The View From Penthouse B (7 page)

I detected a signal between brother and sister, a prompt involving some point of etiquette. I saw her squint in a failure to understand, and then clarity dawned.

“Um . . .” she began. “I didn’t have a chance yet to say I’m sorry for your loss. Anthony told me last night about your husband.”

I said, “Thank you. It’s never too late to hear that.”

“Call me, Liv,” said Anthony. “And don’t do anything more lunatic than you already have.”

“It’ll be fine. Noel texted me. The baby’s still asleep. He’ll go to the office when I get to the apartment.”

And just when I thought he’d regained his composure, Anthony said, “Give him my congratulations. At long last, he gets a vagina that doesn’t leave for the office at dawn.”

“Isn’t that nice?” Olivia threw back. “Just what a dickhead says to his sister.”

“Someone’s gotta speak the truth,” he said. “Someone’s gotta say, ‘This can’t have a happy ending, no matter what your pheromones are telling you.’”

Olivia, already at the front door, returned. “Oh, really? Well, how about this, Mister Marriage Counselor: Noel’s father took him aside and said, man to man, ‘Does Davida make you happy?’ And when Noel just stared back all red-eyed, his father said, ‘Do what you have to do. Do it while the baby is too young to understand what a divorce is. And don’t tell your mother I said this.’”

Anthony said, “Even with my bullshit, doomed, bogus, illegal marriage, Dad said something like ‘Son, even if your heart’s not in it—and I’m not saying I want you to be a heterosexual—but I’m thinking of your vows. For better and for worse, under God, and all that . . .”

I didn’t have a brother, and even with all our sisterly fights growing up and our recent turns for the tragic, we weren’t a dramatic family. At 7:25 a.m. I was transfixed.

“Dad said that? Dad wanted you to stay married to that crazy Ecuadorian?”

“In effect . . .”

“Such a liar you are,” said Olivia, and with a kiss to each of her brother’s cheeks, she rushed away.

Professional Standards

A
NTHONY WAS EXPLAINING
to me why a service called Chaste Dates, screaming “abstinence,” was doomed out of the starting gate. What normal man, gay or straight, is going to agree to an evening at which any form of sexual activity is precluded from the get-go, he asked.

Did he not think there were normal men who—because of various personal setbacks or performance anxieties or extra pounds—could’ve reordered their social priorities?

Margot walked into the room at that exact moment and asked, “Like the chief executive herself?”

I said, “We’ve been over this, Margot. I’m not you and I’m not in the market.”

She made a grand sweeping gesture, a half curtsy, in my direction as she asked Anthony, “Have you met my sister, Queen Victoria?”

Her attention shifted abruptly with a ping from the sideboard, her laptop signaling that someone had entered the PoorHouse’s chat room.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, laptop under one arm, as she circled back for her wine glass on the way out.

Anthony next did what he often did during a lapse in the conversation—dropped to the floor to do push-ups. He was tireless about his athletic activities. His props were everywhere: a jump rope, hand weights, ankle weights, dumbbells. From the floor, he exhaled one word as if it were a whole depressed sentence: “Women.”

“What about women?”

Between breaths he asked, “May I be honest?”

I waited.

“Your sister has a website that gets one hit a week. And you have an imaginary dating service.”

“So?”

“I’m only speaking for myself, for what I might do.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“Shake something up! Get a loan! Advertise! Margot could get a publicist. Or blog on a site that would pay her and that had readers. Or get a book deal. Or—hate to say it—work outside the home.”

Did we not feel professionally inadequate enough without his holding a mirror up to our limited entrepreneurial skills? Was Mr. Advice himself employed? I managed to say “Tea?” to escape further discussion of anything. After a hundred push-ups, he was panting and sweating. I knew he’d say no to a hot drink.

I joined Margot in her bedroom to read over her shoulder. The latest entry, by someone with the screen name HardUp, was
Let him eat shit!!!!

“What’s that about?” I asked.

“Someone heard the lifer is getting special meals in prison. So, of course, we’re all guessing—kosher? Low fat? Atkins? Or just fancier than what’s on the menu. Also, Ruth is commuting between Manhattan and Boca, where she’s delivering meals to the housebound.” Margot consulted an open page of the
New York
Post
next to her laptop and read aloud, “With frequent pit stops in North Carolina to visit her jailbird hubby.”

