As soon as Harriet entered the building, she headed to the seventh floor.

It had taken her twenty minutes to enter the building, getting caught as she always did in the revolving glass door.

I remember the first time I saw her standing outside scowling up at the marble keystone over the door. With one hand on her hip and the other firmly attached to her wrist, I could read her thoughts like neon tattoos at a nudist camp: ignore the sign reading ‘Tradesmen Only’ and push her way into the lobby through the narrow wooden door or circumnavigate the spinning brass and glass behemoth that dominated the street-level entrance.

She raised her eyebrows, parted her lips slightly, scratched the left side of her forehead with a wayward index finger and charged defiantly toward the revolving door. That would have been the end of it except each time her claustrophobic glass prison cell approached the inside of the building, some ersatz college fullback would lunge forward and set her spinning past her destination, turning an express into a local. Even worse, she would rotate within inches of her stop when one-half a duo of stale wedded bliss would materialize, shot from the barrel of a divorce lawyer’s office and suddenly Harriett found herself imitating a partially coordinated Sufi dancer, whirling in place without benefit of clergy or therapeutic benefits.

But like all good girls who get around, eventually Harriett and her circular chariot came to a stop exactly where she thought she needed to be. She took two quick steps away from the revolving door just to be sure she was out of danger. She straightened the leather purse that she wore diagonally across her chest to guard against dips and muggers and headed toward the bank of elevators strewn against the back wall like mystery doors from a game show.

Harriett had to push through two score and ten of heavily bearded men in suits to get to the elevator buttons. Of all the particular days to come to this particular building, she had to show up an hour before a casting call for Rasputin lookalikes at the Feemstra Agency, Harry Feemstra, Proprietor, C.S.A., B.A., LLC. It wasn’t the breadth and depth of tonsorial excess that bothered Harriett, it was the musty smell that seemed to float up and out of the hirsute foliage.  It reminded her of her grandmother’s dumplings last Thanksgiving.

Somehow, she was alone in the elevator. Maybe because the sign outside read ‘Floors 7-15 ONLY’. Maybe because no man felt comfortable walking into an elevator with a woman alone. Maybe it had something to do with the little black dress and the curious way her shoulders kept her profile straight and level while her eyes scanned every corner.

Like the center headlight on a Tucker 48, peering into the darkness.

Her elevator car made it to the seventh floor as I came through the stairwell exit. The doors slid to each side and as always, she stepped only halfway out from either caution or fear. It didn’t matter which was true; they felt the same inside. A deep breath, then the sound of resin heels clicking on the marble beneath her shoes. Four steps forward, once again. Standing in front of the brass and onyx directory, once again. Reading slowly through the roster, once again.

700                  Office of Vital Statistics

701                  Arnold & Company, Certified Public Accountants

704                  Zeitgeist Appraisals

707                  Myrmecoleon Studios

She had gone through this pantomime of progress twice weekly for the last month. Once she found herself actually standing in front of the door she was looking for. And each time she went away, sometimes to a movie theatre where she slid into the cool semi-darkness with a small box of Sno-Caps she didn’t need and a feature film she wouldn’t remember.

One time she felt a little stronger so she walked to the Alta Strada restaurant fifteen minutes before they opened. Something in her eyes convinced the large friendly owner to let her in. A bearded waiter escorted her to a little booth near the pizza oven. She removed a paperback book from her purse, a quarto-sized volume with a black cover and a strip of white where the title was printed, and read as she always did in restaurants. The servers fought quietly over her because she was always so patient, tipped ferociously well and treated them as intelligent humans with senses of humor. If she noticed other patrons behaving badly, she would treat her server to a hilariously acidic character observation of the offender.

With transient acquaintances she was always a boon companion and a talented performer.

But this was Week Five and she knew she had to get this done.

People were waiting, reports were stalled, unplanned unwanted but not insignificant amounts of money were stuck in bureaucratic holding patterns.

Room 700.

She stood in front of the frosted glass door. I couldn’t see her face but I suspected she was reading the words silently, her lips moving slightly.

Suddenly her shoulders moved slightly back as she used one hand to push the metal bar forward. I could see her walk toward the counter, saw a young woman in a flowered blouse approach. They were talking. I couldn’t hear but I could imagine what was being said. Harriett reached into her purse and pulled her driver’s license from her wallet. Then two more pieces of paper that she carefully unfolded before handing to the woman.

The woman walked away with the license and the papers. While she was gone, Harriett looked around the office. Not carefully but rather like someone who wants to appear interested when they have their mind on other things.

When the woman returned, she placed Harriett’s items on the counter and pushed a piece of paper toward her to sign.

Harriett looked at the paper and then selected a pen from the glass Mason jar labelled ‘CLEAN’. She signed her name slowly and I could see her shoulders drop as she handed the paper to the woman behind the counter.

She picked up the manila envelope that seemed to have materialized on the counter and said thank you, good-bye to the woman as she turned and walked toward the glass door.

Harriett walked to the end of the hall with the envelope and stood, crushing the stiff paper in her fist, as she looked across the city. I watched as she pulled one of the papers from the envelope and then placed the envelope on the window sill. She looked down at the paper.

Certificate of Death

Name of Deceased

Date of Birth

Social Security Number

Race

Marital Status

Next of Kin

There was only one line she recognized.

She saw her name after ‘Next of Kin.’

She knew why it was there but she still hated it, screamed about it at night and wished she had never seen the paper.

But it was something that had to be done. Something she had to do and now she had done it.

I hadn’t been able to help her. And in one way, I knew it was all my fault.

But it was over now and we were both free of that building.

Harriett stepped into the seventh-floor elevator for the last time.

And me, well, I thought maybe a nice, quiet movie theatre somewhere would be a good place to go.