The Peephole

The morning sunlight poked through the gaps in the leaves, dancing in the wind, and tickled my eyes as it crept into the room. I quickly pulled the curtains shut, not wanting to give up my sweet morning sleep. After seeing the kids off to the school bus, I crawled back into bed. In that silent time and space, free from my husband and children, I fell into a deep slumber.

Between dreams, I felt as if someone was drifting in and out of the house. My body felt heavy, as if pinned down by a boulder. Then, a loud bang! I snapped my eyes open and listened. Heavy footsteps thudded up and down the stairs repeatedly. Irritated, I threw open the door in my pajamas. I was about to yell, “Keep it quiet!” but the sight of a man among the movers—his face polished and glowing with a deep tan—made me freeze. I pulled the door shut instantly.

The apartment in 3R had been empty for a long time. Was he the new tenant? Hoping he hadn't seen my disheveled morning look, I stood on my tiptoes and peered through the peephole. “Wow, he’s handsome.” His voice was low and calm as he told the movers to be careful. He sounded intelligent.

Among the movers, I saw Mrs. Smith, hunched over like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. She kept her head down, clutching the banister as she climbed, pausing on the second-floor landing. She tilted her head to the right, looking up as if checking the height of the third-floor stairs. After catching her breath, she slowly and heavily continued her ascent. Ah, right—it was the first of the month.

Once the new neighbor's furniture was all moved in, the building went quiet. I dressed a bit more neatly than usual and headed out for groceries. On the street, I ran into Irene, who lived in 2L, right across from my apartment. “Irene, did you see the handsome man who moved in?” “Yes! I saw a young man talking to the movers. He’s good-looking, isn't he? And did you see his furniture? It’s all expensive antiques.”

The thought of having a stylish new neighbor in my repetitive daily life was exciting. I kept my ears pricked and my eyes wide, trying to learn more about him.

Whenever I heard footsteps, I’d put my eye to the peephole. I’m short, so I eventually placed a small stool by the door to make it easier to look out. One day, as I was scouting through the peephole, Irene opened her door. She wore skinny jeans and a floral blouse that covered her thighs, her wrists shimmering with thin gold bracelets. She was dressed up for something. I opened my door. “Irene, are you going somewhere nice?” “We have a PTA meeting today.” “Oh my god, I completely forgot!” “I’ll go ahead. Get ready and meet me at the school.”

Irene is a Filipino immigrant with a curvy figure, bronze skin, and large eyes. She lives with her Polish husband, a son, and two daughters. Her children are tall and striking. She is so talented that she even speaks Polish with her husband. Their marriage story is fascinating: they met in the immigration line right after Irene arrived in the U.S. and got married two weeks later. They settled in Greenpoint, Brooklyn—a neighborhood with a large Polish community. Since we were both Asian, she had welcomed me warmly when I first moved into the building. As soon as our children started Pre-K, she invited me to join the PTA.

I rushed to get ready. Halfway to school, I realized I’d forgotten the supplies I was supposed to bring. “Irene, I forgot my things. Do you think I can borrow some from the school office?” She shook her head firmly. She explained that since we were there to help the teachers, we shouldn't be interrupting them to use their tools.

After school work, we often went to a nearby Polish restaurant to chat over pierogi and golumpki (cabbage rolls). “Did you hear about Mrs. Smith’s son in 3L?” Irene asked. “No.” “Mrs. Smith pays rent but hasn't lived there for a long time. Her son, who’s on drugs, used to come by and threaten her for money. He eventually went to prison. Now, she hides away, working as a live-in caregiver for the elderly, terrified he’ll find her when he gets out. But yesterday, he appeared at her door, knocking and lingering. He even knocked on my door to ask if I’d seen his mother. I told him I didn't know where she was.” “How could an only son treat his mother like that?” I sighed. “Who knows. But let's work hard at the PTA for our own kids. Oh, and did you hear? The new tenant’s name is James. He’s an interior designer.” “I knew it,” I replied.

If I were young and single again, I’d want to date a man like James—someone with deep, cool eyes and a lean, fit body. His minimalist style only made him look better. Later that night, I tossed back the red wine at the bottom of my glass like a vampire, staring into the empty cup and reminiscing about my romantic college days.

