Christ. What kind of mother lets her child find dead people in her living room? I should’ve been there, would’ve been there, if not for Tina’s insanity. Or if I’d followed my own advice about staying out of it. I’m apparently much more upset about this than Starr is, though.
“Leo just went to sleep, that’s all,” she said when I finally stopped holding her so tightly she said she couldn’t breathe. “And he looked happy.”
A fact which Frances corroborated. And the paramedics, who assured me he’d gone in his sleep, he hadn’t felt anything. I suppose I’ll have to take their word for it. And after all, that’s what we all wish for at the end, isn’t it? Just go to sleep and not wake up. No pain, no fear, no knowledge, really.
There won’t be a funeral, or sitting shiva, or anything even remotely a service to mark his passing. He was adamant about that. For one thing, Leo hadn’t been a practicing Jew since he was a kid, although he went through the motions on High Holidays for my grandmother’s sake. For another, after the funerals for my mother, my father, my grandmother, he swore he’d come back and haunt me if I put anybody else through hell like that. Or wasted the money. I’d never known my grandfather to be stingy in his life, but spending money on a big, fancy box that was just going to be put in the ground, never mind a boatload of food he wouldn’t even get to eat was, in his opinion, downright idiotic. And if God, or anybody else, had a problem with that, tough. If there was an afterlife, He could take it up with Leo then. If there wasn’t, it was all moot, anyway.
He’d made arrangements with a local funeral home some time ago, so all I had to do was make a phone call last night. Easier than making a dentist’s appointment, he’d said when he’d told me. So the undertaker’s already taken him away. The cremation will be tomorrow morning, and I can get the ashes anytime after that. I have no idea what I’m going to do with them. Leo had made noises about going out to Shea Stadium and dumping them, but can I really do that?
I can’t understand why I’m not crying. Funny how I’ve been dreading this for years, but now that it’s happened…
Why can’t I feel anything?
Of course, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. The grief will come in its own good time, I suppose. It always does.
Not surprisingly, I totally spaced the interview. Mari was very sympathetic when she called, wondering where I was, saying she’d try to convince them to hold off making a decision until I could get in for an interview. I had just enough presence of mind to tell her not to bother. I mean, what’s the point? I can’t leave Starr now. And even after we’ve all adjusted, it’s not as if I have anyone I can leave her with, is it?
Mari said she totally understood, asked if there was anything she could do (I said no), to take care and she’d call me in a few weeks. I doubt she will, but whether she does or doesn’t is hardly a top priority in my thoughts right now.
Nikky, too, did the I’m-so-sorry-dear-take-all-the-time-you-need number. Although I could hear her suck in her breath when I said it would be at least a week before I’d be able to sort things out. Because of my daughter and all.
“Well, dear…I’m sure you’ll do the best you can.”
That’s the plan, yep.
I knew Leo had left a will, but when I couldn’t find it, I called the number listed under “lawyer” in his address book. Somebody named Stanley Goldfine. Stan—that’s what he told me to call him—asked me if I wanted him to messenger me a copy or come to his office, which wasn’t too far away. I opted for the office, figuring if I had any questions, he’d be right there, but that he send copies to anyone else mentioned in the will as he saw fit. I made an appointment for later this afternoon, called the few remaining relatives who would be even remotely interested in Leo’s passing, then steeled myself to call my sister out in Oyster Bay. I got her machine; since I didn’t think she’d exactly be broken up over the news, I left a message. I didn’t say anything about the will, since I honestly didn’t know at that point if she was even in it. Knowing Jennifer, however, I imagine she’ll contact me about it soon enough.
I asked Starr if she’d be okay with the Gomezes for an hour or so—it’s slowly dawning on me that, at least for the time being, I’m a landlord, criminy—threw on a turtleneck and two heavy sweaters (one my grandfather’s, one my dad’s) over a pair of jeans, slapped on enough makeup so I wouldn’t frighten any small children I might encounter, finger-fluffed my unwashed hair, and set off for the lawyer’s.
Which is where I am now.
