Twelve Rooms With A View Part 24

I started with the clothes. Sophie's hippie phase especially had some great moments, and as I had discovered, her clothes actually fit me. So I picked out the best of the Indian-print and tie-dyed tops and skirts, and even a dress with little mirrors all over it. I chose a couple of pairs of cowboy boots and four or five pairs of shoes. I took out two boxes of yarn and knitting needles with the thought that I had always wanted to learn how to knit. And then I grabbed her old Canon, even though it was a film SLR and totally useless anymore.

So I spent the morning and early afternoon picking out stuff to use or save and hanging it up or hiding it in my little room. The way Lucy was talking, I thought, there's no telling how much longer I'll be here, and just going through Sophie's things made me want to turn that sorry old place into a home again. I found a table and a lamp that were old and beat-up enough to look like I might have bought them at a stoop sale. I even found a small Turkish area rug with funny little animals all over it; next to my equally small bed, it made the room quite cozy. I had already lifted a dozen or so mystery novels from the boxes underneath Mom's bed and lined them against the wall where I slept, so the room was beginning to look as if an actual person lived there.

I picked up Sophie's alligator clutch from the floor where I had dropped it, wondering where I could hide something that valuable. And then I thought, oh it doesn't look valuable, it looks like an old purse, n.o.body's going to steal it.

So it wasn't a big leap, frankly, to the next step. I was on the verge of money problems. I had come to that apartment with nothing, really nothing, and then I was lucky enough to find seven hundred dollars, and then I squeezed two hundred out of Len and eighty out of the Whites. I had been living on that for a little over two months! I was pretty much broke now, and that purse was worth at least five thousand dollars. And the dress, I suspected, was worth quite a bit as well. I found a shopping bag and put the clutch in the bottom and the Balenciaga on top of it. And then I dropped the pearls in there too.

In the elevator I took a couple of breaths and turned my brain over to reptile mode, which is what I do when I know I'm doing something wrong-like stealing-but I also know that I'm going to do it anyway. Not that I make a habit of stealing; if I did, I might not be so broke all the time. Or I might be spending more time in jail than the occasional overnight visit. In any case, I don't steal except in the direst circ.u.mstances. And in this case, I wasn't all that bothered about it. What good would it do Sophie or my mother or me if I just left the stuff back there and let it be tossed or grabbed up by lawyers or Sotheby's or Mrs. Westmoreland or someone else from the building? Why leave it for any of them? That is what my determined reptile brain was telling me when I stepped off the elevator: I needed the money, no one else needed the money. No one else was going to help me out; only Sophie would.

I didn't even make it through the lobby.

The response to our c.o.c.ky little performance at Sotheby's had apparently been swift and decisive. Right there in the Edgewood lobby I found myself in the middle of another press conference, this one decidedly less civil, particularly with regard to me and my family and what we thought we were doing there. The place was packed; there were at least twice as many reporters and photographers as we had seen the day before, shoved together in every available square inch from the elevator bank past Frank's podium all the way to the front door. Everybody's backs were to me as they tried to take photographs and shoot questions at the small but definite cadre of speakers gathered in front of the giant fireplace and trying to answer the questions being thrown at them. There were no microphones at this press conference, so people were shouting.

"Mr. Drinan-Mr. Drinan-Mr. Drinan!" somebody yelled. "Has any court issued a ruling on the status of the will?"

"The Surrogate's Court has not issued a ruling, but as of this afternoon a cloud has been placed on the t.i.tle. The Livingston Mansion Apartment, my mother's family apartment, is not being represented for sale at this time. The announcement that Sotheby's will be representing the Livingston Mansion Apartment is a complete fabrication," Doug shouted. "The so-called heirs of Olivia Finn have no claim on it. The will that purports to bequeath the apartment to Olivia Finn has been determined to be fraudulent."

