The View From Penthouse B (17 page)

Betsy was giving directions—which corner of which intersection she wanted, presumably from the back seat of a taxi. Then to me, contradicting my Manhattan testimonial, “Give me a sec. I’m paying with a credit card and he’s arguing about the tip!” Then to him, “Buddy! Get real! It’s not up for negotiation!”

I waited. The pink, I decided, was only food coloring. It didn’t suggest the cotton-candiness of Anthony’s. From what must have been her lobby, Betsy returned to the subject of HardUp. What was Margot thinking—rewarding a blatant flirtation that all the world could see?

“She’s happy,” I said. “It gets her out of the house.” I stopped there because I couldn’t remember if we had told Betsy that Margot felt the need to escape because Charles was on a two-nights-a-week meal plan chez nous.

Betsy said, “You sound . . . I don’t know . . . different. Like you’re fine with this HardUp, like you don’t disapprove of her dating a penniless and possibly homeless predator.”

“It started off as coffee in broad daylight. And then only because he was selling Girl Scout cookies for his daughter and Margot ordered three boxes.”

“Are we sure he’s not married?”

I said, “You’re quizzing
me
because you two never pry into each other’s personal lives?”

“Never mind. I got sidetracked. I’m about to get into the elevator. E-mail me your ad before you run it. I’ll have Andrew look at it, too.”

I couldn’t say “But Andrew isn’t the guy I’m looking for,” so I said instead: “It’ll be its own test. If I only hear from creeps or no one, I’ll revise.”

“Gotta run. Where’s the ad going?”

“To be determined. I started out thinking the
Village Voice,
but—”

“Why not everywhere? Why not a blitz? Why not cast the widest net? In print, online, a matchmaker? I was thinking of giving you one of those private matchmaker consultations for your next birthday.”

I had turned onto West Tenth and I was sick of the topic. I caused my own voice to produce a faux cell-phone skip. “Bets . . . have to . . . a quart of . . .” Then I added for good measure: “You’re break—” I snapped my phone shut and slowed down to a leisurely stroll. It was warm for March. And it was fun eating a cupcake on the streets of New York. People smiled at me for that reason. If I was ruining my appetite for dinner, who would care?

We weren’t supposed to be feeding Charles on a Wednesday, but Margot had been more flexible and indulgent since his fainting spell. I found them in the kitchen, Margot making a salad and Charles watching. Because they went silent when I arrived, I guessed she had told him about our afternoon’s project. “Where’s Anthony?” I asked.

“Gym. Then out with Douglas.”

“So this isn’t just a series of one-nighters,” Charles observed.

To avoid the inevitable sarcastic remark by Margot about Charles’s being the documented expert on meaningless sex, I asked him, “How’s Chaz?”

Charles’s face manifested instant paternal pride. “He’s great, isn’t he?” he enthused. “I was petrified. And wary! And then this solid young man walks into my life and asks for nothing except a meeting, a handshake, an interview about my family tree and medical history. I don’t deserve it. I’m a little overwhelmed, obviously.”

Though Margot was across the room, vigorously chopping garlic with her sharpest knife, I knew she was listening intently.

I asked when he was seeing Chaz again, but before he could answer, Margot threw out, “Before you get too attached, maybe you should have a DNA test.”

Charles turned slowly, a theatrical pivot in her direction. “I think you forget that during the trial you couldn’t bring yourself to attend—you who once pledged ‘for better or for worse’—the question of paternity was resolved on the basis of DNA testing of anyone suspected to be my issue. And as you occasionally need reminding, I was punished in ways matrimonial, financial, professional, and every which way. The government and most of my friends think I paid my debt to society.”

She was now chopping so fiercely that the garlic had gone from minced to macerated. “To society,” she muttered. “Society! Whatever that means. Total strangers and taxpayers who weren’t hurt by any of your crimes against humanity.”

I said, “Please. Let’s stipulate that Chaz is Charles’s true son. Okay? No need to discuss further.”

“Thank you, Gwen,” said Charles. “Maybe we can switch to a much more pleasant topic.”

I waited. I took three plates from a cupboard and three napkins from a drawer.

Charles continued, with a broad, condescending smile, “
I
heard something quite intriguing today.”

Before I could ask what, he said, “I hear you’re dipping your toe into classified waters. Brava!”