Stanley Goldfine is one of those men you look at and think, gee, I bet he wasn’t bad-looking when he was younger, except then you realize he’s not old enough that you should be thinking this. Not a sharp edge anywhere on the man. Rogaine-fuzz blurring a rapidly retreating hairline, behind which lurks wavy, suspiciously dark hair. A beer keg where the six-pack abs should be. Still, he’s got kind blue eyes behind his tortoise-shell wirerims, a soothing voice and a very sweet smile. In other words, a chicken soup kinda guy—dependable, comforting, good for you.
I can’t remember the last time I had chicken soup.
Anyway. Stan shows me into his office (pleasantly, but not ostentatiously furnished, in neutral colors) dispenses the standard condolences, then motions for me to have a seat. Since I’d never heard my grandfather mention him, I ask him if he knew Leo well.
“No, not really,” Stan says, settling in behind his desk. “He just contacted me to draw up the will a few years ago, then once again after your father’s passing.”
He prattles on about this and that, nothing that needs my full attention, while I process that his gray suit is a few years old, I’m guessing, American-made, good quality but not top-of-the-line. And slightly ill-fitting—a little pulling at the shoulders, the sleeves a trifle too long—as though they didn’t have his exact size at Men’s Wearhouse so he took the closest thing, then couldn’t be bothered with alterations. I glance at his left hand, and…yep. Just as I thought. Indentation, but no ring. The telltale mark of the recently divorced.
I think of Luke and my chest cramps.
“Do you want me to read it to you, or read it yourself?”
What? Oh, right. The will. Which I’m about to read because my grandfather just died. Yesterday. I feel this emotional…heave. Like when you know you have to throw up but you’re not quite ready to let it go, yet. So I should be thinking about that, not about this guy’s ill-fitting clothes—and the fact that it’s taking everything I have not to ask if he’d like me to rework those armseyes, take up those cuffs—or Luke, or anything not directly related to why I’m here. God, I’m a horrible person. Then again, maybe this is some sort of defense mechanism, shielding me from reality until I can think about it without becoming hysterical.
I look across the desk at this benign little man and say, “I think I’d rather read it myself, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, sure, not a problem. Actually, tell you what…” Stan gets up, jiggling some loose change in his pocket. “My coffeemaker bit the dust this morning, so how about I just pop out for coffee, give you a little time to yourself? Nothing worse than having someone hang over your shoulder. Can I get you anything?”
Well, heck, since he’s offering. “A hot chocolate, maybe?”
“One hot chocolate, coming up. I’ll be back in two shakes. Oh—there’s a pad and pen right there, so you can jot down any notes you might have.”
After he’s gone, I smile a little. Who on earth says “two shakes” anymore? I settle back in the chair and start to read, peripherally aware of the soft drone of the receptionist talking on the phone on the other side of the closed door, the clanking of the radiator under the window, that undeniable hum in your own head you can only hear when you’re in a quiet room. I’ve always wondered what that was. Your own energy, maybe, like an engine on idle?
The first part of the will’s straightforward enough. Since my name’s been on Leo’s bank and money market accounts, that all passes to me, anyway. For what it’s
worth: the last time I saw any statements, he wasn’t exactly rolling in it, although he was never in danger of going bankrupt. Then we come to a few small bequests to a distant relative or two I’d never met. Jennifer and I are equal beneficiaries of a modest life insurance policy, which I already knew, and I get all the furniture—such as it is—in the house, which I didn’t. He and my grandmother had already set up a trust fund for Starr, which he’d continued to contribute to; that’ll come due when she’s eighteen.
Then we get to the good stuff. A pair of good stuffs, actually.
First, he left the rental house to me, the other one in trust for Starr. But she can’t sell hers until she turns twenty-one, and I can’t sell mine as long as either of the current tenants wants to stay. Then, before I can fully absorb the implications of that bit of news, I see a codicil, added a couple years ago, that leaves all the funds in another, heretofore unknown money market account, to one Sonja Koepke.
The door opens behind me. “Well, then,” Stan says, “how are we doing?”
I look up. “I’m not sure. Who’s Sonja Koepke?”