“How many chatting tonight?” I asked.

“So far, three of us.”

I asked if she wanted me to log on and join the discussion. And should I recruit Anthony?

“You’re enough. Are you registered?”

I said of course I was. Give me two minutes and I’d jump in.

By the time I logged on from my room, the chat had gone silent. Margot yelled from down the hall, “Write something!”

I typed
Maybe he’s bribing the guards for better food!

HardUp wrote
w $$ he stol & hid!

I could see that no one proofread what he wrote and there was a shorthand I should learn. A visitor named SadDad added a string of symbols that I took to be epithets, then exited, signaled by a cute little sound effect of a door hinge squeaking.

Margot yelled, “You can leave now!”

I typed, in the spirit and letter of the culture,
have 2 go
. But I didn’t leave. I kept reading.

Alone @ last
wrote HardUp.

Anyone w/ u?
Margot wrote back.

Jess asleep
was his answer.

What about Thur?
Margot wrote.

Can’t wait
HardUp wrote back.

Who was HardUp, who was Jess, and who was Thur? I couldn’t ask Margot because she’d know I was spying and eavesdropping. But this much I could deduce on my own: HardUp and Margot met alone in cyberspace more often than I or any other chatter knew.

Inevitable, I suppose, given the way romance germinates in this century, that Margot would attract admirers among her following. Luckily, she introduced the subject by asking the next evening, over turkey meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and carrot coins, if we thought it was a bad precedent to have coffee with a person she’d met in a chat room.

“Depends on which chat room,” said Anthony.

“Mine. Where else would I be?”

“Man or woman?” he asked.

“Man. At least I think so.”

“Which screen name?” I asked.

“HardUp.”

“No clue there,” said Anthony, with a wink for me.

“Does he have a real name?” I asked.

“Roy.”

“He asked you out for coffee in front of everyone else?”

“He did ask, but in a private box. That thing that Anthony helped me set up.”

“IM,” Anthony explained.

“He could be a serial killer,” I said.

“Thank you, Grandma,” Margot said.

Anthony said, “You and I could go with her and sit at the next table like undercover agents.” He smiled. “Or we can sit in the squad car, and Margot can wear a wire.”

Before I could think of a comeback that demonstrated I was less of a wet blanket and perpetual Victorian widow than I was being portrayed as, Anthony added, “It’s not too different from Match.com or Nerve or OkCupid, sending perfect strangers out into the world.”

I said there were professional standards to consider. If the others found out Margot was dating one of their own, they’d think she was playing favorites. There might be some hurt feelings.

“What dating and what others?” she asked.

I reached back and came up with “SadDad.”

“Hmmm. Let me see. HardUp versus SadDad?” said Anthony. “No contest.”

Margot said, “I can see that no matter how many times I say ‘Roy,’ you two are going to enjoy calling him by his screen name.”

“Which says a lot about a person,” I argued.

“Have you ever laid eyes on this guy?” Anthony asked.

“He e-mailed me a photo so I’d recognize him at Starbucks,” she said.

“And?”
asked Anthony.

“And what?”

“Good-looking?”

“I didn’t form an opinion.”

Anthony said, “Translation: butt ugly.”

“I’m sorry I brought this up,” said Margot.

“Did you ever talk to him?” I asked. “I mean live. On the phone?”

“Once.”

“Who called whom?”

“He called me. But it wasn’t a personal call. He asked—sort of joking—if anyone in the five boroughs wanted to buy Girl Scout cookies, and if so, send an e-mail to thus and such address. I wrote him to say that I fully supported Girl Scouts and sold their cookies myself throughout my childhood, but it would be best not to use the website for commercial gain. He felt bad about violating the rule, so he called. I mean, I’m listed. You don’t need a gumshoe to find me.”

“Why is he selling Girl Scout cookies?” Anthony asked.

“His daughter is, so he’s helping. Nowadays, parents get involved. You know this phenomenon, right? Helicopter parents? Hovering over every little activity and every piece of homework?”

“Is he married?” I asked.

“That I don’t know.”

“Still, you’re having coffee with him,” I said.

