The View From Penthouse B

36





By the Time We Got to Broadway


WE WENT TO A club in the East Village that had live jazz and a two-drink minimum. Anthony had coached me in advance, knowing I preferred music that had melodies and lyrics. Just listen and appreciate every note, he advised, and don’t worry about where it’s been or where it’s going. Also, take your signals from the keenly interested ones around you and don’t clap until they do.

I wore a gauzy skirt bought ($15) special for the occasion at a second-hand clothing store on Canal and a peasanty blouse that exposed my clavicle. Eli said he’d pick me up at the Batavia, a trek from East 75th, a gesture noted and lauded by my roommates. Nonetheless, I forbade Margot to come downstairs for a formal introduction or to skulk around the lobby at the appointed hour. Only four days had passed since our first date, too early for a second opinion from someone who never held back.

My team said, “Don’t wait for him downstairs. Be cool. Let the doorman call you when he arrives.”

“Do you think he’ll kiss me hello in front of Rafael?”

“Did he kiss you good night on Saturday?” Margot asked.

I said no. And I had appreciated that.

“Interesting,” Margot said to Anthony, with a smile.

“What is?”

“That you liked no kiss better than a kiss.”

“I’d just met him. Who wants to kiss a stranger?”

“Don’t look at me,” said Anthony.

“Tell her,” said Margot.

“Tell me what?”

Anthony said, “I went out with your friend William.”

“He called? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

“I know that look,” said Margot. “It’s the wounded, left-out look. Correct? You were already asleep when he left. You know these young people. What time was the date? Something ridiculous like midnight?”

“He’s in a play,” said Anthony. “It was either that or wait till Monday.”

“And?” I asked.

“Liked him.”

“Did you kiss him or do you also not go for that sort of thing till you’re engaged?” Margot asked.

Anthony said, “Ask him when you see him.”

“Meaning never?”

“No, next Monday night. For dinner. I’ll cook.”

Margot and I both emitted happy squeals of hostess anticipation. I said, “It must say something that you invited him over this fast.”

“He sort of invited himself so he could see his new friend Gwen. You made an exceedingly good impression at that workshop.”

“See?” Margot said. “I want you to keep that in mind.”

“What, exactly?” I asked.

“How people see you! First impressions! You made a conquest without even trying.”

“She’s right,” said Anthony.

Margot then reminded herself that this was Thursday. Charles was scheduled for dinner. We were getting to be the most social apartment in New York City, weren’t we? What should she cook, and what did we have on hand?

“Go out,” said Anthony. “Isn’t that the deal? One out of two nights at a decent restaurant?”

Margot said, in an uncharacteristically few words, “I don’t mind staying in.”

I welcomed these distractions, grateful to be off the topic of my upcoming evening. One had to manage expectations. I knew from my premarital social life that a girl could romanticize the silences between the meetings after developing an unwarranted crush on the stranger across the table.





He was dressed more casually than he had been on the previous Saturday. No tie, but a white shirt, starched and impeccably pressed. It was another beautiful evening, warm and still light. He asked how I felt about a walk to the East Village . . . we could cab it if I minded. I said, “I think a walk would be wonderful.”

He tucked my hand inside his elbow, and I let it sit there. We were a throwback, I realized, arms entwined. After only a block or two of our promenade, I noticed the occasional fellow pedestrian smiling in a rather un-Village-like manner as we passed.

I volunteered that it was especially nice to be out this night because my sister-roommate was entertaining her ex-husband.

“It must have been an amicable divorce,” he noted.

“No! An atrocious divorce. But it’s creeping toward . . . friendly.”

“Do you know what made it atrocious?”

I liked his “Do you know?” as if marital troubles were subtle and hard to discern in what must be an exceedingly discreet family. I told him that the official grounds had been adultery . . .

“But?”

“I guess I didn’t tell you before—that Charles was a doctor who’d acted inappropriately with his patients.”

Eli didn’t answer. I could tell that behind his silence was delicacy, as if any follow-up question would suggest prurient interest.