A tidy little frown settles between his brows as he removes the hot chocolate from a white paper bag and sets it in front of me. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
I frown back. “My grandfather didn’t tell you?”
“No. Although…” The lawyer finally sits, rooting in the bag for his coffee, which he lifts out so carefully I find myself holding my breath. He shoots me an apologetic look. “I periodically go through my clients’ files, to make sure they’re up-to-date, see if they want to add or change anything to their wills, and I realized I still didn’t have Ms. Koepke’s address or phone number. Which your grandfather had told me he’d get to me some time ago.” He shakes his head. “I was going to call him this week, as it happens.”
I decide this is a good time to take a sip of the hot chocolate, which instantaneously smelts my tastebuds.
I jump; so does Stan. “Ms. Levine! Are you okay?”
Unable to speak, I pantomime this whole it’s okay/it was just the hot chocolate/sit, sit schtick.
He hesitates, then carefully lowers himself back into his seat. Stanley Goldfine, I decide, is a very careful man. “Are you sure you’re all right? Your eyes are red.”
I nod vigorously and croak out, “I’m fine, please go on.”
“Anyway, do you know anybody who might know who she is?”
The searing pain has finally subsided, leaving in its wake a scorched wasteland where my tongue used to be. “I’ll ask around,” I manage. “Then there’s this part…”
I point to the bit about the houses; Stan cranes his head to see where I’m looking, then turns to that page in his own copy. He reads as he pries the lid off his coffee, squinting slightly, like he won’t admit he needs glasses.
“Ah, yes. Thought you’d wonder about that.” He takes a sip of his coffee, then peers at me. “You’re not happy with it?”
“I’m not anything,” I answer truthfully. “I guess I figured he’d split them between me and my sister, if anything. Not me and my daughter.”
Something you could almost call a smile twitches at the lawyer’s mouth. “I may be speaking out of turn, but I don’t think your sister was ever part of that equation.” Then he leans forward. “Your grandfather wanted to make sure you and your daughter always had a home, though. And you can sell the rental house, as long as his conditions are met.”
I smirk. “I don’t see either the Nguyens or the Gomezes leaving anytime soon. Not with the deal my grandfather gave them.”
Ten year leases at five percent increases per year, on rents that are below market to begin with—leases he only offered after both families had lived there for a year and proved to him they cared about the property as much as he did. Those two apartments were the best-kept secrets in Queens, let me tell you. No way were either of those families going to leave.
As Stan drones on about property values and how the houses probably weren’t in danger of devaluing by the time Starr might be ready to sell hers—in sixteen years—reality is beginning to entwine its nasty little tentacles through my brain. My grandfather’s “ensuring” Starr and I had a place to live translates to the simple fact that, unless I miraculously land some phenomenally well-paying job, we’re stuck in Queens for God only knows how long. Hell, we’re stuck in that house for God only knows how long. And on the face of it, I know Leo meant well. He only wanted to protect us. All of us, including the rental families. Except…except I can’t help feeling what he was really saying was that he didn’t trust me. That, if he’d left both houses to me free and clear and I’d sold them, that I’d somehow…I don’t know. Blow it, I suppose. That I wouldn’t be smart enough, or judicious enough, to know how to handle the money.
And you know what the really sad thing about all this is? That I can’t for sure say that he wasn’t right. I mean, I haven’t exactly proven so far that I have a clue how to function in the real world, have I? What have I got to show for my twenty-eight years? A résumé consisting of a string of (let’s face it) shit jobs and an unplanned pregnancy, that’s what.
“Ms. Levine?” The lawyer’s gently spoken words rattle me out of my maudlin musings, which is when I realize I’m crying. Damn. He’s holding out a tissue across the desk, which I take and loudly blow my nose. “It’s just now hitting, isn’t it?” he says kindly.
“Yeah,” I say, wiping my eyes. “You could say that.”
There are flowers on my doorstep when I get home. Many, many flowers. I cannot deal with them right now. If ever. I’m not sure what I can deal with, frankly, but death flowers ain’t it. If Frances is home, I might go over and let her do the mother hen thing, fix me a cup of hot, too-sweet tea and let me gorge on Milano cookies. But first I have to collect my child. And while I’m at it, this probably would be a good time to reassure my tenants—I shudder—that they’re not being kicked out on the street.
