Leo’s style was still firmly planted in the sharp tailoring of the 1960s: crisp spread collars, notched lapels, linen pocket squares, and, when the occasion called for it, a well-loved trilby. I’d never once seen him look disheveled, even if he was just on his way to the corner bodega for milk. It’d probably been that way ever since his days working on Madison Avenue. Though he was relegated to the mailroom at first, that didn’t stop his astute eye from documenting every sartorial flourish of the advertising executives to whom, as a Black man, he was mostly invisible. And when he eventually did have the financial means, he emulated—and elevated—that style to make it his signature.
All Leo was doing today was checking the mail and he still wore a pressed button-up shirt and pleated slacks. It was a conspicuous contrast to my sweatpants and baggy fisherman sweater. If my theory was correct, my style legacy didn’t seem promising.
Leo smiled slyly as he slid his key into the mailbox. “And when is our rematch?”
Grandpa had taught me to play mahjong as soon as I’d come to live with him. It took me four years to finally beat him—he refused to let me win intentionally, insisting that it wouldn’t do me any favors. Over time, I memorized all the different mahjong hands and observed each of Grandpa’s moves closely, tracking the tiles he discarded. He had only one tell: lightly scratching his neck with his right pointer finger whenever he suspected he might be losing. Leo became his regular opponent after I went away to college, and then continued the tradition with me when I moved back after Grandpa died. We’d enjoyed a heated rivalry for the past decade or so.
“How about next Sunday?”
Sifting through my armful of mail, I found only a single letter worth opening—a check from the family of a man with leukemia I’d worked with a few months ago. Like Guillermo, he’d left the world with an unabated bitterness that stuck with me. When I first started working as a death doula, I’d naively tried to get people to focus on all the positive things about their life—all the things they should be grateful for. But when someone has spent their years angry at the world, death just feels like one final cruel blow. Eventually, I realized that it wasn’t my job to help them gloss over that reality if they didn’t want to; it was to sit with them, listen, and bear witness. Even if they were unhappy right up until their final exhale, at least they weren’t alone.
“It’s a date,” Leo said, tipping the brim of his imaginary hat. “Unless, of course, you end up with a better offer.”
Though he was well aware that I had no other social life, Leo couldn’t resist subtle nudges hinting otherwise. I knew he meant well, but it only managed to make me feel more inept. I didn’t expect to get to my mid-thirties and still have only one friend. That’s the thing about loneliness: no one ever chooses it.
“Thank you,” I said, giving him a smile. “But I don’t think there’s much danger of that happening.”
“Well, you never know, do you?” Leo nodded toward the second floor. “Speaking of, did you hear we’re getting a new neighbor? Moving in next week. Hopefully they’re chattier than the last lot.”
Damn. I’d been hoping the second-floor apartment—previously home to a reclusive Finnish couple—would stay empty a while longer. Unlike Leo, I’d appreciated that our neighborly relationship with the Finns was limited to polite head nods and cursory hellos.
Leo had a knack for sourcing neighborhood gossip before it hit the mainstream. On our way back upstairs, he filled me in on all the other tidbits he’d heard since we’d last spoken. The Airbnb drama in the building next door, the messy divorce down the street, the overpriced restaurant closed for health violations after a rat jumped out of the toilet while a customer was on it. A connoisseur of small talk, Leo spent much of his time out and about strolling the surrounding blocks, chatting with whomever was willing to engage. I’d always wondered why the two of us got along so well. A classic harmony of opposites, probably.
The door of the empty second-floor apartment was ajar as we walked back up the creaking staircase. Through the crack, I spotted a cluster of paint cans sitting on the floorboards and a roller nesting in its tray nearby, ready for use at any minute. As Leo gossiped, oblivious, a sense of unease settled into my stomach.
New neighbors were inevitable in New York and I’d endured plenty. But each time someone unfamiliar moved into my building, it still felt like a personal intrusion. On my space. On my routine. On my solitude. It meant a new personality to decode, new greeting rituals to establish, new quirks to accommodate. A new neighbor meant unpredictability.
And I hate surprises.
4
The day I learned that my parents were dead was the same day I learned that pigs roll in mud to protect themselves from sunburn.
It was a Tuesday lunchtime in first grade. I was sitting against the lone oak tree in my elementary schoolyard, tucked between two gnarled roots that stretched across the ground like arthritic fingers. It was where I spent most of my lunch breaks when weather permitted, reading while my classmates played boisterously nearby. That day, I was engrossed in a book about animal facts. I’d almost finished the section on pandas when I noticed my principal, Ms. Lucas, beelining across the playground toward me. The movement of her voluminous bouffant matched the rhythm of her purposeful gait and she clutched her polyester blazer with the air of importance. The back of my neck tingled like an insect was scurrying over it, but when I brushed my hand against my skin, there was nothing there.
Trailing close behind Ms. Lucas in a V-formation were my first-grade teacher and the school’s guidance counselor. Since the trio looked like they were on a mission, I calmly placed the book on my lap and waited for them to arrive under the oak.
“Clover, my dear.” Ms. Lucas’s cloying singsong felt suspiciously like a buttering-up—the tone that adults used when they needed you to cooperate. She bent forward primly, her hands tucked neatly between her kneecaps in an inverted prayer position. “Would you come along with us to my office please?”
I looked back and forth between the women on either side of Ms. Lucas and noted their grim smiles. I wondered if anything I’d done that day warranted some kind of punishment. Had I broken a rule by accident? I tried my best to be good. Maybe I’d forgotten to return a book to the library? Feeling slightly outnumbered, I stayed wedged in the tree roots, grateful for their protective embrace.
“I’d like to stay here under the tree,” I said, quietly thrilled by my small act of defiance. “It’s still lunchtime.”
Ms. Lucas frowned. “Well, yes, I understand that you want to enjoy the outdoors before it gets too cold, but there’s something I—we—would like to discuss with you, and I think it’s better if we went inside.”
I considered my options. Ms. Lucas and her big-bloused bodyguards didn’t seem likely to leave me alone. Reluctantly, I stood, brushed the twigs from my jacket, and obediently began walking toward the school building.
“Good girl, Clover,” Ms. Lucas said.
* * *
In the principal’s office, I had to hoist myself into the wooden swivel chair. As I sat with my legs dangling far from the linoleum below, the aging springs beneath the leather cushion dug uncomfortably into my scrawny thighs.
The somber-faced threesome sat across from me, exchanging pained glances, as if silently drawing straws to see whom the unpleasant task would fall upon. Apparently, the guidance counselor had drawn the short one. She took a breath, about to speak, then paused as she reconsidered her words.
“Clover,” she finally said. “I know your parents have been away on vacation.”
“In China,” I added helpfully. “That’s where pandas are from.” I clutched my book to my chest like a precious treasure.
“Yes, I suppose it is—that’s very clever of you.”
“Pandas eat bamboo. And they weigh more than two hundred pounds and they’re really good swimmers,” I said, hoping to cement my cleverness with the adults while I had their captive attention. “Mommy and Daddy are coming home in two days—I’ve been counting.” I hoped they wouldn’t forget to bring me back a present like they did last time when they went to Paris.
The guidance counselor cleared her throat and fiddled with the fancy brooch on her blouse. “Ah, yes, about that. I know your parents were supposed to arrive home on Thursday, but there’s been … an accident.”