The View From Penthouse B (3 page)

Margot saw this. She added, “We’ll be good for each other. I’ve always secretly envied you and Betsy sharing a room.”

Betsy laughed. Even when Margot went to college, she fought to keep her bedroom sanctified and empty for her visits home.

I said, “It’ll be temporary. A few months?”

“Why go and set some arbitrary deadline?” asked Betsy. “This could work out beautifully for all sides and all pocketbooks.”

Margot said, “Maybe she’ll get sick of me. Maybe after your last child goes off to college, Gwen will be ready to move in with you and Andrew.”

“That sounds about right: I’ll go from sister to sister till I die, young and unexpectedly.”

Margot explained to Betsy: “What happened to Edwin—it makes her feel doomed herself.”

Betsy reached across the table and took my hand. I knew what was coming: the speech about life’s possibilities. She began, “I know you don’t like to hear this, and I know you think it’s too soon to imagine that one day . . . someone—”

Eyes closed, I shook my head to stop her. I had no appetite for what I knew she was about to say, that my life wasn’t over. And by “life” she would mean one lived in the company of a man or men.

“Later, Betsy,” said Margot. “She needs time. I’ll remind her occasionally that she’s still alive.”

I slept at the beautiful Batavia that night, not in the second bedroom but on the other half of the king-size bed that Margot had brought from the marital home in New Jersey, hoping that one day she’d need something expansive. Because of her large wardrobe of nightwear and spare toothbrushes, I didn’t stop at home first. We stayed up talking past midnight, Margot confessing what she thought were the bad habits and rituals that I might find annoying in a roommate. Not one was unfamiliar or discouraging. I offered a few feeble warnings of my own, that I’d leave dishes in the sink and lights on; that I had insomnia, a dry cough; still wore my retainer at night and was apt to leave it—

“Not one a deal breaker,” she said, and reached across the broad expanse of mattress to pat my pink satin–clothed forearm. It was kind of her not to make me admit my most obvious shortcoming: I would be a sad roommate who couldn’t be counted on for any fun at all.

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W
E DO GO OUT
—Margot to dinner parties hosted by friends who understand she can’t afford to reciprocate, and I to free museum nights and occasionally, still, to my widows’ support group at the Y. Otherwise, Manhattan is beyond our budgets, with its double-digit appetizers and skimpy wines by the glass that cost three times as much as whole bottles from Trader Joe’s. For a woman who can be counted among the bereaved (marriage over, brother-in-law deceased, money gone), Margot excels at keeping both our chins up. She announces almost gleefully every novel down-market activity she engages in. Last January, for example, her New Year’s resolution was to read supermarket circulars, scissors in hand. It opened up a world she hadn’t ever entered—double and triple coupons. I told her about the bruised-fruit-and-vegetable shelf that some stores offered, where a barely shriveled Holland red pepper or wilting head of radicchio, ordinarily beyond us, could be had for ninety-nine cents. She was amazed to learn that if you get on a bus after you’ve paid for a subway ride, it’s considered a transfer and deducts nothing from a MetroCard.

We have a terrace and roof garden at the Batavia, open to all, frequented more often under dark of night by me, who doesn’t want to chat with strangers about why I’m here. There are miniature victory gardens up there, necessitating an honor system among residents when the tomatoes are ripe and the basil luxurious. There are picnic tables, lounge chairs, fire extinguishers, hoses for watering the plants, and signs everywhere posting admonitions per the FDNY about a ten-foot clearance between building and briquettes.

Margot feels proprietary toward the space because it is practically outside the penthouse windows. Just for a change of venue, even when it’s chilly, we cook there. If there’s an unseasonably warm evening, we take our hot dogs or ground chuck to the roof at an hour when most have already eaten and left. Hovering in the lighter-fluid-scented air is always the question: How long before someone notices and complains about my unofficial occupancy? I worry about Margot’s across-the-hall French-speaking neighbors in penthouse A with whom we share an umbrella stand, and the strange man below us in 12 D who has mentioned on more than one occasion that he hears an extra set of footsteps in the night. “Someone not sleeping well?” he likes to ask just as he steps off the elevator.

