The View From Penthouse B

11





No Hug?


EVEN BEFORE HE materialized, Charles offended by rapping twice on our front door, opening it unbidden, and calling, “Hul-lo! Don’t you lock the door?”

I sent Anthony out to the foyer because he was wearing a cropped, sleeveless T-shirt and sweatpants, abs and biceps exposed formidably.

“May I help you?” I heard him ask in the tone one uses with an intruder.

“Do I have the right apartment?” Charles asked.

Anthony said, “And how would I know that?”

“I’m Charles Pierrepont. Is this Margot’s apartment?”

“And mine. May I help you?”

Next he tried “Is Gwen here?”

Anthony hesitated. We hadn’t discussed whether I was or wasn’t at home in terms of our reception strategy.

I joined them from the dining room, and from a still-safe distance, I pronounced in an onstage, drawing-room fashion, “Why, hello, Charles.” He was thinner everywhere and pale. I realized that he must have dyed his hair in civilian life because it was now completely gray. He was wearing erratically bleached jeans, a plaid shirt that looked starched and ironed, loafers, and slouchy white socks.

“No hug?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said, and backed up a step.

“It’s good to see you, Gwen,” he said. “And I want to thank you for accepting my calls from upstate.”

Anthony said, “You told Rafael that you had something to deliver?”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Anthony Sarno. I’m the roommate.”

“Interesting,” said Charles.

“What is?” I asked.

“‘Roommate.’ I didn’t know the Batavia allowed its owners to rent rooms to unrelated parties.”

Anthony said, “Oh, really? You might want to check the bylaws. It’s just above the one that says parolees can sublet studios.”

I could see that Charles understood: A fine specimen with an Italian surname wasn’t going to brook any threats from a scrawny ex-con.

Charles said, “Look. I think I got off on the wrong foot here. Anybody want to offer a thirsty neighbor a cup of tea or a shot of whiskey?”

Anthony and I exchanged glances. I shrugged.

Charles reached into his shirt pocket and removed a folded white envelope. “A step toward . . . if I may, restitution.”

“I’ll bring it to her,” I said. “She’s the one who should decide if you can stay for a drink.”

Charles called to me as I headed down the hallway. “Make sure she reads the note!”

Margot was lying on her bed, fully dressed, tuned to the Food Network where a southern cook was discoursing on okra and its properties.

“He’s here,” I announced, and handed her the envelope. She opened it, peeked in, put it down, and said, “Not a bad start.”

“He said to make sure you read the note.”

She slipped two reluctant fingers into the envelope and extracted a folded piece of lined paper as if it were contaminated. She read it, shrugged, and handed it to me.





Margot: My accountant is setting up a payment schedule whereby you’ll be getting these once a month by U.S. mail. In other words, I won’t be bothering you.

C.





“Nothing inappropriate about that,” I said.

“Except that he’s bothering us now! And excuse me, but when was the last time you could believe anything he said?”

I hitched a shoulder in the direction of the door behind me. “Want to get it over with?”

She knew what I meant. She raised the remote control, clicked the TV off, but made no other move.

I said, “I’m supposed to be asking you if it’s okay if he stays for a cup of tea or a drink.”

“Was that Anthony’s idea?”

“No! You’d have been proud of him. He’s playing macho gatekeeper. I haven’t seen him like this before.”

“Yes, you have—with Olivia. The big brother in action.” She tilted her body to one side, checking herself in the framed wall mirror.

“You look fine.”

“I’m not primping, if that’s what you think. I don’t care how I look. I’ll never forgive him for humiliating me. Has there ever been anyone cuckolded in a more disgusting fashion?”

I was saved from confirming or debating this by Anthony’s calling, “Coming out anytime soon? Anyone?”

“I am. Margot hasn’t decided.”

“Can I come in?”

As I opened the door, Anthony entered the room with one long stride. “Someone has to relieve me. I’ve now heard twice that he hates himself and did I think he’ll have the chance to tell you in person.”

“Tell me?” asked Margot.

“You! Her! Me, for chrissake.”

“All of this came up while you were standing around in the foyer?” I asked.

“There was this awkward silence while you two were caucusing, and suddenly he said, ‘You’re probably wondering what this is all about . . .’ I could’ve said, um, dude? No need. I’ve read every word of the transcript.”

“Is he still out there?” I asked.

“He’ll be back! He went downstairs to get a bottle of champagne.”

I turned back toward the bed so Margot and I could exchange open-mouthed gapes of astonished ill will.

Anthony said, “What? Is that so bad? He’s a free man now. I don’t think it’s to toast anything major.”

“Champagne? After all he did? And with all that it symbolizes?” I asked.

Anthony said, “What else do we do around here for entertainment? C’mon. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe he said chardonnay.”

