The Fixer Upper

by Judith Arnold

  She was homeless once again.

  Twenty-Two

  Ned checked the address once more. The guys on the crew had told him Spring Street was a block before Broome Street, so if he hit Broome he’d know he had gone too far. Greater Manhattan Design Associates had renovated a loft in SoHo last year, before Ned had joined the firm, so they all were familiar with the neighborhood.

  Ned was getting familiar with Manhattan’s neighborhoods, too. He suspected that by winter he would feel like a true New Yorker. The city didn’t take long to suck a person in and transform him. Already he was walking faster, talking faster, getting by on less sleep—and not even noticing the white noise of city traffic when he did finally crawl into bed.

  He wanted to crawl into bed right now—with Libby. Instead, he was marching downtown to do something that would probably make her feel a whole lot better than sex.

  Purple shadows stretched across the narrow downtown streets as the sun slid past New Jersey to the west. Ned paused at a corner when the light turned red—one sure sign that he wasn’t yet a true New Yorker. Most of the other pedestrians hurrying home after work would never let a mere red light stop them. They charged across the street, glaring fiercely at any car that dared to honk at them. Ned had foolishly hesitated at the curb, and the cars surged into the intersection, denying him the opportunity to jaywalk.

  He hoped Harry Kimmelman had hurried home. Ned would hate to have begged Mrs. Karpinsky to stay with Eric an extra hour—and begged Eric not to whine about staying with Mrs. Karpinsky an extra hour—and walked all the way from the Meatpacking District to Kimmelman’s place on Thompson Street, only to find the SOB not home. Ned could have phoned ahead, except that if he had, Harry might have told him not to come. And damn it, he was going to set the bastard straight. Face-to-face, mano a mano.

  Every time he thought back to last night, he suffered a surge of fury. He’d spent most of the day staring at one of Macie Colwyn’s grandiose pillars or her heating vents or the pickled-maple kitchen cabinets, which had been delivered that morning, and finding himself pondering not the job at hand but the tension that had tightened Libby’s mouth throughout yesterday evening. He remembered the flashes of panic in her expressive eyes, the way she’d choked on small talk and picked at her food and let her whacko sister-in-law dominate the dinner conversation. While Libby had silently stewed, Vivienne had held forth on her belief that men watched televised sports to avoid thinking about sex—a laughable theory, given that men thought about sex all the time, even during the Superbowl—and her complaints about the quality of wine served after services at her temple, and her concerns about whether her parents had enough money socked away to retire comfortably in ten years, “Because I won’t be able to give them much. And Harry’s such a putz, who knows what he’ll do?”

  Ned had heard the rise and fall of Harry’s voice in Libby’s bedroom yesterday, just before the guy had taken off. Harry and Libby had exchanged words heated enough to transform the entire apartment into a tropical paradise. But Libby clearly hadn’t wished to discuss the argument in front of the kids and her sister-in-law. She’d put on a show after Harry’s departure, smiling gamely, setting the table, scraping the charred rice out of the pot and calling everyone into the dining room for dinner. She’d eaten little, but downed three glasses of wine, one more glass than Vivienne had consumed. And Vivienne had walked out on her husband. According to the wine-o-meter, whatever Harry had done to Libby in the bedroom was worse than a marital rupture.

  Vivienne had insisted on hanging around in the kitchen after dinner, helping Libby clean up after the meal. Ned had wanted to be Libby’s helper—he’d hoped that doing the dishes together would give them a chance to talk—but in Vivienne’s presence, Libby hadn’t said much. She’d only nodded whenever Vivienne cast aspersions on her brother. “That squash club he belongs to? It’s all goyim. Forgive me, Ned,” she’d added, although he’d had no idea what goyim meant. “He’s such a snob, Libby. Did I ever tell you about the time we went on a vacation in the Catskills, and he spent the whole week kvetching because there was no place to go scuba diving?” She must have noticed Ned’s confusion, because she’d explained to him, “Jews don’t scuba.”

  “Sure they do,” Libby had argued, but Vivienne had sounded so authoritative, Ned had taken her word for it.

  “I can’t believe he barged in here like that!” Vivienne had ranted. “No invitation, no warning, just ‘Hello! Drop dead! Goodbye!’”