If Margot weren’t already grumbling to herself, I might have pleaded, “Is my life not my own? Is there
anything
I do or say that is off the record?”

Charles said, “Not to worry. Your sister told me in confidence. I won’t tell a soul.”

Margot said, “I did
not
tell you in confidence. The point was to get the word out. Direct your loyal, forgiving, noncriminal friends—maybe some fellow doctors or one of your legions of lawyers—to Gwen’s upcoming ad.”

“Which I’d love to see in advance,” he added.

I said, “You and every person I’ve ever met. For the hundredth time: No, thank you. If nobody answers, I’ll start over.”

Charles said, “No, no. You misunderstand. I peruse the personal ads myself. I wouldn’t want to answer your entreaty by mistake.”

Was he kidding?
I
thought so. But Margot slapped the knife down with a bang. “Do you have no boundaries? Is there
anything
you wouldn’t say in front of your ex-wife! What’s next? ‘Oh, did I tell you that I answered an ad for an ovulating woman looking for a sperm donor shooting blanks? She didn’t get pregnant, but it was fun just the same.’”

“Margot—” he began. “Honey—”

“I wanted babies! I never
didn’t
want them. But who had the last word?
Mister Zero Population Growth. Mister It Would Cramp Our Style.
” Her voice lowered to a mocking impression of his. “‘You and I don’t need children to be happy, darling. Marriages fall apart because of children!’ How ironic was that little argument? How evil and untrue? And who’s the proud, happy papa now?”

I didn’t expect to see what happened next: Charles strode across the kitchen and put his arms around Margot.

More surprising—she let him.

22

What’s the Worst That Could Happen?

A
FTER DUE DILIGENCE
, and despite the pressure to go modern, I decided against Craigslist. Its personal ads were very much by and for the young, many of whose “pics” unabashedly exhibited not faces but erect penises. Anthony’s three-pronged argument (my ad would stand out; I had nothing to lose; look at all the youngsters advertising for older chicks) did not convince me.

Before taking another leap, I analyzed two weeks’ worth of classifieds in the
Village Voice,
in search of somewhat older gentlemen who weren’t blatantly seeking sex. Anthony sat at my elbow, urging me to click on ads that had a 40 or higher in parentheses, indicating the poster’s age. Exactly zero posts moved me to answer. Among those run by my contemporaries:

• Wanna watch me with my stepdaughter??—47
  
• Submissive guy at your service—45
  
• Looking for Mother—50
  
• Get paid to have breakfast with me Monday—46
  

By week’s end, I was doubting the whole enterprise and hating everyone who had composed an ad with any cheesy intention. Thus my ad ran in the
New York Review of Books,
word for word, the one I’d composed at the deli, with
NERVOUS
as my boldface headline. No photo needed, though I was prepared for that request. If there were any inquiries, I had a brand-new one of me, makeup by Margot, with my hair blowing in the wind above our rooftop terrace.

A day passed, then two, then a week. No one answered, and I knew why. The competition in that highbrow publication were women aiming for a man with books on his shelf, art on his walls, smoked salmon in his refrigerator, and tenure. I was at a distinct disadvantage, lost among ads posted by Ivy Leaguers with advanced degrees in Masculine Preferences. What man would ignore “Tall, sophisticated, stunning, affectionate, and irreverent. Easy laugh, warm heart. Smart as a whip. Just plain fun to be around.” Or below that: “Sparkles with natural charm, no games, positive approach to life. Curious/avid traveler, doesn’t complain when the AC is on full blast or the music is loud. Former runway model. Graceful, easygoing, cosmopolitan. Bakes her own bread.” Or, following the adjectives describing the next perfect woman’s beauteousness and svelteness: “Self-deprecating humor, adventurous streak. Will learn to fly plane but draws line at skiing when it’s 20 below. Tennis devotee. Loves ‘no agenda’ vacation days; well, maybe a little snorkeling & Jet Skiing. Loves red wine & rare red meat—give me a thick, juicy burger any day.”

See what I mean? Mine might as well have said, “Mouse seeks same for not much at all. Very ambivalent about this whole thing. References upon request. Hope you don’t want sex.”

