The Bulletin Said My Name

One cup, one chair, one button left to sew. I turn the radio up to hear another person breathe. The woman in Two-B leaves her shoes outside her door in pairs. I line my letters on the sill like someone might come upstairs. At ten, I wrote the Night Window show: “Do lonely habits make a life?” I never sent my last name. I never gave the street or floor. Police have linked three women, each discovered in a locked flat. Each had called the same night program. No further details have been released. The host had asked what lamp I used, what hour the neighbors slept. He called it gentle conversation. I told him more than I had meant. Then the bulletin said my name, soft as if it knew me well. Not missing, not in danger, just a story left to tell. The bulletin said my name before the police could know. And the voice between the numbers was the voice from the midnight show. The fourth woman mends a black coat. Her kettle has gone cold. Third floor, window facing east. One cup. Twenty-seven years old. My needle stops above the cuff. Headlights bleach the blind. A station van sits at the curb, its rooftop letters dark. I call the number on the radio. A tired woman says, “We’re closed.” Behind her, no bulletin is playing. In my room, he clears his throat. Three women said, “No one waits up.” Three addresses in his book. He did not choose them from the pavement. They invited in his voice. The bulletin said my name, then described the coat I wore. Not missing, not in danger, while his shadow crossed my door. The bulletin said my name, but one detail still was wrong: He called me the fourth quiet woman. He thought quiet meant alone. I do not call his hidden number. I do not whisper through the chain. I pull the red alarm by the stairwell and let the whole floor hear my name. Two-B comes out without her shoes. Old Mr. Hale brings half a chair. Seven doors turn seven witnesses. His private night is everywhere. The bulletin said my name, so I made the building say it. Nora Vale, third floor east, alive, awake, and not afraid. The bulletin said my name. Now the whole floor knows his face. He hunted women through their silence. We made his broadcast evidence. A late-night radio host was arrested outside Calder Street at two-oh-six. One cup. One chair. Seven open doors. The fourth woman is alive.