The alarming and decisive confidence of this a.s.sertion pretty much scared the s.h.i.+t out of me for a second, but when I stood on my toes and caught a glimpse of old Doug over the heads of the two gigantic camera guys who were blocking my view, I could see that Doug wasn't so sure of himself. His air of frustrated defeat had turned into something like a permanent expression of deep unhappiness. His lips had almost disappeared, his hair was disappearing, and his skin was gray, which may just have been the ugly fluorescent lighting in the lobby, but I had seen Frank under those lights a thousand times by now, and he always looked fine. Doug looked paunchy and angry, and while he made it sound like he was winning, he looked like he was losing. But as Doug kept talking, I remembered that someone who is losing has nothing more to lose and is usually the worst enemy you can have.

From where I was standing I couldn't see anything but backs. There were more camera flashes. Someone else asked a question I couldn't hear, and somebody else, with a big voice, answered. "It's possible that the senior Mr. Drinan was never intended to be the heir in the first place. We have not been able to ascertain that the will of the first Mrs. Drinan was ever probated, in which case the doc.u.ment being considered by the Surrogate's Court at the present time will carry no authority whatsoever. If that is the case, the sons of Sophia Livingston, who grew up in the apartment, are clearly the rightful heirs."

There were more mumbled questions, and the guy with the big voice made another announcement. "Why don't we let the board answer that question."

He and some of the others up there conversed among themselves, and then a third voice started to speak, but there was so much overlap he couldn't really be heard. The room was getting hot from all the camera lights, and people were starting to shove a bit, because it was so crowded and no one could see what was happening.

"We can't hear!" someone in the back yelled. After some more frustrated mumbling, the loud voice in the front spoke up again.

"Yes, sorry, sorry, here this seems to help," it announced. There was some shuffling, and then Len stepped up onto one of the lobby's wingback chairs.

I just stared. It really was Len, and his hair was combed and he was wearing a lovely dark green suit and tie, but his eyes were crazier than ever.

"The Edgewood in no way supports the supposed heirs of Olivia Finn. Our understanding is that, contrary to the a.s.sertions made by Sotheby's, there is in fact a cloud on the t.i.tle, but that doesn't matter because the co-op board will not endorse any sale at this time. These women are no better than thieves as far as we are concerned. It is disgraceful that they have succeeded in this dreadful misappropriation of property to any degree whatsoever," he hissed. "And it will not be allowed."

Some more mumbling at Len's feet apparently struck a nerve, because he became completely incensed. "Yes there is, there is someone living there who has no rights at all, and the building has very much taken note of it, and she is going to be evicted immediately!" he declared hotly. "This is a landmark building, and the indignity-the indignity of this pretender and interloper-will no longer be tolerated. Unless these people vacate the premises within the week, the building will bring its own action against them!" There was some more mumbling, which made Len even madder. "Legality-there has been too much talk about legality! What about what is historic! What about what is right! What about that!"

In spite of the tidy suit, Len was starting to look and sound completely psychotic. I couldn't believe it; he was like a different person. I wanted to shout at him, I'm taking care of your moss, you a.s.shole! But that would not have helped my situation. His angry exhortations were having their effect on the mood of the room. Some of the photographers in the back were shoving each other to get a decent shot; many were just holding their cameras above their heads and firing off their motor drives, hoping they'd end up with something worth printing. But some of the reporters at the back were feeling left out, so they started shouting questions really loudly, partly out of frustration and partly so they could be heard. "Has the building started eviction proceedings?" a skinny girl in a red jacket shouted. I wanted to hit her, but I was beginning to worry that someone would notice that the evil pretender and interloper was standing right there spying on the proceedings, and they'd mob me.

Which actually is what happened next, just not to me. Someone up front tried to answer the skinny reporter's question with what may have been the last shred of reason in the room. "No one is being evicted!" he shouted, but then there was a kind of swelling up and movement near the front door; one of the tenants was coming home, and those of us back by the elevators were getting shoved. Seriously, it's not like there were a hundred people there-I don't know how many were there, maybe thirty-but the foyer of the Edge is not a limitless s.p.a.ce. That one extra person seems to have been the tipping point. Or maybe it was who she was, because suddenly all the reporters started to shout and turn their attention toward the doorway, where the beautiful Julianna Gideon was trying to make her way in.

