It was after the second burglary of my apartment on Tivoli Street that I finally decided moving was no longer a foul option but now an evil necessity. Albany, New York was never my favorite place in the world, and the owner of my twelve-apartment complex was a bit of a thief. Every year for eight consecutive years he had raised the rent while doing little or nothing to improve or even really maintain the place. The heating system was as iffy in winter as the air conditioning in summer, and he flatly refused to allow me to install any security devices for my ground floor dwelling. Once a year we got sprayed for roaches that seemed to have developed a taste for insecticides. I was finally looking for a place in earnest when a guy I used to work with, Rodger Wayne, told me his mother was leaving her apartment in his house and offered the place to me at a fair rent. I took one look at the rooms in the nearby Stockade district of Schenectady and accepted. That it was on the second floor of what had been a one family house put my mind at ease as far as thieves were concerned. Also, Rodger placed no restrictions on any improvements I wished to make. I purposely waited until late October to move in allowing my furniture exposure to three frosty nights to kill off any of the wild life that may had tried to move with me. By Christmas the hateful chore of relocation was complete, and I was comfortably installed in my new dwelling.

Rodger's house was a late nineteenth century structure that would have marked a fair amount of success for the owner in its day; perhaps a manager in one of the local factories. It was a blockish single family building that had, some time after its completion, acquired a modest rear addition. This was obviously the work of a handyman for though solid, the sloping roof and general slight taper to the add-on lacked the true carpenter's skill the rest of the house displayed. The house's front door led to the upper and lower hallways and was no longer used. The side porch gave way to a kitchen entry to the Waynes’ section of the house and a staircase, which had also been added much after construction, that brought me to my four rooms.

Green Street is an interesting neighborhood. Those who lived there would properly fit the description of lower middle class; people who worked for a living. These were the kind of people I'd grown up and spent my entire life associating with. As with all Easterners, they were reservedly friendly, rather boisterous and avid sports fans. They drank beer on their stoops in spite of the ban on doing so in public, fought at the drop of a hat, and loved to laugh. My kind of place, I thought as I settled into my sofa for Christmas Eve.

Having tried marriage for thirteen years, and living alone for all the rest, I'd learned that I greatly preferred the latter. My family had found me generally lazy, which may have been so. I felt I simply had other priorities. Tennis, for instance, was always a more pressing matter than the ankle deep grass, which my kids loved to play in anyway. More than once my ex had asked me how many bales I was trying to grow. Not having to mow or paint or repair made the chores seem more likable. I helped Rodger whenever it seemed appropriate, and he never attempted to stop me. Nor was he disposed to invading my solitary life. If I wanted to eat with them, or share a bottle, I was welcome. Tonight, I did not and was left to myself.

I had fallen asleep near the end of 'The Grinch Who Stole Christmas' and would have slept through the dawn had not the steam become oppressive. It was just past midnight when I awoke to find my entire apartment wrapped is thick clinging haze that made the far side of the living room seem ever so remote. My robe was damp and uncomfortably cold as I set out to solve this little mystery. In the bedroom, also shrouded in haze, I selected pajamas from the bottom of the drawer and took them with me to the bathroom. The shower was running, issuing a full blast of luke warm water, though it was set for hot, and the window in the room was wide open letting the frigid night air pour in. I shut the water off and closed the window before checking the doors to the place. All were secured, from my side.

Now personal hygiene is one of my few absolutes. Another is creature comfort. I have no particular desire to be cold so, though I might have left the shower running (and I was certain I had not), I would no more open a window in winter than take one of those much over rated ice cold showers, or suck on a lemon. Tis not my style. Finding no solution, I went to bed for the night. At a respectable mid-morning hour I carried a small package down stairs and knocked on my landlord's door. Rodger and his wife Annie were making ready for a reluctant visit to his in laws' for Turkey and trimmings. Annie had 'suffered' Thanksgiving at his parents and it was now his turn. Rodger, who absolutely never missed a meal, shrugged and smiled saying, "her mother's a better cook."