Back in high school, my father would sit at his piano when I came home. I’d tell him stories about school, and when he was in a good mood, he’d open his wallet to give me allowance and say, “Have a drink with me.” I’d sip from a tiny, pretty glass. My love for wine started with Majuang—the pride of Korean wine at the time. Except for my two pregnancies, wine has been the comma and period of my life’s sentences.

There were many reasons to drink. As a child, I drank because I hated my father for cheating on my sick mother. Before marriage, I drank because I was lonely. After marriage, I drank because of the hardships of life. Today, I drank because I felt sorry for my fading youth.

The hallway grew noisy. I looked through the peephole. My neighbors Michael and Sonia were standing there with James. Sonia was covering her nose. Oh no! I had been so busy drinking that I didn't realize the Cheonggukjang (fermented soybean soup) on the stove had boiled over, sending its strong scent into the hall. I tiptoed to the stove and turned it off, holding my breath until they walked away.

I had been so careful since James moved in, but the alcohol made me forget. Having a sophisticated neighbor isn't always easy; I felt self-conscious about the smell of Korean food and checked the mirror every time I stepped out. But when I ran into James a few days later, he flashed a brilliant white smile. He introduced himself and asked for my name. His kindness was as refreshing as a soap bubble.

One day, I visited Maria in 4R. She spent her days making quilts because she had trouble walking. Her eyesight was failing, so she waited for me to come by and thread her needles. In return, she made quilts for my children using scraps of fabric she’d saved since her youth working in a sewing factory. They were so old they would tear after a few washes, but she kept piecing them together like a puzzle, as if tracing her lost youth.

When she opened the door, her 100-year-old sewing machine was the first thing I saw. She bragged that it worked better than her 90-year-old body. Maria had come from a small village in Austria after WWII to escape hunger. She and her husband, Tony, worked tirelessly to save money to return home. But by the time they did, her mother had passed. Years later, her father was gone too. Eventually, with no family or friends left there, she could never go back.

She sat by the window overlooking the Empire State Building across the East River. She sighed, saying that while New York hadn't changed much since 1930, she was the only one who had aged.

Leaving Maria’s, I passed James's open door and stole a glance inside. His furniture was stunning—60s and 70s antiques. The whole building felt more dignified since he arrived.

Then I saw Mrs. Smith pushing through the heavy entrance door. I said hi, but she didn't respond. She covered her left eye with one hand and tilted her head away. I couldn't tell if she was looking at me or the wall. She was a "Rent Control" tenant who only came on the first of every month at 3 PM to pay rent. She would stay in her dark, electricity-free apartment for a few hours and then vanish. I always wondered what she did in there for hours.

That day, the first of the month, a piercing scream rang out. It was Mrs. Smith. Everyone ran into the hallway. She wailed that someone had broken in. Irene comforted her and took her into her apartment for tea. “My son found me a while ago and threatened me for money, so he was arrested,” Mrs. Smith sobbed. “But I don't think it was him or a typical thief. I didn't realize at first, but the room felt empty. Then I saw some small pieces of furniture were gone. I think there’s a thief in this building.”

Irene, being fluent in English and social, knew everything about everyone. She eventually moved to a larger house a few blocks away. When her children got into prestigious schools, I took over her role as PTA president. I often met her for advice, but my English was a struggle at meetings or when giving speeches. I started carrying a flask of whiskey in my handbag; a few sips acted like oil to a creaky machine, making my English flow. My kids got into good schools, too, but my drinking habit grew.

Meanwhile, James changed. He lost his job. I often saw him looking haggard. Loud noises started coming from his quiet apartment. He took in roommates and I saw him through the peephole carrying out his precious antiques to sell. There were fights and crying.

One day, I ran into him in the hallway. He looked like he needed comfort. He blurted out everything—how he lost his job, started hanging out at bars, met a woman, and followed her into drug addiction. “Do you remember when I first moved in?” he sobbed. “I want to go back to that time.”

Suddenly, social workers began appearing at Mrs. Smith’s door. She was finally moving back in because she was too old and sick to work anymore. But the building whispered that James had been the one stealing her furniture to pay for drugs. His own apartment was now empty. Unable to pay rent and shunned by the neighbors, James eventually had to leave.

I didn't hear from Irene for a while until she called, her voice sounding strange. We met at a park. Her usual bright face was frozen. We walked past shops, and even though it was time to cook dinner, she wouldn't go home. Suddenly, as she stared at the sunset, tears streamed down her face. She let out a gut-wrenching sob. “What’s wrong?” I asked, terrified. “My son died in a car accident.” I couldn't find any words. We walked in silence through the dark. She said she wanted something hot to eat, so we went to a Japanese restaurant. She buried her face in a bowl of shrimp udon. When we parted, my legs felt as heavy as if I were walking through a swamp.