I had seen her only a couple times, but this crowd was made up of the kind of society writers who know where you live and how much money you have and how old your family is and what parties you go to and what charity events you attend. In any event, they all knew who she was, and, more important, they cared. "Miss Gideon! Miss Gideon!" they shouted, which in the moment honestly sounded sort of obscenely polite, given that they were shoving around her like a crazed soccer mob and sticking their cameras in her face ruthlessly. "Can we get a comment about the controversy? Have you met any of the women who now claim part owners.h.i.+p of the building? Will you support the co-op board if they attempt eviction proceedings?"

I couldn't even see Julianna at first, but then I spotted that beautiful head of hair, her face tucked down against her shoulder, as she gently tried to make her way through the swarm. She wore a soft rose-colored coat, which had been pulled open by her struggle with the crowd, and she carried a couple of expensive shopping bags that kept getting caught behind her, so she kept turning back to murmur, "Excuse me, so sorry, excuse me." She would try to move forward, then get dragged back, people were shouting, and then she threw back her head, releasing her face from all those dark curls with an almost angelic despair. Her face went all white and her knees buckled and she started to go down.

Who knows what might have happened-she had fainted, no question, and people were being careless indeed. But Frank appeared out of the crowd and caught her. She fell into his arms, and he picked her up and shouldered his way through the mob, carrying her the last few steps to where I was standing in front of the elevators. Her head was tipped back, and her curls fell gracefully around the epaulets on his doorman's uniform. I had enough presence of mind to swing the elevator door open for them and swing myself in behind. The reporters were closing in, and Julianna wasn't the only one who needed to make an escape. "What floor is she on, Frank?" I said fast, reaching for the b.u.t.tons.

"Eleven," he told me.

Just then a hand reached in and stopped the elevator door from closing. "No no no no," I begged, half under my breath. I actually smacked the hand, hard, and then tried to pry the fingers off the sliding panel as I shoved my body in front of Julianna and Frank so that no one could push their way in.

"Would you relax! Tina, Jesus, owww." I looked up from the fingers still clinging to the edge of the panel to see who was blocking the crowd of reporters, which looked small and insignificant now, a bunch of society scribblers trying to make something out of nothing. "You gonna bite me?" Pete asked.

"I was thinking about it."

"I'm sure. She dropped these." He shoved in the two elegant shopping bags-pristine, with corded handles, one from Barney's, the other from Bergdorf Goodman-which had slipped from Julianna's grasp.

"Thanks," I said.

"Wait wait, is this yours?" he asked. And he pushed in the bag I had been carrying-the brown paper shopping bag containing his mother's Balenciaga dress and alligator clutch and her pearls. I felt myself turning red, but he didn't know; how could he know.

"Go on, get out of here," he said, tipping his head toward the call b.u.t.tons. He turned his back to me and held up his hands, blocking access to the shouting reporters. "Back up, back up, you f.u.c.king piranhas," he ordered.

"Is that one of the other heirs?" somebody asked, putting two and two together.

"I don't know, is it?" he wondered. I didn't hear anything further. The door closed, the elevator lifted, and we left him and the ensuing chaos behind.

23.

HIGH ABOVE THE CITY, WITH SWEEPING VIEWS OF THE PARK SIMILAR to my own, the Gideon apartment was a haven of peace and light. Every one of the rooms had been "done," apparently by some famous designer, in a palette of gold and white. You walked into the living room and felt like you were floating.

Frank was still carrying Julianna in his arms. She had revived to the point that she could insist he put her down, but not with any real force. "I'm fine, really, Frank, I promise, this is so silly," she protested, as she leaned her cheek against his chest. I had opened the door with Frank's master keys, which he tossed to me in the elevator with almost alarming speed and accuracy, as if he had been preparing for this moment his entire life. In any case, he tossed me the keys and I knew what to do with them. I grabbed her bags and he held on to Julianna and we brought her safely home, where he laid her on a milk white sofa in front of a bank of windows overlooking the world.

"I was so frightened," she said, smiling up at him. Frank knelt beside her and pushed a strand of curling hair off her cheek.

