hinge and forget to look at it.

Florence has also noticed something about her own list. It keeps getting longer, while the problems on it keep getting smaller. Last month, item seven was "a sound in the hallway." The month before, it was "slight squeak, bedroom door."

She tells herself this is ordinary politeness. But a landlord's family is not an ordinary neighbor. If she said something real and it went badly, she would lose a friend and perhaps her home as well. And if the daughter were only being kind because kindness was part of the family business, Florence would rather not know.

On the day the renewal letter arrives, she sits down at the kitchen table to write the list. Her pen hovers over the line "squeak, bedroom door." She stares at it for a long time. Then she crosses it out.

The daughter arrives at four, reads the paper and frowns. "This is the shortest list you have ever written," she says. "One item."

"I've run out of repairs," says Florence.

"That's impossible. The bathroom fan has been rattling since March." The daughter hesitates. "And your bedroom door. I oiled it in April. And in June. And again in August."

"It keeps coming back."

"It does." The daughter looks at her notebook rather than at Florence. "I've been using a little less oil each time."

Florence stares at her. "You did that on purpose?"

"A bit. I didn't know how else to keep knocking. My father thinks I'm very dedicated to the building."

Florence laughs, then stops, because the next part is the serious part. She says that the lease is up for renewal and that she wants to sign it. She says she doesn't want to be the kind of tenant who is nice to the owner's daughter to protect her home. The daughter listens and says she has been afraid of the same thing from the other side. She does not want Florence to feel that her apartment depended on an invitation.

"Then let's separate the two things," says Florence. "The lease stays with your father. This is something else."

"I'd like that. I'll tell him tomorrow that someone else can collect the lists."

Florence takes the paper and writes in the margin, next to the crossed-out line: "Friday, 7 p.m. Dinner. The door may squeak." She hands it back.

The daughter folds it into her notebook. "I'll bring the oil," she says, "and leave it in the bag."