  “Let’s not talk about it,” Libby had said, considerately not mentioning that Vivienne had also barged in with no invitation or warning. At least she’d seemed unlikely to tell anyone other than her brother to drop dead. “Where do you want to sleep tonight?” Libby had continued, deftly changing the subject. “You can have the living-room couch, but it’s lumpy. Or you could share my bed. It’s big enough.”

  Ned had suffered a stab of jealousy. He would have liked to share Libby’s bed, but the odds of his getting his wish last night had been zero to none.

  Eric had appeared at the door. “Reva and I changed the Web site a little. Wanna see?”

  Ned had grabbed the opening. “Reva’s Aunt Vivienne will check it out,” he’d said. “Ms. Kimmelman and I have to talk.” He’d punctuated this statement by giving Vivienne a pointed look.

  She’d shrugged and spread her arms. “You want me to check out the Web site? I’ll check out the Web site.” Then she’d followed Eric through the dining room and out of sight.

  Ned had closed the kitchen door, pried the dishcloth out of Libby’s hand, turned her away from the sink and wrapped his arms around her. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” Libby had said, then made a little sound that was a cross between a laugh and a sob. “Harry decided not to help me buy this apartment, that’s all.”

  “Why?” he’d asked in a level voice, even though anger had bubbled up inside him like some dangerous chemical reaction. He’d figured he would have to stay calm in case Libby exploded. They couldn’t both explode.

  She hadn’t exploded. She’d made another hybrid laugh-sob sound, then eased out of his arms. “God only knows. He thinks I’m a bad mother.”

  “Why?” Judging by the result—Reva—Ned would grade Libby pretty high on the parent scale. Higher than him, for sure.

  “Because Reva’s friendly with a black musician? I don’t know. Then again, Reva may have nothing to do with it. Maybe he’s just pissed that you took the paint off the fireplace.”

  Ned reviewed the situation as he turned the corner onto Spring Street. He was going to pay a call on the putz and tell him that, fireplace or no, he’d made a promise to Libby and he’d better not break it. The apartment on West End Avenue was her home, hers and Reva’s. If the fact that Ned had rehabilitated the fireplace—or, more likely, the fact that Ned had slept with Libby and hoped to sleep with her again in the near future—was enough to make Harry deny Libby her home, then he deserved to have his balls torn off, fricasseed and served with some of Libby’s burned rice on the side.

  From Spring Street, Ned headed onto Thompson and found the building. Libby hadn’t supplied him with the address; he hadn’t informed her of his plan to pay a call on Harry, because he’d been sure she would tell him not to. Ned respected her, and he believed in letting a woman fight her own battles. But this was about her fireplace, damn it. This was about Harry punishing her for including Ned in her life, and that made it his battle.

  In any case, learning Harry’s address had been simple enough. A person could find just about anything on the Internet.

  Although the building was fairly large, only twelve names appeared on the intercom buttons. Two apartments per floor, Ned calculated. They must be huge apartments. Not surprising—Harry was rich, after all. A hotshot corporate attorney, Libby had told him.

  Ned pressed the button next to Kimmelman. After a minute, a woman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Yes?”

  “My name is Ned Donovan.” H
e leaned toward the speaker and projected his voice. Shouting into intercoms in empty vestibules was one of those native-New-Yorker activities he hadn’t yet grown used to. “I’d like to see Harry Kimmelman.”

  “Ned who?” the woman asked.

  “Donovan. I’m a friend of Libby’s.” After a few seconds of silence, he added, “It’s important.”

  The inner door buzzed as the lock was released. He opened it, went inside and summoned the elevator. Unlike Libby’s elevator, this one had no paneling, no brass, no charm. The walls were gray, for God’s sake. Elevators were inherently gray. Giving them gray walls was redundant.

  He emerged on the top floor and pressed the doorbell for Harry’s apartment. The woman who opened the door was thin and painfully chic, her streaked blond hair cut in an angular style, her eyes impeccably made up and her nose a bit too small for her face. She wore a brown slacks outfit in some fabric he’d never seen before, shiny but with little nubs texturing it, and the open neckline displayed her collarbones and her scrawny neck. She needed at least ten more pounds on her, and a normal hairstyle. Ned couldn’t believe Harry would have left a real woman like Libby for a plastic one like this.