"You're all right now," he said.

"I'm perfect now," she said. "Thank you."

She reached over and held his hand. Frank just stared at her, his face so full of wonder you truly thought the universe might stop. They had completely forgotten that I was back in the corner by the door; both of them were clearly so content just looking at each other. I almost shouted, "Kiss her! Kiss her!" but there was no time.

"What is going on here?" someone announced, behind us. Before I could even turn to say h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Gideon with the steely gray hair swept by me to join her daughter on that pristine couch. When Julianna lay on it, it looked like a bed, but as soon as her ferocious mother sat next to her it looked like a throne. It had strange paw-like feet that you noticed only when Mom was sitting there.

"Oh, mother, I'm fine," Julianna began. Mother cut her off.

"You're clearly not fine, someone just carried you into your own apartment. What happened?" Mrs. Gideon turned on Frank and me as if we were the problem here and not the solution. She was a fairly frightening person, truth be told. She kept asking questions, but they didn't sound a bit like questions; every word out of her mouth sounded like a complete accusation. She was honestly no fun at all.

"There was a crowd down in the lobby, things were a little upsetting," Frank explained.

"Yes, things are upsetting, people in the building are upset, my understanding is that it's being handled, Frank, I don't know what it has to do with you," Mrs. Gideon snapped, standing. "And I don't appreciate your bringing her into my home." She barely flicked her eyes in my direction; I was beneath her, and besides, she was having too much fun giving Frank a hard time. "Surely you know that I would consider that inappropriate."

Frank was completely mortified. "I ... I ... I ...," he began, but she was having none of it.

"You've done enough, now go," she ordered.

"Mother. Please." Julianna sat up, her cheeks turning the palest rose. I'm telling you, that girl knew how to blush. Her pink cheeks were just the slightest shade lighter than her rose-colored wrap. Sitting up on that white couch, she looked like a flower. "Frank took care of me, I don't know why you would speak so harshly to him," she said, laughing a little in a way that took all the sting out of her mother's accusations. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there, Frank. I was really frightened and it was so silly to faint."

"You fainted? I'm calling the doctor."

"I'm fine now, thanks to Frank. I am very grateful, Frank, really I am." She stood up and held her hand out to him with a simple elegance. He took it in both of his own, too overwhelmed to speak. Honestly, if her hideous mother had not been there, I think he would have fallen to his knees in a wors.h.i.+pful daze. But Hideous Mother was there. And she was done with us.

"Well, I don't know what happened," she said. "But if you say Frank was helpful, I'm sure he was. Here, Frank, wait there for a minute so I can get you something."

"Oh-no, please," said Frank. But Hideous Mother had already stalked to the entryway, where I was standing and watching, and picked up her purse from a useless-looking sticklike table perched just inside the door. She smiled at me tightly as she turned, making sure I knew that even if I had fooled her pretty daughter, I sure wasn't going to fool her. But she really didn't have anything to say anymore; she was just ready to get rid of both of us.

"Here," she said, holding out a five-dollar bill in Frank's direction.

Frank's face went white, then a deep, truly indescribable color seemed to pa.s.s over it like a wave. To give him his due, his expression did not change. But for a moment he seemed unable to speak or move.

"Mother," whispered Julianna, completely mortified.

"What?" said Hideous Mother. "He's the doorman and he was very helpful to you." She twitched the five between her fingers in an insanely insulting breath of a gesture. "You just said so yourself, sweetheart. I think it's completely appropriate to offer him a tip." She took another step toward Frank and gave the bill yet another little flick. The whole performance was so shocking I couldn't look away.

"You dropped your bags," I said, holding up the Bergdorf's and Barney's bags with a sudden humble but loud goodwill. "I'm going to leave them here by the door, okay?"

"Oh-" Julianna started.

"Frank, you were going to let me into my apartment, remember? I am so sorry, I locked myself out. So stupid. What a great apartment you have, it's so pretty, I didn't at all mean to barge in, I just, Frank was going to help me with my keys and then your daughter fainted." I reached out and grabbed Frank's arm, to get him to move. With a quick, sharp shrug he pushed me aside, but at least it got him going. He strode past Hideous Mother, and me, with every shred of Latin American pride that was left in him and his uniform. As he clearly wasn't going to pause, I scurried along. He did not give himself permission to look back even when Julianna called after him.