I said to Margot, “It doesn’t have to mean we’re making friends with him if we have a glass of his champagne, you know. You love champagne.”

Anthony asked, “How long has it been?”

“Since what?” Margot asked.

“Since you were in the same room with him?”

“At least two and a half—no, almost three years.”

“Two years,” I corrected.

“It’ll be three years in May when he was arrested—”

To my surprise, my voice faltered as I said, “It was, no question, two years. He came to Edwin’s funeral. Which couldn’t have been easy for him under the circumstances, which is to say, while on trial.”

Something changed in Margot’s expression. It wasn’t a tempering of marital fury and it surely wasn’t forgiveness or clemency. What I was seeing was sisterly devotion: Margot awarding points to Charles based on the single criterion by which I measured friendship since Edwin’s death.





I rinsed out four dusty champagne flutes and found cocktail napkins from the previous occupants’ Christmas parties. We discussed nothing substantive, not his crimes, nor prison, nor money, nor his mother, nor his bastard child. We sat in the living room, under paintings and on loveseats that once decorated their marital home. During an awkward silence, Anthony volunteered that Margot and I had taken him in and adopted him.

“Literally?” Charles asked.

“Why, yes,” Margot cut in, with a new, broad smile. “Quite literally. In court! And he’s now the beneficiary on all my wills, trusts, bank accounts, stocks, bonds, and, of course, my various real estate holdings. I don’t think I ever told you that I had a son out of wedlock before I met you, and we were reunited through the Internet.”

“Facebook to be specific,” said Anthony. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“It’s not technically adoption,” Margot said. “More like we’re his guardians.”

Charles refilled his glass, lips pursed. Finally, he said, raising his flute, etched with an intertwined M and C, “Touché.”

“Touché? Why the hell ‘touché’?” Margot sputtered.

“You’re right. ‘Touché’ doesn’t apply. I take that back. What I should have said was ‘Is it possible that bankruptcy has given you a sense of the ridiculous?’”

“Margot didn’t declare bankruptcy,” I said.

Charles said, “Ah, Gwen. I see you haven’t changed.” And to Anthony. “I’ve always known Gwen to be . . . quite precise.”

Anthony said, “A household needs precise. She’s like the big sister I never had.”

“So this”—Charles waved his hand around our circle—“is all very . . . fraternal?”

Margot said, “Don’t be a douche bag, Charles. He’s half our age.”

“And queer, thank you,” said Anthony.

Margot, the new Margot, the champagned Margot, said, “And you, Doc, could use some etiquette lessons. Someone with your track record shouldn’t be seeing sex in every situation.”

Charles said, “This is good. I need this. I know you’re right and I’m going to try harder. I want to start over. I need to be seen as normal and healthy. I have to go slow, glacier slow. I made that promise to myself and to my social worker at Otisville in my exit interview. Everything that happened, everything, was all about my father! I know that now. I’m determined to start so f*cking slow that if I’m lucky enough to ever have a woman in my life, I’ll be like a church boy on a first date.”

“Words,” said Margot. “Nothing but words.”

Anthony said, “Dude, I’m not so sure you can tell the difference between appropriate and inappropriate. I mean, give me a break—turning our living situation into a ménage à trois?”

“A feeble attempt . . . ” Charles began. He reached into his jeans pocket, fished out an oversize handkerchief, and wiped his eyes, which were suddenly and genuinely wet. “I swear,” he began again. “I swear . . . I know you’d expect me to say prison changed me. But I changed me. I was showing off a minute ago. I’m nervous. It took all my courage to knock on your door. I hope I can prove myself by . . . I don’t know . . . would ‘walking the straight and narrow’ be the proper characterization? ‘Acting my age’? ‘Giving back’? ‘Starting over’? ‘Settling down’? All in hopes of reversing my . . . misfortune.”

“Misfortune!” Margot yelped. “Ha!”

“What do you mean by settling down?” I asked.

“With a woman. A mature woman. And when I find her, I intend to court her like a gentleman from another century.”

All three of us visibly sat up straighter. I wouldn’t have said it. I wouldn’t have opened the door myself. But Anthony looked at me and conveyed a whole speech without words. Why the hell not? He’s practically written your founding charter for you. He asked Charles if he knew about the little start-up, the brilliantly conceived Chaste Dates—the exact social network his therapist would approve of, big-time.

“Not online, I hope. I have certain restrictions.”

“No! In person. Real people, in the flesh, women who are also . . . how would we describe it?”

“Taking it slow,” I said.

I noticed Margot wasn’t contributing to this pitch.

“Gwen?” Anthony prompted.

“I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s a delicate situation.” Not to mention an imaginary enterprise.

“May I ask what this service costs?” Charles asked.

“A hundred bucks per date,” said Anthony.

Charles thought this over. I prepared to negotiate.

“I can do that,” he said.