My family is not at all pleased to hear about my newfound building in Brooklyn, or my trip there. They’re so upset that I don’t even tell them the part that would make them happy—that Jeremy and I are now engaged.
Instead, I just listen as they point out that I don’t know anything about real estate, that I haven’t ever even seen Brooklyn, that this bequeathment is from a woman who at best had shown herself to be a possible crackpot (this was from Natalie, who saw Blix’s mind meld while we were waiting for Noah to arrive for the wedding) and at worst, was a psychopathic meddler who is trying to involve innocent people in her shadowy real estate deals (this from my father, who said he knows the ways of the world).
But I stand my ground with them, and here I am three days later, landing at JFK International Airport, waiting for a shuttle to take me to the subway, then trying to use an app on my phone to figure out which subway would get me to Park Slope, Brooklyn. Apparently I am supposed to find Grand Army Plaza. Which I totally will do. I can do this city thing when I have to. I have been to San Francisco many times, thank you very much, so I can certainly find my way around a city that has a grid. And no crazy hills.
My mother keeps texting me:
Did u land yet?
R u keeping safe?
Do NOT ride the subway!!!!!!!! My friend Helen Brown says it’s VERY dangerous.
Alas, the shuttle never comes, and a woman in a brown coat, juggling a toddler and a baby, tells me that I don’t want to take the subway from the airport anyway—“You’ll be on there forever, trust me; you should go stand on the taxi line instead!”—so that’s where I go, and sure enough, all the New Yorkers there seem to be also heading to Brooklyn. Led by a man in a black knit cap who seems to be part of a comedy team and who makes jokes out of the side of his mouth in a gravelly voice, they’re all having fun complaining about the slow service, the fact that it’s starting to rain, and also arguing about whether or not the Mets are going to win the World Series. A woman with a blue streak in her hair lines up behind me, bumping into my arm as she juggles her suitcase, then shoots me a brief apologetic smile.
Just then my mom sends a screaming text, all in capital letters: OH GOD! WATCHING THE NEWS. SOMEBODY GOT STABBED IN A CLUB LAST NITE IN NYC. DO NOT GO TO ANY CLUBS!!!!!!!!!
I turn off my phone quickly and put it back in my coat pocket. And then I do the little concentrating thing I do—the thing that makes stoplights turn green and taxis show up, and suddenly it’s my turn for a cab.
It works everywhere.
Brooklyn, just like San Francisco, is so overcrowded that the cab is forced to meander its way in traffic inch by inch. The driver is practically comatose with indifference, and finally, after he has had to slam on his brakes for three bicycles as well as swerve around another car that suddenly just parks in the middle of the too-narrow street, he drops me off at the address I gave him and tells me that I owe him eighty-seven dollars. He seems quite serious about it. Which is so ridiculous that I can’t think of anything to do except pay it. He says thank you, helps me with my suitcase, and then drives off. For a moment, I stand, dazed, on the sidewalk, looking around me.
Supposedly I’m at the law office of Brockman, Wyatt, and Sanford, but the only signs visible are for City Nails (mani-pedis are twenty-five dollars, a good price) and Brooklyn Burger (now with gluten-free buns). The whole street smells like hamburgers cooking, along with a load of garbage festering near the curb, and the strong perfume of an angry-faced woman who race-walks herself right into me without even bothering to say excuse me.
I square my shoulders and go inside a dingy little hallway. The directory sign is missing all the As, but apparently I’m to go to the fourth floor to see BROCKMN, WYTT, AND SNFORD. When the elevator door creaks open, there’s a magenta-haired receptionist in a black dress who buzzes me in, looking annoyed as hell. A little sign in front of her says her name is LaRue Bennett.
I give her my best Florida smile. “Hello. I’m Marnie MacGraw, and I’m . . .”
“What?” She peers at me. I see that she has a tattoo of a rose on her wrist.
I begin again. “I’m Marnie MacGraw, and I’m here to pick up the keys to Blix Holliday’s apartment, or house, or whatever.”
“Blix Holliday? Do you have any ID?”
“Oh. Sure.” I put down my suitcase and open my purse, which is filled with my boarding pass and my package of gum and my hairbrush and—well, everything except my wallet, which seems to have disappeared. I channel my mother and go immediately into panic mode—the wicked New Yorkers have already stolen my wallet!—but then after I’ve emptied everything onto the counter, with LaRue Bennett watching me, I remember that I put my wallet back in my pocket when I got out of the cab. Sweat is starting to trickle down between my breasts by the time I get out my ID and hand it to her, and she lets out a sigh. Possibly she was on the side of the wallet being gone forever.
She looks it over and then pushes it back to me.
“Okay, well. Charles isn’t here. He’s gone for the weekend. Back Monday.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh.” I shift my weight to my other foot. “Well, um, I just flew in from Florida. He said I should get here as soon as possible. I’ve apparently inherited Blix Holliday’s house, and I’m supposed to make arrangements, I guess.”
“But he’s gone.”
“Can you reach him? I mean, I was hoping maybe I could at least get the key to the house. I’m to stay there, I think.”
Her face is impassive. “There are stipulations to the will he needs to talk to you about first.”
“Stipulations?”
Oh, yes. Apparently Blix didn’t just do a straight blah blah blah . . . She did things her own way . . . blah blah blah . . . not until Monday . . .
I can see LaRue Bennett’s mouth moving, but my brain has suddenly gotten all staticky. Ha! Did I really and truly think that I had somehow managed to outrun my usual luck, and that I had seriously inherited a building in Brooklyn, New York? Of course there are stipulations! I am the biggest idiot there ever was, falling for this kind of thing again and again throughout my whole life. Thinking Noah was really going to marry me! Thinking it was my turn to be Mary in the Christmas pageant! Even thinking that Brad Whitaker was going to take me to the prom!
And of course the stipulations are going to turn out to be that Blix didn’t leave me the house after all, which, now that I think of it, is totally fine with me. I just wish I had known before I paid airfare and then taxi fare of nearly ninety dollars plus tip to get to a place that smells like garbage and hamburgers. She probably meant to leave the house to Noah anyway, but he was married to me when she wrote the will, so my name got put on it by accident. Probably happens all the time.
“What am I supposed to do next?” I say, looking around the room and starting to panic just the slightest, tiniest amount. Maybe I should forget this whole thing and simply go back to the airport and get a flight back to Florida. Go back to that diner, have another shake and fries, and pretend this never happened. Later this year, I’ll marry Jeremy and have a baby.
LaRue sighs. “I’ll try to reach Charles and see what he can do for you. Go sit.”
The chairs actually do look good. Beige upholstered armchairs with a Queen Anne table between them. Magazines about architecture. Botanical paintings on the wall. I make my way over to the nearest chair and collapse into it as LaRue disappears into the inner sanctum.
My phone dings.
Hope you’re not on your way to becoming a Brooklyn hipster. LOL!
Jeremy.
Yeah. My clothing turned all black the minute I crossed into Brooklyn.