Some background

Here is part of In Flight that was edited out. A little character development, part of my desire to understand what made Marta tick.

“Tell me something about your family,” Vasilli said.
In response, Marta leaned back in her seat and scowled at him.
“Okay, never mind. Tell me about your life in New York,” he prompted. “I told you about how I came to live in America. Tell me your story.”
“Okay, you want the sorry tale of my introduction to New York? When I first arrived, I stayed in a rooming house near 42nd Street. It was horrific – noise, bugs, rats, shootings outside - and this guy at the reception desk told me he knew a place for rent, that he’d help me get a decent place. But he wouldn’t take me there without something in return. That was the first time I had to make that trade. It got easier. Does that shock you?”
Although he squirmed in his chair, Vasilli shook his head. “Is that what you are trying to do? To make me uncomfortable?” he coughed. “Go on. Tell me your story. The real story. I want to hear that.”
Marta gazed at him for a moment, considering his request, before she spoke again. Her voice became low and choppy, as if she was reading a story about someone else’s life. In a way, she was – Marta felt herself disengage from the memories she revealed until they felt like a movie she’d watched once, long ago, or a play on an off-Broadway stage. She could see the scene in her mind as she described it to Vasilli: The room she rented from a couple of sisters living in an enormous ground floor apartment on Morningside Drive, which was probably one of the most dangerous parks in the city at that time. The two elderly sisters.
Marta lived with them for three years, in a small back bedroom that looked out on an air shaft. The apartment had five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two sitting rooms, a formal dining room and a library that was darkly paneled and filled with leather-bound classics it would take a lifetime to read. Marta spent hours in that room, reading, studying, while other borders came and went without making an impression on the reclusive law student.
The sisters had two rules – no visitors of the opposite sex, and no smoking. A list was posted in the kitchen of all the little things that “reasonable people” were supposed to respect. Like washing out the tub, cleaning your own dishes, wiping down the countertop. Never leaving an empty toilet paper roll, or putting unwrapped “female things” in the trash. The only thing the sisters asked was for the roomers to join them for tea every Sunday afternoon in the front parlor. Mostly Marta was the only one who would sit with them. They served those little English Pym biscuits and they’d use the real tea set, with china cups and silver tongs for the sugar cubes.
Marta paid almost nothing to rent that room, which was ideal since she had nothing to spare. She ate salad picked up from a corner deli, cramming half of it in her mouth before going to the scales at the checkout counter. Once a week, she might have a burger, just to get some protein. In the beginning, Marta worked at the library, shelving books and answering questions, working on her English by listening to tapes and eavesdropping. When she got her degree and first job, Marta stayed on with the sisters for a while as she saved up some money to get a nice place. They were starting to fail, starting to depend on her too much, so she realized it was time to move on. They eventually had to have nurses living in, taking care.
“The last time I heard from them,” Marta paused. “I’m not sure. I think I did see an obit just a little while ago. They both lived to be in their 90s. I wish…No, not that I’d kept in touch. I couldn’t help them, and they encouraged me to go out on my own.” She sighed. “I just wish I knew what happened to all those books.”