Back in the day, well, sometime in the 1980s when Ronald Reagan was as far-out and far-right a president that the human mind could contemplate, you could still afford to rent your own apartment in Park Slope, and not shared with 15 other roommates, even though you were neither the employee nor scion of a hedge fund. 

I was living on 7th street between 5th and 6th avenues. It wasn’t a fancy hipster neighborhood then, and, as hard as it is to believe, we were young then too and probably the hippest thing happening. There was the El Faro supermarket and PollyO the Italian deli, and the Save on Fifth discount store. It was many years before the emergence of the neighborhood’s plethora of barristavilles, artful cui$ine spots, and cool bars. 

At the time, I had just left a public affairs and marketing writing job at the local hospital (then known by some wags on our team as the Park Slope Body Shop) and was freelancing for a number of film, engineering and trade mags. So, essentially, life was good. My apartment was the first floor of a brownstone; the owners, an older Italian American couple and their grown sons, lived on the upper floors.

The husband of the couple grew tomatoes and basil and enjoyed his occasional chianti, which reminded me a lot of my maternal grandfather who had passed away shortly before I moved to this new place.

One day, after I had been living in the building for a year or so, the elderly husband passed away rather suddenly. My girlfriend at the time, the Art Director’s Daughter, and I had spoken to the sons earlier in the day and their father’s death was unexpected. On the first night of the wake, the family left in the early afternoon and informed us that they would not be returning until much later in the evening. We were planning to pay our respects the following night. 

It started at around 7 pm. Footsteps. Nothing but footsteps, loud and clear, walking the length of the brownstone apartment above us. A constant pacing that started near the front door, walked to the opposite end of the house, turned, and walked back to the door. Slowly, methodically, and unmistakably. 

My radio was on and, at first, I could hear this strange pacing only intermittently. But it eventually made its way into my consciousness as the Art Director’s Daughter and I were preparing an evening meal. I turned off the radio. My neighbors upstairs had no pets of any kind, so that wasn’t what we were hearing. A chill went up and down my spine as I listened to the mysterious, relentless pacing. Finally, I went upstairs to knock on the door, but of course no one answered. I could not see or hear anyone (or anything) through the door. 

Since it was clear no one was ransacking their apartment, there was nothing much else to be done. But when I returned downstairs, there it was again. Footsteps. Loud and clear. As a distraction, we turned on some music. The Art Director’s Daughter (she happened to be a Red Diaper Baby) was a big fan of the Weavers and Pete Seeger. We cranked up some of that beneficent, positive vibe, good time, hammer and sickle saluting, axe-chopping of Bob Dylan’s cable amplifier, music and had another glass of wine.

Between the wine and the Weavers, we distracted ourselves until the pacing either stopped or we took less and less notice of it. A few hours later, when the family returned from the first night of the wake, we decided to mention the strange noises above, just in the unlikely event that someone had in fact broken in through a window.

The older son looked at us quizzically but went upstairs to look around before his mom got out of the car. Nope. Everything was as it should be. “Maybe it was a sound from next door through the walls” he offered good naturedly. He could tell we were a bit creeped out and was very cordial. He appreciated that we were looking out for things while they were out.  We apologized for unnecessarily raising a concern, but he said, ‘No, don’t worry about it, I am glad that you let me know.”

But, just as floors in old houses can creak when you walk on them, I was sure that the old man had returned for a final visit and was looking to see if he could recall where his wife had hidden the chianti.

Speak, memory!

***

Anthony M Napoli is Brooklyn born and bred, and only moved up to Beacon, NY (aka “Brooklyn on the Hudson”) after retiring as a business operations manager and analyst with the NYC Department of Education.