The View From Penthouse B (13 page)

“It’s true. I like to think I saw the trend coming. They certainly did at FIT. Which is where I’m studying.”

Charles said, “He started off in shoe design, but he switched majors almost immediately.”

I was able to deliver only an unenthusiastic “oh” due to my greater fondness for footwear than headgear.

Chaz helped, conversationally, by saying, “Wow. Nice place. I mean, like, maybe the nicest apartment I ever saw.”

“He thought all the apartments in the building would be the same size. Like mine,” said Charles.

“Like a dorm,” said Chaz.

I thanked him and said that it was my sister’s. Margot, of course.

“Hope she’s not too freaked out about this,” said Chaz.

There it was, the acknowledgment of adultery, paternity, fraud, and home wrecking.

I said, “I know none of this is your fault—”

Chaz said, “I didn’t think it was such a cool thing to do, but Doc said you were all pretty good friends and sooner or later—”

“We came up with ‘Doc,’” Charles explained. “What do you think? It’s less formal than Dr. Pierrepont without being overly familiar.” He winked at Chaz. “For now.”

By “not his fault,” I hadn’t meant Chaz’s attendance at the party, but his very existence. I let his misapprehension—uninvited guest—stand. I asked Charles if he could hack off another piece of ham for me and pass the seven-grain rolls.

Charles said, “Sure. It’s a little salty. But that’s because it’s a genuine Smithfield.” Then, prone as always to introduce awkward topics at improper junctures, he said, “Chaz, tell Gwen how your legal father has dealt with all of this.”

Chaz took several long swallows of the beer he seemed to be sharing with Charles, then sputtered, “He freaked! And walked out. I mean, like, the minute he heard it. Like he was waiting for some excuse. Which sucks because even if Doc got my mother pregnant, it was for medical reasons, and Dad is my . . . dad.”

I hadn’t expected this: the other side of the story. I said, “I’m sorry. I hope he hasn’t abandoned you, too.”

“Do you believe that someone would be so pissed off at his wife that he’d walk out on his kid, too?” Charles demanded.

I murmured, “I’m sure he’ll be back. I’m sure it’ll take a little time.”

I saw that Charles’s expression didn’t quite match his indignant words. He looked smugly victorious. Finally, someone could view him as the honorable guy and better dad. He was gazing so fondly at Chaz that it made me forget how this boy had come about. He was, tonight, the Moses who’d been placed in the bullrushes, raised by strangers, and found his way back to his people.

I thought of issuing something like a warning to Charles, reminding him that he was vulnerable in his little hole of an apartment without friends except for his fellow released inmates and parolees. He saved me that awkwardness by reading my mind.

“Gwen is worried that this is too much too soon. That you and I, Chaz, should be taking it very slowly.”

“I thought it might be kind of weird to meet the wife and everything,” said Chaz.

I said, “It’s okay. Margot’s very . . . what’s the right word . . . ?”

“Resilient,” said Charles. “Famously so. Not very much throws her.”

“I figured that,” said Chaz. “Anthony told me that she lost all of her money to that guy who’s in jail for, like, life.”

I hesitated: confirm or ignore? Chaz must have sensed my reluctance to elaborate because he said, “Whoops. Sorry. I forced that out of Anthony. I was wondering why a bunch of you were living together, so that’s how I found out she was broke.”

I asked, “So you met Anthony before you met Dr. Pierrepont?”

After chewing and swallowing a large bite of his sandwich, Chaz said, “He friended me. After my mother outed us.”

“He means on the witness stand,” said Charles.

“Did she tell you in advance that she was going to do that?” I asked.

Chaz said, “No. I mean I know she got one of those things where the guy knocks on your door—”

“Subpoena,” said Charles.

“And she told me like a hundred times after my dad left why he was angry and bailing.”

Charles said, with another revoltingly proud smile, “Chaz’s theory, and Anthony’s, too, I might add, is that his mother, a single divorcée, may have wanted to identify herself”—and here he paused with faux humility, a bite of the lip—“so that I could find her.”

“And hook up with her,” Chaz stated. “And I know this for a fact. Way before the trial, she tried to friend him.”

Charles said, “I think he means
be
friend.”

I said, too stunned to comment on anything but the etymology, “While you were out of circulation, ‘friend’ became a verb.”

Chaz asked me, with what looked to be a hopeful smile, “Are you on Facebook?”

