Good Riddance(9)

“Don’t be. I never should’ve married him. He tricked me. It was a scam.”

“Gay?”

“No. Long story. About a will. He needed a wife to free the inheritance.”

“What a douchebag. Who’s sorry now?”

“Not him. Believe me.”

“Look how close we are already,” he said.



It was natural, ten or so days later, after decluttering had brought Geneva to my door, that I would ask Jeremy if he knew her, and if so, did he have an impression of her talents or trustworthiness.

Though he hadn’t mentioned what he did for work, I’d seen him leave ridiculously early, a car waiting outside. I left a note. “Knock when you have a minute? Daphne.”

He did when he got home that same night. I told him I had a question.

“Shoot.”

I whispered, “Can you come in? It’s about a neighbor.”

He did. “Cozy,” he said, looking around.

“It’s almost a one-bedroom. What’s yours?”

“Two bedrooms. I’ll give you a tour anytime.” He smiled. The brackets of his braces were sky blue. “You said you had a question.”

“I do. It’s whether you know Geneva Wisenkorn down the hall. Documentary filmmaker. Maybe forty-five, maybe fifty. Curly dark hair. Crazy eyeglasses.”

“Big woman?”

“That’s her.”

“Sure, but just in passing. Why?”

“She wants to make a documentary about my mother.”

“Who’s your mother?”

“No one you know. A high school teacher who left behind a yearbook that Geneva thinks tells a hundred stories.”

“Do you think that?”

“I don’t think it tells one story.”

“What’s she doing with your mother’s yearbook?”

Why disguise the fact that I’d been careless and coldhearted? “I threw it out and she found it in the trash room.”

“She must’ve seen something in there. Possibly something you missed?”

“I’m thinking . . . maybe.”

“Let’s go. Eleven what? Will she let me see the yearbook?”

“What for? And what do we say?”

“What we say, Miss Daphne, is that you mentioned to me that she was a filmmaker, and because I’m an actor who’d rather be turning out scripts, you thought we two should meet.”

Well, this was a whole new topic. “A working actor?”

“Why do people ask me that? Or the other favorite: ‘Character actor?’ Is it the braces? Because those are a prop. I play younger. She might even know the show.”

“Where? What show?”

“I’m sure you don’t watch it—kind of a teen drama: Riverdale. Based on Archie Comics, which I say without apology.”

I not only knew of the show; I watched it. Or did when I had more channels. “And who are you in it?”

“Random kid in the corridors, in the locker room, sidekick to the dead brother.”

“Does this random kid have a name?”

“I got one this season: Timmy.”

I made a speech: I’d moved to Manhattan against the advice of everyone who warned that the city was too expensive, too dangerous; there were terrorists in Times Square and slashers in the subway. Didn’t I read the newspapers? It was impersonal, a town without pity where neighbors didn’t call 911 when they heard you screaming. But they’d forgotten to mention that celebrities walked and lived among us.

“Thank you. It’s usually: ‘Actor? Alleged writer? What restaurant do you work at?’”

I said, “This could be very helpful.”

“How so?”

“With Geneva. You’re in the business. You’ll get a sense of whether she’s a professional or a bullshitter.”

“So we exchange an industry handshake, then I ask what she’s been up to lately?”

“Exactly. Will you report back as soon as you talk to her? I’m not sure what her daily routine is—”

“Unh-unh. You’re coming, too.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“But you just got home. You probably have lines to learn.”

“Ha! This is what I have to sit around all day for: ‘Hi, Mrs. Cooper. No thanks. Can’t stay for dinner. Bye, Betty. See you at school tomorrow.’”

“Betty’s my favorite character.”

“Up till now,” he said.

I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t watched season two, having downsized to bare-bones cable. I changed the subject by saying, “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”



Geneva answered in a plush, floor-length black velour bathrobe, her feet bare and her toes separated by pink foam spacers. Without being asked, she volunteered that she did her own pedicures ever since the New York Times’s exposé on nail salons. Slave labor!

Trying not to look at her splayed toes, I said, “I was telling Jeremy—this is Jeremy—that a documentary filmmaker lived on our floor, and he said, ‘I should meet her.’”

Geneva, taking in the plaid shirt, the braces, the freckles, said, “Okay. Hello. No jobs on any projects right now.”