Margot thinks I’m worrying too much. After one particularly unfriendly
bonjour
from Madame LaPlante across the hall, I asked, “What if someone writes a letter to the board saying that money is changing hands in penthouse B, against co-op rules?”

Margot was at her laptop. She paused, took a deep, long-suffering breath, and said, “We’ve been through this. I was on that board. I’ve participated in discussions about illegal boarders and lingering guests. And you know what always makes it okay? Our collective social conscience. Someone always grouses, ‘What is this, Park Avenue? We’re the
Village.
Emma Lazarus lived on this street!’”

“In that case,” I said, “why not just come clean and make me official?”

She rose and headed for the kitchen with her empty mug. “Too late,” she called over her shoulder. I followed her and asked why.

“If I said you were paying me rent, I’d have to renege on what I already told them.”

“Which was what?”

From the open fridge, her back to me, she murmured, “You won’t like it.” She opened the spout of the milk carton, sniffed it, and handed it to me for a second opinion.

“‘What did you tell them?” I asked again.

“I told them that money does
not
change hands. That you don’t have any; that I was taking you in, not charging rent, doing all of this out of the goodness of my heart because otherwise you’d be homeless. Of course they knew I didn’t mean
homeless
homeless . . .”

I said, “That is a very depressing label to stick on someone, especially when it’s not true. Wasn’t it enough to just say, ‘She’s my sister’?”

“I’m sorry,” said Margot. “But all they have to do is take one look at you to know you’re not penniless or pathetic.” She paused. I sensed a turnabout coming. “Like your big sister, the divorcée and pauper,” she added.

Then it was my turn to say something soothing. We often ended a conversation this way. One of us would sound a morose note, and the other would try to staunch the leak of self-esteem. A joke, a compliment, a summary of attractive traits. As kids, we never got along this well.

Here was the beginning and end of my entrepreneurship. I finally took a little leap with my alleged agency, announcing Chaste Dates on Craigslist. My first and—as it turned out—last client made what he called “an appointment” the same day the ad appeared. His caller ID said “private,” and his voice was clipped. In person, at a well- regarded Midtown steak house of his choosing, he seemed in a hurry and wasn’t answering my questions about where he lived and worked. Noting that his hands were tanned except for the white skin circling the fourth finger of his left hand, I asked if he was married. His answer was “No . . . Well, I was. I’m recently divorced but had”—he looked down at the telltale pale flesh—“a hard time with the, um, final, um, separation. I wore my ring on a fishing trip recently. It was sunny the whole time.”

I looked down at my own wedding ring, switched just this one night to my right hand.

“Is dinner really necessary?” he asked.

“Aren’t you feeling well?”

“I just was hoping to get onto the main course.”

I pointed to the list of entrées under “secondi” on his open menu.

“What about
your
menu?” he asked. “What are we talking about, pricewise?” Then he added, in the least flirtatious voice that ever employed the phrase, “I find you very attractive.”

Having been warned a dozen times by my sisters that I’d better be ready for exactly this kind of misunderstanding, I lowered my voice to the level of the hoarsely insulted. “Are you talking about prices for things done in a bedroom? Because if you are, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

He said, unperturbed, “Your ad’s under escort services, isn’t it?”

I said—Margot and I had role-played this exact situation—“First of all, the ad was only meant to be a soft opening. I wanted to test the waters, to see if there was any market out there for an evening of innocent company that is in no way sexual. I would’ve put
that
in the ad, except even that’s in bad taste. Furthermore, what did I ask you about your potential date?”

He said he didn’t remember.

“Then let me remind you: I asked your age, occupation, and hobbies, and whether it matters to you whether a dinner companion shares your interests or roots for your teams. I also asked whether you were a vegetarian or an omnivore. If we were that other kind of business, I think I’d be asking you—I don’t know this from experience—about your physical preferences in a partner, wouldn’t I? Hair color, breast size, skin pigmentation?”

My dinner companion looked at his watch, then gave the knot of his tie a twist, loosening it an inch, which I took to mean
This
is
merely dinner. I’m off duty now.

“Are you really a golf instructor at Chelsea Piers?” I asked.