"Thank you, Frank, thank you!"

"If you want to thank him so much, I don't know why you wouldn't let me tip him," Mrs. Gideon admonished her, behind our exit. "Honestly, Julianna, your affectations have gotten completely-" The door slammed her voice shut. Frank was at the elevator now, pressing the b.u.t.ton with a fierce and uncompromising rage. Blessedly, it was right there, and we didn't have to wait. We both stepped into the elevator, and I hit 8. Frank hit L. We traveled in silence for a moment.

"Boy," I finally said. "What a witch."

"Hopeless," he whispered. "Hopeless." He sagged then, leaning against the paneled wall as if it were the only way he could continue to stand. When the elevator dinged for my floor, I reached over and pulled him up, put his arm over my shoulder, and half carried, half walked him out at my landing. Then I let us into my apartment, using his keys.

He was mumbling to himself, some sort of protest, I think, but my Spanish is not all that good when someone talks fast. It sounded sort of like, you have to let me go I have to get downstairs and do my job, but it could just as easily have been a grocery list. In any case he was in no condition to face anyone down in the lobby, much less that crowd of howling society reporters who were most certainly still on the premises. So I shut the door behind us and pushed him into my sweet empty enormous front room, propping him up against one of the windows that have the really good view of the park.

"Here, wait here, Frank, I'm going to get you something to drink, okay?" I said. He just kept talking to himself. I headed for the kitchen, where I knew there was a nearly full bottle of vodka stashed in the freezer.

As I raced through the little TV room, a head popped up off the couch. "Hey, you're home," said Jennifer as she cheerfully set down a mystery novel. I had forgotten that she was planning to show up, so her sudden appearance sent my heart rate through the roof.

"Oh, Jennifer," I said, holding my hand to my chest in an attempt not to die from the scare she gave me. "Oh."

"You told me to come," she reminded me, a little worried now.

"No, I'm really glad you're here," I said. "Oh. Really glad." And I was. Even though my heart was still racing, it was not lost on me that finally, maybe, I had an ally. At the very least, for the first time ever in the Edgewood, I had someone to come home to. "Come on," I said, heading for the refrigerator. "Frank's in the front room. He's a complete mess."

"The doorman?" she said, following me obediently.

We took the vodka to the great room, and I poured Frank a stiff drink. He knocked it back without protest, and I poured him another.

"What's wrong with him?" Jennifer asked.

"It's complicated," I started, but the vodka had brought vitality back to his spirit, and he started rambling again, in Spanish. "Frank," I said, taking his hand. "Frank. Speak English, Frank."

"No, it's okay," said Jennifer calmly. "He's upset. He loves her, but it's hopeless, she is a G.o.ddess and he is nothing. And his father, there's some-que quieres compartir con nosotros tu familia, Frank?"

So it turns out that a private-school education in New York City is pretty thorough. Also, Jennifer was in the Spanish Club, so her comprehension didn't fall completely apart when someone started talking fast.

"He lives with his father and his two brothers in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens," Jennifer translated. "He came from the Dominican Republic six years ago and sent money to them faithfully, but they were never grateful, never-they became jealous. No matter what he sent, it made them unhappy and greedy for more and so they came here. He is here legally but they are not. He can't, they use up all the money-they-" He interrupted her with a long explanation, and she asked him some questions before continuing. "He doesn't blame them because the life they had in the Dominican Republic was nothing, there are no jobs there and they want to be men, but they cannot find work, and if the INS finds out that they're staying with him he's afraid he'll be deported too. He told one of his brothers-como se llama tu hermano horrible-"

"Manuel," Frank answered, trying to continue and contradict her about the "horrible" part, but she cut him off.