  Then again, looks weren’t everything. This woman might have the perfect personality for Harry.

  “Hi,” he said, attempting a smile he hoped was neither too friendly nor too scary. “I’m Ned Donovan. Can I talk to Harry for a minute?”

  The woman eyed him up and down. Having come here straight from work, he wasn’t at his most presentable. He hadn’t performed too much messy labor today—mostly overseeing the work of the electrician and plumber as they piped and wired the kitchen—but a laborer couldn’t leave a construction site without some crud on him. And Ned’s clothes—stained denim jeans and an old U of P sweatshirt under his denim jacket—would seem shabby even if they were clean.

  She twisted to call over her shoulder, “Harry? That man is here.” She made the word man sound like a curse.

  “I’m coming.” Harry’s voice echoed from the nether reaches of the apartment. He strode down the entry hall and joined the woman at the door. His suit was perfectly tailored to his lanky frame, and his face had about as much character as low-fat yogurt. Maybe some women considered all that bland symmetry attractive. At one time, Libby must have. That realization unnerved Ned a little.

  “Hi,” Ned said, reviving his neither-here-nor-there smile.

  “So we meet again,” Harry responded.

  “We need to talk about last night,” Ned said, wondering if they were going to have their talk across the threshold, him out in the elevator alcove and Harry safely inside the apartment. With only one other neighbor on the floor, Harry might not worry about anyone eavesdropping on their conversation.

  Harry sized him up, then waved him inside. “Please, come in,” he said.

  Great. We’re going to be civilized, Ned thought as he entered the apartment.

  It was everything Libby’s apartment wasn’t: austere, tidy and chilly. Accompanying Harry down the hall, the walls of which were decorated with framed photographs of dead trees in silhouette, Ned passed a state-of-the-art kitchen much like the one he was building for Macie Colwyn. The hall ended in a spacious great room, in which everything—walls, windows, furniture—had been designed with a straightedge and protractor. The couches, chairs, bookcases, tables and area rugs were all rectangular. Ice cubes had more curves—and more warmth.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Harry asked, loosening his tie as he crossed to a rectangular bar built into one wall.

  Very civilized. If they shared a drink, Ned supposed no blood would be shed. He wondered if Harry’s bar glasses were rectangular, too. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a beer?” he asked.

  Harry gave him a withering stare.

  Okay. Ned would be civilized. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said.

  Harry turned from him, plunked some ice into two highball glasses and filled them with Scotch. Carrying the glasses across the room, he gestured toward two of the boxy leather chairs. Ned lowered himself into one. It was as uncomfortable as it looked.

  Harry handed Ned his drink and then sat facing him, cradling his glass without sipping from it. It was his prop. Ned needed a prop, too—and a glass of Harry’s high-priced Scotch wouldn’t do. A hammer would have worked. He should have brought one with him.

  Lacking a hammer, Ned opted for directness. “The fireplace had to be stripped, so I stripped it. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t help Libby buy her apartment.”

  Harry blinked. Evidently, he hadn’t expected him to be as blunt as, well, a hammer. “What I do with Libby is none of your concern.”

  “Actually, it is my concern,” Ned said. “She thinks you’re backing out on her because of the rehab work I’ve been doing. The rehab work is good for her apartment. It increases the value of the place. By having me do this work, Libby’s demonstrating how much the apartment means to her.”

  “If she can afford to have that rehab work done, then let her pay for the apartment herself,” Harry snapped. “My daughter’s home was a zoo last night. My meshuggeneh sister was hiding out from her husband there, and you were tearing apart the living room, and some street schnorrer was using the electronic equipment I bought for Reva. Why should I pour money into that kind of tsores?”

  “That street schnorrer is a talented musician,” Ned argued, wondering what a schnorrer was. “Maybe you ought to consider investing some money in him. He’s going places.”

  “One place he shouldn’t be going is Libby’s apartment.” Harry finally took a sip of his Scotch.

  Ned took a sip, too. He wasn’t much of a Scotch drinker, but this was definitely the good stuff. “If Libby loses the apartment, where is she supposed to go?” he asked. “Vermont?” The notion almost made him laugh. Libby would hate Vermont. The peace, the forests and the big blue sky would drive her crazy.