I said, “No, not yet . . .”

Charles said, “I can see the question that’s on the tip of your tongue, Gwen. And the answer is no, I have not yet reached out to Chaz’s mother. She lives in New Jersey and you know that my social life is limited to the borough of Manhattan for a while.”

Would I remember Charles’s statement so I could repeat it verbatim to my roommates? Luckily, the doorbell rang: more strangers arriving. I rushed through a farewell—we have Coke and Diet Coke and apple cider at the bar. And cupcakes later. We are a very cupcake-oriented household. Nice to meet you, Chaz.

He surprised me with one of those hugs, the new substitute handshake, his ear barely grazing mine. When it knocked his green hat askew, Charles righted it.

17

Your Public Awaits

M
ARGOT WAS NOT
under a blanket but at the kitchen sink, in a lab coat I’d never seen before, furiously scrubbing a Pyrex casserole’s baked-on stains.

“He’s pretty easy to talk to,” I told her.

“I can’t,” she said.

I reminded her that she was always comfortable socially, always poised, charming even, never at a loss for words. I tried again with “If I can do it, so can you.”

She shut the water off, turned toward me, and said, “I don’t see any resemblance.”

I laughed. Translation and footnote: Chaz is handsome and these days I can’t stand the sight of Charles. I said, “So you
did
peek.”

“Of course! And if you can laugh, you don’t understand how annoyed—no, how
traumatized—
I am having this kid in my living room.”

I, who rarely took a scolding tone with my older sister, said, “It’s Olivia’s party, but you’re still the host.” I waited. What would constitute a helpful prompt and good psychology at this moment? “He designs hats,” I told her. “Expensive ones, I think.”

A pause, then a quiet “For men or women?”

I didn’t know, but volunteered that anyone studying millinery techniques at FIT surely would be interested in hats for every orientation.

She didn’t agree aloud to anything. But she did slip off the lab coat and devote too much time to its conscientious folding.

“C’mon,” I said. “It’ll be fine. He knows about you—”

“Knows what?”

“Everything. That you were married to Charles. That you divorced him because of his crimes.”

My crusade ended there when we heard male voices. Accompanying a jaunty few knocks was Anthony calling, “Where is she? Margot? Your public awaits.”

“Fuck my public,” she called back. “I’m in a very bad mood.”

Anthony and Douglas entered the kitchen, brandishing a bottle of prosecco and an empty glass. “We’ll fix that bad mood,” said Anthony. “Douglas has some compliments for you.”

“Gorgeous place,” Douglas said. “Whom did you use?”

Penthouse pride was just the right note to sound. Margot said, “I bought it as is. I didn’t change one wall color. The furniture came from my house.” She sent a smirk my way, adding, “ . . . my former marital abode.”

I could always count on Anthony for just the right conversation expander. He glided to Margot’s side, lowered his voice, and said, “Did you meet Noel? Olivia’s love?
Quelle surprise
.”

“How come we didn’t know this before?” she asked.

I pointed out that Noel’s appearance and physique were testimonials to Olivia’s depth of character.

Margot said, “Thank you, Mother Theresa. Thank you for that little life lesson.”

Douglas said, “Whom are we talking about?”

Anthony said, “Olivia’s paramour. The short chubby fellow.”

“I had a nice chat with him,” said Douglas. “He doesn’t take his eyes off your sister.”

“It’s very sweet,” I said. “You don’t have to be around them very long to see that they’re in love.”

Margot announced, “It’s hard to get down and dirty around Gwen. She doesn’t like to gossip.”

I protested that she wasn’t being fair. I could be critical and gossipy if the occasion warranted it. When did I ever hold back about Charles, for example?

Anthony said, “This is why we need Gwen-Laura. She steers us back onto the path of goodness and mercy when we get snarky.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“She was a live-in for this guy, right?” Douglas asked.

“He didn’t fill you in on that headline story?” Margot asked. “Daddy falls for nanny?”

Anthony said, “I’ve been busy with my bartending and cohost duties.”

I said, “You’re serving minors.”

Anthony said, “I saw you and the long-lost son having quite the cozy conversation. Do tell.”

“Not now. We’re being very rude. I came in here to drag Margot away from the sink.”

“Isn’t that a dishwasher?” Douglas asked.

“Yes! Nothing needed washing. She was hiding out in here.”