"There is that," I agreed as Adam, their five year old son, came running up to me, grabbed my hand and began towing me into the living room. insisting I help him with some of his presents. For reasons I've never understood, I don't mind children. I have never gone out of my way to befriend a child, including my own, and have some rather fixed thoughts on what their places should be. Kids seem to like that; knowing exactly where they stand. When they push (and all kids do from time to time) I push back, and they're generally content, for a while anyway. Adam is a super kid and, in a display of questionable taste, seemed never to tire of me.

We were just sitting down in a sea of new toys and games when he spotted the package I'd held behind my back and began demanding to know what it was and who it was for. "A used toy," I told him, "for some kid named Adam Wayne." His eyes lit up as I handed him the package. Inside (he took no time to notice the outside) Adam found the interlocking wooden puzzle my mother had given me when I was his age. Its score of lignum vitae pieces still formed a solid ball that held tightly together in spite of years of use. I well remembered my first encounter with the puzzle and caught his hand at the apex of his attempt to bounce the heavy sphere just as I had done forty years earlier. He was only momentarily dismayed to learn it was not to be treated as an ordinary ball and watched with semi controlled excitement as I slowly disassembled it into scattered pieces and then reassembled it to original form.

"Let me try," he demanded. After a few minutes' frustration he decided its primary purpose was to be rolled on the floor or tossed from hand to hand and soon dismissed it to show me other (undoubtedly better) rewards for being a good boy. Annie and Rodger looked on as I received an education in Lego toys, wooden trains and Convertibles. Several heaps of new clothing held as much attraction for him as they had for me at his age save one Cookie Monster tee shirt.

Half an hour later Adam and I were both tuckered out and he regained the puzzle sphere before we went to the kitchen. While he sat on my knee pressing and twisting at the toy I told the Waynes’ what had happened the night before and asked, half-heartedly, if they had any ideas. They had none and, I was convinced, probably believed I'd been a bit far in my cups and done it myself. The topic was dismissed and shortly so was I and for the time I simply forgot about it all.

It was well into the New Year before Rodger and I had occasion to speak. We work in the same building at the old American Locomotive Company, but rarely run into each other and the slight difference in our work hours managed to support this infrequency of meeting. I was in my front room watching the playoff games when Rodger called me on the phone and asked me if he could come up. Given the choice, I knew Rodger would be as avid a couch potato as I, and that having a family and owning a house were the prime impediments to this. I welcomed his visit, shoved a glass of Glenfiddich (his favorite) into his hand and engineered him into watching the game. For a while he sipped and watched with passive interest and finally asked who the guys in orange were. Mentally I petitioned the gods of the Denver franchise to forgive him before pushing the mute button on the control.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Ever figure out what happened with the shower and window that night?"

"I think I probably did it in my sleep," I lied. "Why?"

Rodger took a deep swallow and looked a bit uneasy. "I didn't want you to think my mother was a total fruit cake," he began. "I know I used to."

"And the point is?" I pressed, knowing I must be missing the best passing plays in recorded history.

"I used to until Christmas morning, Mark," he said looking at me for some response while downing the last of the amber liquid. Rodger is not a big drinker for one, and he always relishes good scotch. He sips it slowly and makes it last with a restraint I've never equaled. Silence provokes speech, I told myself as I set my glass down and refilled Rodger's. So do spirits. "Mom told me a few strange things happened up here," he went on. "I never really believed her. I figured she was getting old and a little forgetful. Like the time she said all her jewelry had been moved. I went with her to look and everything was in place. She insisted it hadn't been. Kind of daffy, you know?" I nodded.

"Anyway, she was convinced the place was haunted and moved out. Has anything else happened since Christmas?" he asked. No, there was nothing. He set aside his full glass and stood. "Well, if it does, let me know."

I promised I would and saw him to the door.