March 1st.
The demolition was scheduled for June. The developer had pushed back the date – permits, delays, something about asbestos.
Maya read the email from Ms. Chen three times.
Dear Tenants,
The demolition of 447 Franklin Avenue has been rescheduled for June 15th. Please ensure that all personal belongings have been removed by that date. The cash-for-keys payments will be distributed on June 1st.
Thank you for your cooperation.
June. Four more months.
Maya called Mr. Delgado. "The demolition is delayed. You have until June."
"I know. The developer sent a letter."
"Are you still leaving in March?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"Mr. Delgado –"
"I'll decide when I decide."
He hung up.
---
Maya went to the studio. She picked up her pencil.
She drew the building. The front door. The mailboxes. The stairs. The roof.
She drew Mrs. Patterson's apartment. The kitchen table. The folding chairs. The game show on the television.
She drew the garden. The buckets. The stakes. The tomatoes. The basil.
She drew the water tank. The painted eye.
She drew until her hand cramped. Then she drew some more.
---
Leo came home to find her asleep at the desk.
The sketchbook was open. The pencil was on the floor. The desk lamp was still on.
He picked up the pencil. He looked at the drawings.
She had drawn him. His hands. His eyes. His face.
He touched the page gently.
"Maya," he said.
She woke up. "What time is it?"
"Late. Come to bed."
She stood up. Her back ached. Her neck ached.
"I drew you again," she said.
"I saw."
"You're still moving too much."
"I'll try to be still."
She took his hand. They went to the bedroom.
---
The next morning, Maya found a letter under the door.
Not an email. Not a text. A letter. Handwritten.
She opened it.
Dear Maya,
I'm leaving for Ohio on March 15th. My daughter bought me a ticket. She says she has a room for me. A guest room. With a window that faces south.
I've lived in Brooklyn for sixty years. I don't know how to live anywhere else. But I'm going to try.
Thank you for fighting. Thank you for not giving up. Thank you for being the daughter I never had.
— Mr. Delgado
Maya read the letter three times.
Then she went to the studio. She drew Mr. Delgado. His cane. His tired eyes. His thin shoulders.
She drew him standing in the lobby, leaning on his cane, looking at the mailboxes.
When she finished, s
he folded the drawing and put it in an envelope.
She wrote his daughter's address on the front.