  “Would it kill her to move to Queens?” Harry retorted. “There are lots of nice apartments in Queens. She could find a place as big as where she’s living now for half the money.”

  Queens was another New York neighborhood Ned wasn’t familiar with. He suspected that to Libby, it was as remote as Vermont. “Queens would put you farther away from Reva,” he pointed out.

  “I have a car. I could drive to Queens.” Harry drank some more Scotch.

  So did Ned. If he could afford this quality of booze, he might turn into a Scotch drinker. “You weren’t the bozo who painted the fireplace, right?” he asked.

  Harry’s eyes hardened. “Why on earth would you even ask such a question?”

  “Somebody painted it,” Ned said. “Someone globbed multiple coats of white enamel over a beautiful marble structure. If it wasn’t you, I don’t see why you’d be so ticked about someone—namely me—removing that enamel.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” Harry shook his head. “Libby’s opening her house to all sorts of strangers—”

  “Libby and I are friends.”

  “She never mentioned you to me.”

  “Does she mention all her other friends to you?”

  Harry mulled that over, swallowed some Scotch and sighed. “Let’s not beat around the bush,” he said, and Ned braced himself for the possibility that Harry would start wielding his own metaphorical hammer. “Libby can barely afford the damn apartment. She certainly can’t afford paying people to renovate the place. I have some idea what handymen cost in this city, and let me tell you, it’s made me wonder whether I made the right choice when I went to law school.”

  Yeah, sure. Handymen made more than corporate lawyers.

  “I know Libby can’t afford you,” Harry continued, “so I put two and two together. You do something for her, and she does something for you. And I don’t like it.”

  So that was Harry’s swing of the hammer—and as far as Ned was concerned, Harry had seriously toed the nail. “You think she’s sleeping with me in payment for my work on the fireplace,” he said, not
sure whether to laugh or to punch Harry’s lights out.

  “Women have done more for less,” Harry said, as if he were some kind of expert. “And with my daughter living under Libby’s roof, I—”

  “Whoa.” Ned held up his hand to stop him. “I’m not sure which I love more, Libby or her fireplace. Probably Libby—but I fell in love with the fireplace first. One thing has nothing to do with another.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “Not only are you supposed to believe it, but you’re supposed to let Libby hang on to that fireplace once I’m done with it.”

  Harry mulled this over, then decided he needed more Scotch. He crossed to the bar and brought back the bottle so he could add a little to Ned’s glass. Ned didn’t object.

  “My real concern is Reva, of course,” Harry said.

  “Of course,” Ned echoed.

  “Bonnie and I are married. You and Libby are not.”

  “And all Reva ever sees of me is when I’ve got my head stuck up the chimney, trying to bring that fireplace back to life. What, do you think that if you force Libby to move to Queens she’s never going to date? She’s a smart, beautiful woman. If she lived in Queens, I’d travel to Queens to see her. Kicking her out of her apartment isn’t going to turn her into a nun.”

  “She’s Jewish,” Harry muttered. “Nunhood is out of the question.”

  Given what she’d told Ned about her sex life—or lack thereof—he didn’t believe nunhood was out of the question at all. “What she is is a terrific lady,” he said. “And you and she have a terrific daughter. And you’re a good man. So let her and her daughter stay in their apartment. Help them out on the finances. Save the fireplace.”

  Harry drank. He stared at his glass. He stared at Ned. He drank again. But he didn’t argue.

  By the time they were on their third round, Ned had told him about Deborah, about his moving to New York and joining Greater Manhattan Design Associates, and about his love of old architecture—which was why he was so taken with Libby’s prewar building. Harry had admitted that Libby was a fine woman, just not the woman for him—which Ned had no trouble believing, if the chic, skeletal woman who occasionally wandered into the room and made comments about a reception at a gallery in Westbeth was his type. Whenever she appeared, Harry would dutifully glance at his watch, tell her he was noting the time and remind her it never paid to arrive at these events early. Then he’d launch into another story about how often Libby had vomited during her pregnancy, or how bad her taste in home decor was. Ned would concede that she hadn’t done much with her apartment—but then, she lacked the money. Harry and his wife apparently had plenty of money, and their home decor put him in mind of a bad science-fiction movie.