Margot said, “I find washing dishes soothing. It’s all about the hot soapy water.”

“The kitchen . . .” Douglas began, running a hand along our white Formica counter, “Nineteen seventies is my guess.”

Margot said, “The listing said ‘meticulously maintained,’ which is real estate for ‘can’t remember when it was last updated.’”

We heard something: not exactly a crash, but a loud thud. Anthony was the first one out of the kitchen. Douglas held the swinging door open for Margot and me, and it was on that threshold where we froze at the sight before us: Charles, on the floor, possibly dead. The utterly competent and CPR-certified Olivia was kneeling beside him, taking his pulse, calling for aspirin, and ordering her brother to dial 911.

I pulled Margot into the semicircle around the supine Charles, who was drained of color but now murmuring, “I’m okay. I’m okay. Don’t call anyone.”

Olivia asked, “Are you having chest pains?”

He said, “It’s not a heart attack. I just fainted.”

“You can’t be sure,” I said. “It can be other symptoms. It can be silent. People die in their sleep.”

Margot said, “He’s a doctor. He’d probably know if he was having a heart attack.”

“Are you nauseated?” Olivia asked him.

Charles propped himself partway up on his elbows. “I’m just embarrassed. I’m sure it was a vasovagal reaction.” And being Charles, who had already brought the party to a dramatic standstill, he had to make a speech. “Please . . . as you were. You’ve already given me your kind attentions. I think most of you know that tonight is something of a watershed moment for me. I’ve become a father after a lifetime of being childless—”

Margot sent a prod into his rib cage with the sharp point of her lizard pump. “Shut up,” she hissed. “Just do us all a favor and shut up.”

“Should I call 911 or not?” Anthony asked.

Charles said, “No, don’t. It was the excitement, the anxiety, and probably the martinis. I’ve fainted before. Please, can we get on with the business of this party? Has everyone met Chaz?”

Poor Chaz. His nose was running and his mouth was in a droop so miserable that I reached around Anthony to pat his tweed arm and say, “He’s a doctor. If he says he’s fine, then he is.”

Margot was scowling, and I could guess the complaints and suspicions she’d rail about later.
He always has to be the center of attention. He’s trying to evoke the sympathy of every guest and possibly attract a sexual partner. He faked it.

The law-student friend of Olivia’s made her way over to Chaz and said, “My father faints all the time and it’s nothing.”

“Really?”

“I’m Julie,” she said.

I was just standing there, an awkward eavesdropper, when the young woman turned to me and repeated “I’m Julie” in the tone one uses when the hoverer is an unwelcome third party. I almost warned, “He’s barely eighteen, you know,” but instead introduced myself as Chaz’s biological father’s ex-sister-in-law, Gwen.

“Biological father? Are you adopted?” Julie asked her new friend.

Chaz said “No! No way. I only met him today.”

“You looked so upset when he fainted,” Julie said.

“I wasn’t. I was, like,
what the fuck?
”

Julie said, “It was scary. He could have hit his head and died from that alone. I thought it was very sweet that you got upset.”

“He just kind of slipped to the floor. I should’ve caught him.”

Julie patted his arm. He smiled and told her that her hair was an unusual color, like, pale peach. He saw a lot of hair in his profession, but not like hers.

“Do you work in a salon?” she asked.

“I don’t. Actually, I’m a designer.” He tapped the brim of his bowler.

Why was I still standing there? I looked around for Margot and spotted her, one room away, on her tufted periwinkle velveteen sofa, next to Charles. His color was returning, and they were talking in a manner that appeared to be amicable.

I retreated to the dining room where I saw Stephanie, Olivia, and Noel, a complete conversational unit, undoubtedly in child-care talk, so I didn’t join them, either. Anthony and Douglas were tête-à-tête over the Smithfield ham, patting slices onto each other’s bread. Solange and Jacques? Gone. Chaz’s hat was now perched prettily on Julie’s head.

Although the guest list had contained an even number, I was clearly the odd person out. I poured myself the last dribble of martini from the pitcher, added a shot of gin, and took it to the kitchen. The casserole dish was submerged and soaking. A quick probe showed me that the baked-on stains still needed work. I added a few squirts of soap, which didn’t help with the scrubbing, but did ease the underwater transfer of my stubborn wedding ring from left hand to right. With my glass next to the sink, I ran hot water until rubber gloves were required.