Alternate Side(34)

There were big vases full of pine boughs, and garlands on the landing and mantels. The Fenstermachers had a tree in their front window that charmed from the street, its constellation of white star lights glimpsed through the glass, and a phalanx of poinsettias down the center of their very long dining room table.

“We should have a holiday party,” Charlie said every year, and Nora just ignored him. That royal we always meant, I like the idea, which meant, You should take care of it. We should get a new sofa. We should replace the garbage cans. Besides, anyone on the block who attended the Fenstermacher party knew that to hazard their own was an exercise in hubris.

Nora always enjoyed the party, and she thought it was telling that the twins complained now that their school schedules meant they could not attend. Even when they were in high school and sometimes acted as though they would prefer to eat ground glass rather than go anywhere with their parents, they always stopped in at the Fenstermacher holiday party, although they arrived and left on their own.

“You should get her mac-and-cheese recipe, Mom,” Ollie had said once.

“Oh, my goodness, honey, that whole party is catered.”

“Really?” Rachel said. “It doesn’t feel like it is.” Which was perhaps the nicest thing a born-and-raised Manhattan child could say about a meal.

“Ms. Marathon,” said George, sidling up to Nora at the drinks table, which unfortunately was in a corner, which meant Nora was trapped. Forced proximity to George was the only downside to the holiday party.

“Is Betsy here?” Nora asked.

George’s wife, Betsy, was an almost mythic figure on the block. She was a thoracic surgeon, apparently involved in lung transplants for children with cystic fibrosis, the kind of job that made Nora feel thoroughly ashamed of what she herself did for a living. Occasionally when Nora was running very early because of a breakfast meeting, or coming home very late because of an event, she would see Betsy across the street and wave. Seeing her always made Nora wonder three things:

? How hard was it to find a pair of lungs to transplant into a small child?

? Did transplanted lungs grow along with the child, or did you need to someday replace them with a larger, adult-size pair?

? Why would anyone who was a thoracic surgeon be married to someone as annoying and apparently aimless as George?



“Unfortunately, no,” said George, as he always did. “She had a patient who spiked a fever. In her line of work, that can be a life-and-death issue.”

No one was sure what George’s line of work was. Like most people in New York whose profession was murky, he described himself as a consultant. But no one had ever seen him in a suit and tie, and the only thing he seemed to consult about was the business of the block.

In the interest of a uniform appearance, it has been suggested—by whom no one had any idea—that the tree surrounds on the block be provided with the same plantings throughout. A garden wholesaler in Westchester County—probably some friend of George, to the extent that George had actual friends—has agreed to provide flats of impatiens and wax begonias at wholesale prices, which would be picked up by Ricky and installed by him at a reasonable cost.

Nora would never forget that one. She had gone out the same day, bought masses of pink geraniums and planted them thick around the tree just outside their front door.

“Someone didn’t get the memo,” George said the next morning, and instead of feigning ignorance, Nora said curtly, “I hate wax begonias.”

The holiday party was one of the only places Nora could not avoid George. She started to move away, eggnog in hand, trying to ignore the mustache of cinnamon and nutmeg on George’s upper lip, but George body-blocked her. “Did you get a chance to say hello to Jonathan?” he said. “Jonathan,” he called across the Fenstermacher dining room. “Jon! Mrs. Nolan! Come say hello.”

“He hasn’t been home in a while, has he?”

“Busy living the dream,” George said as Jonathan threaded his way toward them, holding a clutch of carrot sticks and celery in his hand.

“I wish Ollie and Rachel were here,” Nora said to him. “They love this party. Ollie swears by the mac and cheese.”

“Animal fat and carbs,” Jonathan muttered. “Fat and carbs.”

“I suppose,” Nora said. “But worth it.”

“No, man,” Jonathan said. He was wearing a T-shirt for a band called Municipal Waste, and flip-flops. His ensemble was disconcerting, not so much, Nora thought, because it was just above freezing and threatening snow, but because Jonathan lived in a place where she assumed it was always freezing and threatening snow at this time of year.

“How’s Colorado?” she asked, to be sure he hadn’t moved someplace tropical.

“He’s living the dream,” George said. “He’s into wellness and physical fitness. Clean eating. Clean living.”

“Eat plants,” Jonathan said. Nora was pretty sure that the twins were right, and that Jonathan spent as much time smoking plants as eating them.

“He was up all night talking to his mother, weren’t you, Mr. Mountains? Yakking it up with your mom.”

“Whatever,” said Jonathan, shuffling toward the buffet table, perhaps to pass judgment on the ham and biscuits, animal fat and carbs. Nora could only imagine what he would think of the chocolate-and-butterscotch Yule log cake. She had taken a picture of it and sent it to the twins. Mommy stop Rachel had texted back.