The family rides an elevator up twenty-six flights in silence. The girls lean against the elevator walls, hips popped out, noses in their phones. On another day their mother would pinch the backs of their necks and tell them to stand up straight. But they’ve had a long plane ride. Let them slouch a little.
The doors open onto a gray hallway that smells like new carpet, and Sveyta is waiting for them. “This way,” she purrs, “this way.” Sveyta and the mother walk side by side, the daughters and the husband trail after them. Sveyta tells the mother about the arrangements she’s made for their stay, and the mother approves them or offers small adjustments. Sveyta takes note.
They reach the apartment, Sveyta swings the door open, and the mother can see only the magnificent windows looking over Central Park with the glowing lights. Her daughters and husband rush in behind her to recharge their phones, to put down their luggage, to use the bathroom. They don’t notice the lights, nor the lush flower arrangements. The mother, pulling her gaze away from the view, bends slightly to brush her fingertips over a petal, to lean in and smell.
“Lovely,” she says to Sveyta.
“I’m so pleased,” Sveyta replies. “I’ve hired a new cleaning lady for you. She cleaned the apartment for your arrival.”
The apartment looks immaculate, but it’s difficult to judge when an apartment has been sitting empty. The mother walks to a bookshelf and finds a small glass statue of a cat. She picks it up and runs her finger where the cat used to sit. It comes up clean.
“Have her come Monday to do the linens,” the mother says.
“Good,” Sveyta says.
Sveyta and the matriarch tell each other good evening.
Marion Shops at Saks
Rather than purchase a uniform to be a cleaning lady, Marion will shop for an outfit for the ballet. It will be worn only to the ballet, and it will be appropriate. She pulls ten $100 bills from the knapsack and puts those bills in her cross-body bag. She leaves behind the two twenties that Sveyta gave her, a pointless amount of money in New York. Marion has decided not to acknowledge the negligible pay until she understands why she is a cleaning lady. This was her epiphany: to wait, see why she’s doing what she’s doing, and the answer will come. In the meantime she’ll buy an outfit at Saks.
On the train, aboveground, Marion contemplates her newfound contentment and congratulates herself. It is a clear marker that she is maturing and maturing well. Not everything needs meaning right away.
When the train dips belowground, Marion faces forward. She thinks about passing underneath Nathan’s Brooklyn again. At his stop, she looks out the window for him, and for their daughters. This is a risk, but she needs the outfit. Besides, she has red hair, she’s wearing different clothes, she’s even lost some weight. Nathan will not see her. Her daughters might. Marion picks a discarded metro section from under her feet and ignores the expression of disgust from the woman sitting next to her. She flips open the paper and hides her face. She reads an article about a celebrity who threw a party a week ago.
In the middle of Manhattan, Marion climbs up from underground. She enters Saks with confidence, ignoring the perfume girls, the makeup girls, the hat girls, and the scarf girls, even the designer handbag girls. She knows what floor she needs and which floors to ignore. She will, for instance, pass the floor with the plus-size clothes. Marion needs a floor she’s never been to, the designer floor. Marion arrives here with her contentment, steps off the escalator, and lets herself browse. Rhinestones abound; pantsuits flourish. She brushes her fingers over fabrics and shoulders of jackets. She’s also in a box at Lincoln Center with Sveyta, watching Giselle.
In the distance, she sees a black skirt, voluminous yet chic. It poofs out from the hanger, and there is a subtle sparkle in the layering. Perhaps it is all the tulle, allowing glimpses of light and space between each layer. It is beautiful. It is Grace Kelly.
Marion shouldn’t even try on the skirt, that is how little it suits her, but she goes for the largest size anyway. She’s rushing to a dressing room but thinks no, why try when she can own? She’s at the cash register instead; bills are laid down to keep the skirt. The checkout girl maybe gives her a look, but Marion ignores it. The skirt is folded in tissue paper, and it’s hers.
The train back to Brighton Beach is a happy blur. Before she left the department store, Marion also purchased large oval sunglasses, and she doesn’t take them off. She catches sight of herself in the reflection and approves. Now she does not need the newspaper from the floor. Now she is perfect for the ballet.
The Red Hook Fishmongers’ Collective
Get up, Nathan thinks. Get up. Take a shower. Get out. Put on your shoes. Do something. His daughters will be home soon. He looks at his last email to Denise and winces. Come back, but just to talk—let’s talk about this. The desperation he thought he managed to hide is dazzling. Go outside. The farthest he can get is the backyard, but he can’t make it off the patio. Maybe he’ll grill for the girls, but he remembers there’s nothing to grill. He researches how to get fresh fish delivered to a Carroll Gardens door in the next three hours. There is a service, of course; it’s expensive, but Nathan’s tapping in a credit card number. Three fresh tuna steaks are on their way. He can’t go outside now. He has to wait for his fish. His daughters will be home soon. Maybe he’ll vacuum.
The house needs the presence of two people. He never should have written that email. He should have gone quiet. He wants a warm body in the house but knows that want isn’t particularly flattering to the warm bodies. An email confirms that the tuna is on its way. Also, he is now a bona fide member of the Red Hook Fishmongers’ Collective. Here is his username. Another email appears above it: Where did Marion go? Did you do something to her? You owe us. Nathan archives it, puts it with the rest of these anonymous emails. He will rise from the couch to make a salad to go with the tuna. But first he must do more research.
The doorbell rings, and Nathan may have been saved. This cannot be his fish; this must be Denise. However, it is neither. The detective and the officer stand on his stoop.
“Sorry to bother you,” the detective says. “I just wanted to check a few things.”
“I wish you’d called. Now is not a good time.”
“A few minutes, Mr. Palm.”
Nathan yields. The first floor of the brownstone is a mess, and he does not apologize. The detective looks around and suggests to the officer that he start with the girls’ rooms on the top floor and work his way down.
“Hey,” Nathan says. “What about my daughters’ privacy?”
“You’re welcome to join him,” the detective says. “I’ll be in the basement.”
Nathan bites the inside of his cheek. “No, it’s okay. I mean, just don’t touch anything.”