“It gets worse,” I said. “His specialty was infertility. He did use a sperm bank, with contributions from the educated and the handsome. But guess what?”

After a long pause, Eli said, “I’ll let you tell me.”

I stopped. I probably wet my lips and cleared my throat. “With some of the patients . . . it was direct deposit. Insemination without the syringe.”

Finally, he asked, “Are you saying he had sex with his patients?”

“Exactly.”

“Good God . . . Wait! Did I read about this? Was there a trial?”

I said yes, two years ago. A very splashy one. Then prison.

“And this is the couple who’s having dinner together tonight?”

I said, “He claims to be very sorry, and she seems to have forgiven him.”

“What about you? Have you forgiven him?”

“Working on it.”

We passed a café on the corner of Greenwich Avenue. It had a few tables outside and a big wood-burning oven inside. He stopped to read the posted menu, then asked if I’d tried it. I said, “We mostly cook at home because we’re sort of a boarding house. Dinner is part of the package.” Then bravely, “You’ll join us some night.”

“I’d love to,” he said. “And will I get to meet the famous Anthony and the notorious ex-husband?”

“There could even be another interesting guest: his son.”

“Their son? Your nephew?”

“No, just Charles’s. As in when you inseminate your patients yourself, you sometimes get a baby.”

He stopped midstride. “How old and how many?”

“Eighteen going on nineteen and so far just the one who went public . . . Lucky for Charles, not all the treatments took.”

“Treatments,” he repeated. And with the first smile the topic had evoked, “Is that what they’re called?”

Who can say when formality tilts slightly in the opposite direction? We were adults talking about very personal things. I do know this: By the time we got to Broadway, we were holding hands.





I was surprised that an engineer in a white button-down shirt would know hipster musicians at any club, let alone one in the East Village. It was a neighborhood I rarely visited since I didn’t engage in what Anthony called “clubbing.” Eli knew two couples at one table and a threesome across the room. The pianist was a fellow engineer, he explained.

The early set lasted less than an hour. One of the women said they were going out for dinner, probably just pizza, and would we like to join them. Without consulting me and without a glance at his watch, Eli said, “Thanks, but I have a table waiting back in the West Village. We’d better get going.”

“You can call the restaurant and cancel,” said another woman with huge gold hoop earrings that looked to be a strain on her lobes.

Eli smiled. “Well, I would if I wanted a quorum instead of having Gwen all to myself.”

Was he flirting with me? Was I supposed to hear that? I’d ask my team when I got home.





It had to have been a townhouse once, or a speakeasy. We walked down a few steps to the restaurant’s entrance, up a half landing to a bar, then up another flight to a dining room with bookshelves and draperies and antique maps on the walls. There were leather banquettes and white tablecloths. It was beautiful. It was where you’d bring someone for an anniversary or on a second date if the first had had romantic potential.

Even though I’d already had two mojitos at the club, I agreed to a glass of something bubbly. Clinking his glass, I said, “I’m having a really good time.”

“Go on,” he said. “I’m listening.”

I meant to come up with something charming, but instead I heard myself asking what Betsy had worried about aloud. “Have you dated a lot of women since your wife died?”

Eli said, eyes now on the menu, “A lot? Enough.”

I said, “I’m not even sure why I asked.”

He said, “Might it have been because my mother took matters into her own hands, hinting that I needed her matchmaking services . . . ironically.”

“Ironically?”

“Because if I had told her about my social life, she wouldn’t have made it her business to find her poor widowed son a date.” He looked up finally, and said most solemnly, “Then one night she sent me an e-mail about you. And your photo. I was surprised she even knew how to forward something.”

I waited. Such solemnity could easily take a disappointing turn. “Yes?” I prompted.

He raised his glass. A toast? It did look a little meaningful.

The room was low-lit. Our table felt private enough, and I wasn’t my usual sober self. Right then, I decided to kiss Eli Offenberg. I leaned forward, raising myself an inch or two off the bench. He grasped what was about to happen and met me halfway.