Mrs. Perry was a quiet thirty-something year old woman who lived with her rather shy husband on the North side of Milwaukee, better known as the “Inner Core”. They had a small apartment that most called comfortable in a time when jobs were scarce for everyone, but rare for blacks and damn near extinct for black men. The year was 1962 and no one had noticed exactly when the couple had moved in. It seemed as if they popped up one morning; first Mrs. Perry when she left at dawn one Tuesday wearing her maid’s outfit. Then Mr. Perry walked rather quickly out the side door of the shabby building late that evening and disappeared into the twilight.

They never seemed inclined to linger and talk to the ever present neighbors; sitting on the stoop, leaning against the door jam, lingering out front with cigarettes hanging loosely from jabbering lips. Mrs. Perry stood about five feet eight inches tall, she wore dresses that hid her form from the curious eyes of the fellows sitting around hoping for work to drive by and beckon. She displayed strength and purpose in her stride and had nothing to share but a tiny nod, sometimes accompanied by a nervous attempt to pull her collar up around her neck.

The apartment was cold in the winter and hot in the summer. It sufficed though; a tiny bathroom and a spit of a kitchen, but it kept them safe from the streets and trouble. Trouble was always around the corner as the world teetered and tottered more and more, so she was thankful for a door to turn a key in. Years dragged by slowly and folks just gave up on understanding the couple that remained distant and what some called, odd. She went out in the mornings, he went out in the evenings. They never attended the street parties in the summer, never sat and had a beer with the fellows, matter of fact, they were never seen out and about unless going to work or coming home.

The apartment staggered under the years. Cold came and went. Mrs. Perry held on to her job but her strides were not as long and strong anymore. Children grew into adults, some having children of their own. Old folks died, the community shifted and stretched and sidewalks were less littered with unemployed men as the industry picked up a little and factories started growing. Mrs. Perry kept her job and was proud of having gotten a new couch and a new stove over the years. Mr. Perry stopped going out, no one knew why but maybe he was just getting old like the rest. He too had started walking slower, lost his rigid back and thick hair. So the years rolled on through snow storms and noisy summers with cars filling the air with exhaust and blaring horns.

The apartment building was sold in 1990, and luckily with much protesting by the tenants and the mayor, the new owner decided to update and refurbish it slowly instead of tearing it down. There were a few people still there from the 60’s but they only knew that Mr. and Mrs. Perry lived in 12C and were an odd couple that were never seen out and about.

In June of 1994, the manager of the building knocked on 12C. He hadn’t received the rent and it was a week overdue. He kept knocking, intermittently yelling “Mrs. Perry!” Finally, he came back with a master key and opened the door slowly, pushing his head inside and calling to Mrs. Perry again. Doors opened quietly as the curious peeked out to see what the noise was about. The manager stepped inside but soon came rushing back out, his face pale, his eyes wide. The Coroner arrived shortly after the discovery of Mrs. Perry’s body on the couch. He stood around with the manager and the police officer as there was no sign of Mr. Perry. The closet had his clothes neatly to the left and Mrs. Perry’s neatly to the right. Shoes for both were lined up on the floor.

Mrs. Perry was wearing a pale blue house dress and a pair of Mr. Perry’s socks rolled down to her ankles. Her hands were clasped beneath her cheek as she lay curled up on her side. However the oddest thing of all, was the unmistakable growth of hair on her face, a stubbly grey beard, also the chest hair that was barely visible above the neckline of her delicate dress. RIP Mrs. Perry.