“Off the record?”

“Of course.”

“I am
not
a golf instructor at Chelsea Piers.”

“Are you in a line of work where you wear handcuffs?”

“Wear? I’d say no.”

“I meant are they on your person?”

He said, after staring for a good long time, “Yes.”

“Are you a policeman?”

That made him laugh. I reminded him that we were off the record. What was the harm in telling the truth?

After another longish stare, he said, “Vice.”

I said, “Wouldn’t the world be a better place if you put your energy into saving children from abuse and making sure they got breakfast and a hot lunch?”

“No question.”

As stipulated, he picked up the tab. I try to avoid red meat, but this night I felt obliged to order the porterhouse and two glasses of a pinot noir that were seventeen dollars apiece. Sergeant Mulvaney said, raising his glass of Coke, revealing a shamrock tattoo on the inside of his right wrist, “I have a thought. My father is a widower, and a sweet guy, but he can’t afford these prices. Do you ever—just for fun—match up a single gent with someone nice, say Catholic, a good housekeeper—someone whose kids aren’t messed up?”

“He’s how old?”

“Late sixties. Good shape. Great guy.”

I said, “No, I’m retiring.”

He said, grinning—and I’m quite sure joking—“But it’s always good to do a favor for a cop.”

“Most people would say, ‘Sure. This is how one succeeds in legitimate matchmaking. Maybe you’ll send me a rich uncle.’”

“And what do
you
say?”

“In over my head,” I told him.

Margot was fascinated. I had to repeat the evening’s conversation practically word for word. “You should have told him our outlaw story,” she said. “They love when the bad guy gets caught and is paying his debt to society.”

She meant Charles. I didn’t correct her, didn’t say “that would be
your
outlaw story” because by this time we held joint custody of each other’s tribulations. I said, “Not in this situation, not with someone on the alert for crime. The law enforcement part of it would have been okay, but the rest? It would’ve brought us back to the topic of sex.”

Margot said, “I’ve never known anyone who thinks so much before she speaks. I’m the opposite. I say, ‘Hello, nice to meet you, my ex-husband is in prison and I lost all my money in a Ponzi scheme!’ I can’t help it. It just comes tripping off my tongue. And no offense, but what comes tripping off your tongue is ‘Edwin this and Edwin that. He was born missing a part of his heart.’ Men don’t find a late husband such an interesting topic.”

We then role-played. Margot said, “Pretend there’s a lapse in the conversation. You say, ‘I have an interesting situation in my own family: My sister’s husband was an obstetrician specializing in getting women pregnant, but it was more like a one-man sex ring.’ Say that. And say ‘gynecologist.’ Guys love that. You can’t lose. It’s riveting, and while it appears that you’re talking about Charles, the guys will pick up on the subtext.”

“Which is what?”

“Fucking,” said Margot. “No matter how you spin the inseminating, they’ll find it a little stirring.” She was staring at me now in an appraising fashion. She asked if I realized that I visibly shuddered when she uttered the word “sex” in the context of conversation with a potential date.

“Do not,” I said.

“Do, too. And I’m going to work on the other words that also render you silent.”

“Such as?”

“Death. Dying. The month in which it happened. The
year
in which it happened. And one more time: sex.”

“Why bother?” I asked.

She said that she and Betsy had talked after our last dinner. Not that they were worried . . . not that I was a drag to be around. But they had talked about something that she, the live-in sister, could work on to desensitize me to several words and concepts.

“To what end?” I asked.

“Normalcy,” she said. “Progress. Moving forward.”

“It was situational,” I told her. “Having dinner with an undercover cop set me back a few months. What was I thinking? That I could be a G-rated madam?”

Margot shook her head. “We have to move forward, both of us. What if I was stuck in the past, crying every day about my stolen money? I’d be figuring out a way to break into prison and commit murder.”

Crying every day?
All she did was exaggerate. She wasn’t going to murder Bernard L. Madoff. There, I’d said it. I’d pronounced the name aloud. How’s that for a start on desensitizing? Let’s stop the psychoanalysis and the drama. I didn’t need it. I didn’t cry that often anymore.