“Did you ever know such a babe in the woods?” Margot asked Anthony. She tapped me on the wrist. “It’s
coffee.
Even if it was more than coffee, even if we were going out for a drink, for martinis, for mojitos, for—God forgive me—dinner, there are people around! I’m not going down any dark alleys. We are cohorts, fellow soldiers, victims. I think I can be friends with a man who’s married. Who knows? He might bring his wife along. Or his boyfriend! What do I know?”

Anthony said, “My money’s on him being divorced or separated, with joint custody of the kid, and the website makes him feel as if you’re friends and he’s ready for the next step.” I noticed a charitable tilt of his head in my direction, which Margot wasn’t interpreting.

“What?” she asked. “Just say it.”

He said, “Have you ever heard of those parties where single women invite their nonstarter ex-boyfriends so they can meet all the single friends? Like a rejects party?”

“No,” I said.

“I have,” said Margot.

“So what I was thinking was if you don’t feel any chemistry and this Roy is, in fact, available . . .” He now points at me, all subtlety abandoned.

I said—and how many times was I required to announce this?—that I was not looking for a boyfriend.

Anthony said, “Not a boyfriend.” He smiled. “Just a good time.”

“He’s actually right,” said Margot. “Your circle of friends seems to have shrunk to nobody.”

I asked, “Why would I be looking to make friends with an angry, penniless blogger?”

“A good time has nothing to do with friendship,” said Margot. “Jesus! A good time means—you tell her.”

Anthony said, “Recreational sex.”

I declared, in an effort to improve my image, “I can find my own recreational sex partners, thank you.”

“Some day we’ll tell Roy about this conversation,” said Anthony. “How we hemmed and hawed and practically took a vote on whether Margot should meet him in broad daylight for a cup of coffee.”

“This is New York City,” I said. “This isn’t Grover’s Corners. People leave their homes and are never seen again.”

“That’s a
no
vote,” said Anthony.

“What choice do I have,” Margot asked, “if I want my two boxes of Thin Mints and two of Do-si-dos?”

“My money says he’s already got a crush on you from your
très charmant
blog entries and that very nice headshot on your home page,” said Anthony.

Margot yelped, “Really? That was taken when I was, like, forty!”

I said, “I don’t think you’ve changed.”

“Me, neither,” said Anthony. “In fact, I think you look younger in person.”

Margot laughed, giving me permission to follow suit.

Anthony said, “Some great guy is going to come along and sweep you off your feet. You’ll see. You, too, Gwen. Both sets of feet. And neither one is going to be an adulterer or a penniless blogger or a serial killer.”

That was so Anthony, our optimist. Margot and I said we wished the same for him.

We’ll Never See Those Pearls Again

I
T ISN’T JUST CHARLES
who hovers and haunts from prison, but his mother, Lenore, who does so from Brandywine Senior Living in New Jersey. She declares in frequent phone calls that the money Margot lost was her son’s and therefore rightfully, morally, and every which way hers.

“Then what’s your point?” we hear Margot ask. “What part of zero would you like to collect?”

That is when her ex-mother-in-law changes the subject from bill collection to marriage vows. What, she demands, did Margot mean when she stood before God and said the words “for better or for worse” if not that she would swim alongside Charles when he found himself in hot water?

Margot was weary. She used to deliver a litany of her ex’s broken commandments, but now says only “C’mon, Lenore. You have to accept that your boy did some pretty unforgivable things.”

As Anthony and I eavesdrop, we can guess Lenore’s question because we hear Margot answering “
Why
is it against the law? Do you mean did he go to prison for personally inseminating patients? Not officially. But he was convicted of fraud and lying to a grand jury and”—she makes this up since Mrs. P’s legal knowledge is pitiful— “they got him on statutory medical rape.” She winks at me when she says this and I give her a thumb’s up. With a large dose of the entertainer in her, she is braver when her roommates are present.

We think Lenore is establishing a paper trail or perhaps is just bored because she writes weekly to Margot. Her letters maintain that Charles’s activities were not shenanigans but science. He was only trying to help desperate women get pregnant! If Margot had gone to the trial as she was supposed to, she’d understand that he had acted out of mercy. And surely Margot knows the pain of childlessness.