"He has a horrible brother who threatens him. He is supporting all of them, and this brother, Manuel, threatens Frank that if he doesn't bring home more and more money he'll have to turn himself in to the INS and they will all have to go back, even though Frank totally has his green card, I know he does because the building would never hire him if he didn't, and my mom was on the committee that interviewed him. They love him here, they'd never let that happen. Frank," she continued, turning her attention back to him. "Es impossible, lo que se dice su hermano. El es un mentiroso. Un mentiroso," she insisted. He protested firmly, but I could tell he knew that whatever she was telling him was right. "Porque no ayudan?" she continued. "Porque no trabajan, todo su familia viven aqui en Nueva York, aqui nadie le importa si usted tiene una tarjeta verde! Aqui a la Edgewood, si, es importante, but muchas otras lugares no no no. Todos los restaurantes en la cuidad, nadie le importa!"

He disagreed with her. They argued back and forth. He finally started to cry. She put her arms around him and he wept about his hopeless situation, the trap of his family, his love for a woman who was so far above him that the only word he could use to describe her was diosa. Now Frank was drinking straight out of the bottle, and by the time we had the whole story out of him, he was stupefied with grief and completely smashed, so there was really no way he could go back to work. I got him a pillow and a blanket from my bedroom, and he fell asleep on the floor, with the light fading from gold to blue all around him.

Jennifer looked up at the changing light and checked her watch. "I've got to go," she said, nervous. "I left Katherine playing in her room and we locked the door and she knows not to open it? But she's seven, she could just forget and open the door and then anyone could come in and then what would happen."

I was following her back, through the kitchenette and the laundry room. As we moved, she quickly filled me in on what she had found out by just hanging around, hiding behind doors, and listening in on the flurry of phone calls that had come in and out of the Whites' apartment over the past two days.

"People are really mad," she said. "Mom told them she knows you and you're okay. I told her she had to tell them that, because you are such a good babysitter and a G.o.dsend, but you know there're a lot of rich a.s.sholes in this building, and they kept talking about you and your sisters and how this is such a famous apartment, that, um, you know-they can't just let it go down the toilet, s.h.i.+t like that."

"Oh that's lovely," I said. "Such swell manners they have here on the Upper West Side."

"Oh, you know people say things like that, and you know." She shrugged, not knowing how to say what came next. She decided to just say it. "You know, Tina, they didn't like your mom."

"Some of them did. Len did."

"I don't think you should trust Len, Tina," Jennifer suggested cautiously. "Mom said, she was talking to him in the elevator? And he said he knew your mom, they had a deal where he kept some plants here, so he came by all the time, and he saw her and Bill together, and she kept Bill drunk so she could get him to sign things."

"He didn't say that."

"That's what my mom said he said. He claims to be a real witness, like he saw all this and he's ready to testify. And he had some idea about having a big press conference? To get you out of here?"

"Yeah, I was down there earlier. It was a total scene down in the lobby."

"Well, Mom said that was his idea."

"It was his idea? Len's?" The sheer betrayal of it hit me like a fist to the stomach. I felt sick.

"That's what she said."

"It's lies. My mom wouldn't, she wasn't like that. She ..." I stopped myself, completely caught by how much I didn't know about my own mother and what she might or might not have been doing for the last three years of her life. "I don't know why he would do something like this."

Jennifer looked kind of sad, like she was sorry that I wasn't savvier about people like Len. "They're all like that here, Tina. They're all, well, you know. They live in the Edge," she concluded lamely.

I gave her a quick hug good-bye as she glanced around the lost room at all the junk and the thrown-away details of the lives of the people who had lived there. Katherine was apparently still content; we could hear her up above, chattering to herself in some near corner of her room.

"Frank's right, you know," Jennifer suddenly announced, turning back for a second. "Julianna Gideon is a G.o.ddess. And I mean, in my social studies cla.s.s they all talk about democracy and America and immigrants and New York being this big melting pot, but he's a doorman from the Dominican Republic and he's got a horrible family, and she's like, a G.o.ddess. And the Gideons just have pots of money, they are truly stinking rich, just like everyone else who lives here. You don't think about things like that. But, you know, it really is hopeless." And with that hopeless remark, she ascended to her sister's room.