I went home and downed a glass of wine. The blurry, foggy feeling comforted me. I remembered a story about an alcoholic in rehab who asked for nothing but apples. People thought he wanted to get healthy, but he was actually fermenting them into cider in his cell. That story felt too close to home. I drank for every reason—sadness, joy, rain, snow. I drank because my paintings looked better, or because I had writer's block. The excuses lasted longer than the wine.

Mrs. Smith never made it back to her apartment; news came that she had died. Her apartment was cleared out, and piles of high-end furniture sat on the sidewalk. It turned out she was a hoarder. She had spent her life as a maid, buying beautiful things for a future that never came. She had spent her life obsessing over possessions, only for them to be handled by strangers after she was gone.

Maria, watching from her window, beckoned me up. Unlike Mrs. Smith’s, her apartment was empty, save for that 100-year-old sewing machine. I found peace in her empty space. She wore a necklace with a button on it, which she polished like a medal. “If I fall, this button calls for help,” she told me. “But if it doesn't work, break the chain on my door and take me to the hospital. And after I die, you take the sewing machine and that mirror.”

The day Maria collapsed, her "savior" button remained silent. It wasn't until the next day that the door was broken down. She had fallen, and the sight was grim. The button she trusted so much sat mockingly on her chest, shining while she barely clung to life.

Irene’s son, Mrs. Smith, Maria—they were all gone. Is life just struggling through agony only to leave so emptily? I looked at my wine and felt a pang of bitterness. If I die early from drinking, my husband will just remarry and some other woman will enjoy everything I worked for. My mother died after years of illness, and my father’s new girlfriend and my sister-in-law ended up with her things. “It’s just their luck,” my father would say dismissively.

I told myself I had to quit for the sake of my sons. I covered my wine glass with a coaster and stood up.

One spring day, James reappeared. He didn't look like the same person. His face was gray and scarred, his teeth missing. He hurried toward the abandoned warehouses by the river as if he had a motor in his legs. Later, I saw him trudging back, stopping to nod off while standing up. He looked like any other homeless man. That was the last time I saw him. I still look out the window sometimes, hoping to see the healthy James return, but he never did.

Irene and I met a few more times. She started going to Atlantic City on the free bus to gamble, saying it was the only way she could forget her son’s death. She called me constantly to go with her, but I used my children’s college prep as an excuse. I felt guilty for not being there for her, so I drank more wine to numb the guilt. “Honey, you’re going to become an alcoholic,” my husband warned. “I’m not!” I snapped. But I promised to stop.

Without the wine, the gears of my life felt stuck. I missed that evening glass of wine the way people look forward to their favorite TV show. When my kids finally went to college, I called Irene. She sounded bright, saying she was busy at gambling tournaments in Las Vegas.

But one day, from a bus window, I saw a woman dressed in rags, leaning on a cane with a hat pulled low. It was Irene. I had seen her building listed for sale recently—had she lost everything to gambling? I called her repeatedly, but she never answered.

I look at my two sons. They are wonderful, healthy boys. To celebrate them, I pour another drink. “Mom, slow down,” my younger son says. “Mom, stop,” the older one adds, hiding the bottle. I see the sadness in their eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop.” But in the silence, I feel empty. I lie in bed and listen for James's footsteps from the floor above.

I tell myself I'll only drink after 5 PM. I check the clock constantly. Sometimes I wonder if I’m an addict, so I quit for two weeks to prove I can. “See? I’m not an addict,” I think, and then I go back to waiting for 5 PM. Alcohol is my fuel; it helps me get through the housework like Popeye’s spinach.

I’ve lost touch with Irene. I imagine her at a bus stop for Atlantic City, looking lost, like a woman I once read about in a magazine.

“It’s chilly today. How about some spicy squid and a glass of wine?” I coax my husband. “Sounds great!” he says. We laugh and drink, and people say we have a great marriage. But honestly, that "great marriage" is held together by the wine.

The wine did its job. Now I must do mine. I took my eye away from the peephole. I turned my gaze inward. There was no one left in the hallway, but in the silence of my own home, my own soul finally began to speak.