To keep the in-house harassment to a minimum, I didn’t raise the topic of my advertising failures with my team, but, of course, they were following my nonadventures independently, quizzing me at every juncture. As more and more nothingness happened, Margot said that this was only one avenue. A person could get out, do things, mingle.

It was shortly afterward, on an afternoon of browsing in Soho, that she came up with a terrible idea that she viewed as brilliant. We were looking at silk-screened T-shirts displayed outdoors on Prince Street when she clutched my forearm. “Remember when you wanted a piano?” she asked.

“Yes. So?”

“And Mom was reading the classifieds, looking for a secondhand one?”

“Vaguely.”

“Well, someone else had placed a ‘piano wanted’ ad in the classifieds. Mom called and said that if he got more responses than needed, would he share the info. In which case, she’d be happy to split the cost of the ad!”

“And this relates to what?”

“That’s how she got our upright! Maybe you could e-mail these dames who post the come-hither ads, offer to contribute to the cost, and see if they have any guys to spare.”

I didn’t realize that this entire conversation was taking place with an audience, the artist whose T-shirts were before us. He looked about twenty-five, and was eating tabouli from a plastic container.

“Whoa,” he said.

I turned around.

“I’m getting the picture,” he said.

I asked what picture that would be.

“Love,” he answered. “As in looking for it.” He took two business cards from a small stack on his table. “My girlfriend is a psychic. She’s the real thing. She actually makes a living at it. I mean, it’s spooky. She told one woman to get an EKG, and a week later she needed a triple bypass. Her husband came back to thank Serena. She’s like five minutes from here, on Mott. Mention Adam, and she’ll give you a discount. All of her reviews on Yelp give her five stars.”

I could see that Margot took the cards with a little too much enthusiasm. “Mott Street,” she said to me. “C’mon.”

We thanked Adam, me insincerely because I had no intention of availing myself of Serena’s palm, tea-leaf, or tarot-card readings. I trotted after Margot, who was already hustling east. When she turned onto Mott, I stopped and called ahead, “No way.”

“You
are
a chicken. C’mon. Maybe I’ll get a vibe, too, and that’ll decide it.”

I checked Serena’s business card. No fee mentioned. “It could cost a hundred dollars, for all you know.”

Margot stopped, faced me, and said as if she were mustering all her patience for the upcoming life lesson: “We’ll ask her fee, Gwen. Then I’ll make a counteroffer, and after we’ve agreed on a price, I’ll mention our discount, courtesy of Adam.”

We walked up two more blocks of shops and restaurants before we spotted a blue neon sign flashing in an upstairs window:
CLAIRVOYANT
and in red,
OPEN
.

“If I have to drag you there, I will,” said Margot. “We have to be more spontaneous.”

Up two flights and down a dark hallway, Margot stopped at a heavy door, its dark brown paint reptilian after many coats. The knocker was a brass mermaid. The nameplate read
SONDRA APPLEBAUM
. We checked the business card again, matched its 3 -G with the symbols on the door. We knocked. A voice called, “Who is it?”

Margot asked, “Are you Serena?”

“Just a moment, please,” the voice sang out.

It was a whole minute before the door opened onto one room, painted a nervy sapphire blue. Serena was wearing a red and gold sari, not the colors I’d have chosen with her orange hair. “Have you come for a consultation?” she asked.

Margot said yes and pointed to me. Suddenly I wished I’d worn my good camel coat instead of my parka, my chocolate beret instead of my earmuffs. Serena asked what service we needed her to render. She pointed to a cardboard sign, painted in the same hand as Adam’s T-shirt slogans.

• Quick Palm Read . . . $10
  
• Full Palm Read . . . $20
  
• Tarot-Card Reading . . . $25
  
• Psychic Consultation . . . $60
  
• Tea-Leaf Reading . . . $12 (includes tea)
  

Margot and I stepped away and conferred. I said, “I wouldn’t mind the psychic consultation, but, yikes, sixty dollars. Forget it.”

Margot asked Serena, “Do you look for what’s ahead, or would you say it’s more about the past and the present?”

Serena said, “It varies from person to person. If I see something, I say it, and sometimes it’s already happened and very often it’s still ahead. What my mind’s eye produces doesn’t have a timeline.”

Margot handed her the business card. “We were referred by Adam. He said we’d get a discount.”

Serena frowned.

“Not good?” I asked.