As I said, my father, sister and I moved in with my grandparents after my mother’s death, at which time our old house was converted into the two apartments. For the most part, the smaller duplexes like ours only converted well into one-bed-room apartments, or small twos at the most. But with a little clever maneuvering and an eager young contractor, Leo managed to make the bottom apartment into a three-bedroom, by turning the finished basement into a living/dining/kitchen combo and then making over everything on the first floor into bedrooms and bath. The top apartment they made into a very nice one-bedroom, where Mr. and Mrs. Nguyen live.
When I tell Mrs. Nguyen that nothing’s changed, except she’ll be making her rent check out to me instead of my grandfather, the soft-spoken sixtyish woman looks torn between sympathy and extreme relief. She expresses her condolences, sings my grandfather’s praises for several seconds, then asks me in careful English if we need any food. I decline; then, after several obviously tormented seconds, she apologizes for the bad timing, but she can’t get her kitchen faucet to shut off all the way and the dripping is starting to get on both her and her husband’s nerves.
I tell her I’ll take care of it. Of course, I have no earthly idea what I mean by that, but I’m sincere. Somehow, I will take care of it.
Then I go downstairs to get Starr. Mrs. Gomez—a former beautician, I think my grandfather had said, a few years older than me, very pregnant, very pretty, with curly brown hair caught up in a ponytail—takes one look at me and lets out a soft gasp. Our relationship is maybe a Level 3—with Tina being a 1 and the guy at the newsstand I say “hi” to every morning being a 5—so we exchange the odd pleasantry now and again, but we’re not close by any means. Maybe not quite a 3, now that I think of it, more like a 3½. Anyway, she reaches around her enormous belly and pulls me inside.
“You’ve been crying? Of course, you’ve been crying, what am I saying? Can I get you anything? A cup of tea or coffee…?”
“No, no, thanks. I just came to get Starr. And to tell you you don’t need to worry about the a
partment. Nothing’s changing as far as that goes. Well, except that I’m your landlord now, I guess.”
Like Mrs. Nguyen, she looks torn between regret and relief. “Thanks. This wouldn’t’ve been a real good time for us to have to look for a new place.”
My gaze strays to her belly, barely contained underneath her sweatshirt. A little twinge of nostalgia sneaks past all the other flotsam floating around inside my head, memories of the fear and excitement and anticipation, wondering who this was inside me, would we like each other, would I be able to answer her questions, be what she needed me to be…?
“Mickey and I thought maybe you’d sell up and leave the neighborhood, actually. Your grandfather mentioned something about you working in fashion, maybe moving to Manhattan at some point….” Then her cheeks pink. “Listen to me, going on about the house when your grandfather just died!”
“No, no, really…it’s okay. And I’m not going anywhere right away, so please, don’t think another thing about it.”
After a moment, she nods, then says, “You sure you won’t have that cup of tea? It would only take a sec—”
“No. Thanks. I really need to get back—”
“Sure, sure, I understand. Well,” Liv says, turning and starting slowly up the stairs, “your daughter’s been trying to teach my seven-year-old how to play checkers for the past hour.”
“Is it working?” I say when she stops to get her breath—oh, how well I remember that.
“I have no idea.” She resumes the climb. “All I know is, they’ve been quiet. Locito conked out about a half hour ago on my bed, and it’s been Heaven. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to start a thought and actually finish it, too!”
The Gomezes have the two boys, seven-year-old Andy and a three-year-old named Erik who they mostly call Locito—little crazy one.
We reach the doorway to the boys’ room, which is your standard bunk-beds-and-wall-to-wall-toys space. On the dresser sits an aquarium with something furry molded to one corner, sacked out. In the middle of the chaos, Starr and Andy are sprawled on their bellies, feet in the air, chins in hands, as Starr explains—for what I have a feeling is not the first time—the rules of the game.
Hanging by a Thread Page 14
