Alternate Side(36)

With a house as old as theirs in a city as fluid as New York, the idea that it belonged to you was relative. Maybe that was why some people ripped everything out: smooth, clean walls, steel banisters with bluestone treads, undeniably theirs in a way nicked wainscoting turned from butterscotch to caramel with age never could be. A curator who was an expert in city history had told Nora at a book party that while the house where the Lessmans lived was once a brothel and the Dicksons’ a small-time hat factory, the Nolans’ house had been owned for almost ninety years by a single family. The Taylor house, he called it, as though to emphasize the Nolans’ transience. The Taylors: a father, a mother, the mother’s mother, three daughters, a son. Apparently, you could find them memorialized in copperplate in some great leatherbound census book. The three daughters married and moved to what was then the country, now the suburbs. The parents died. The son stayed, single, and made his surroundings smaller and smaller, until finally he was living in what was now Oliver’s bedroom. He had had a hotplate, a cat, and six locks on the door. Only after they closed did Nora find out that he’d died there, information she had kept to herself and would never reveal to a living soul.

“With houses this old, every single one has had someone die in it,” Alma Fenstermacher said when Nora first met her, unsolicited, as though to take the curse off, and Nora wondered whether Alma had actually known the last of the Taylors.

Elizabeth II, the poodle, nuzzled Nora’s hand, in which she clutched a cocktail napkin spotted with a bit of mustard. “No,” said Alma, and Elizabeth backed off and sat down.

“One more thing,” George said, coming up behind Nora and Alma, but Alma said, “Oh, George, I think Edward had something he wanted to ask you,” and she and Nora circled around to the dessert table.

“Did you ever consider canceling?” Nora asked, choosing a cookie.

“Edward and I discussed it,” Alma said. “I think we would have done so if it had been closer to the actual event. There’s been such an atmosphere, hasn’t there? But I thought canceling would make the atmosphere worse somehow.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Nora said.

“I’m glad you agree. I think Linda was a bit disapproving, but then she’s so judgmental. Which, from a professional point of view, makes perfect sense for a judge. She and her husband are here somewhere.”

“And the Fisks?”

Alma sighed, her brooch rising and falling and catching the light from chandelier and candle. “I think I put a foot wrong there. I called Sherry to urge her to come. She looks so beaten down, poor thing. I said, Sherry, please, we want you there. She said, ‘What about Jack?’ And I paused.”

“She can’t really have wanted to bring Jack here.”

“I don’t think so—I think it was a kind of litmus test. I suppose I failed. In any event, they’re not here. Someone told me they’ve moved to their weekend place in Bedford for a while, or maybe he has and she goes out there from time to time.” Alma sighed again. “I hate it when things are unsettled on the block,” she said. “Let’s retire the subject. I’ve got some food in the freezer for your children. They’ve always been so appreciative of the party, and I know they’ll be home again before long.”

“They’ve always loved this party,” Nora said, and she was not merely exhibiting Manhattan party politeness. She was still convinced that Rachel had dropped the determination to celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas after just one year because of the centrifugal force of the Fenstermacher party. Christmas was an oddly a-religious holiday in most of the city, although when she walked Homer on the evening of the twenty-fourth Nora was always faintly surprised and, if she was being honest, buoyed by the number of people she saw entering the Catholic church on the next block. The Fenstermachers actually had a crèche, but they kept it upstairs in the den, so few guests ever saw it. Her own children had played with it one year as though it were some sort of fancy toy village, and Alma, coming upon them, had insisted that they continue.

“I always wondered what you did with all the leftovers,” Nora said.

“Most of them go to the SRO. They have a party the day after this party. The decor is not the same, sadly, but they seem to enjoy the food.”

“You’re too good to be true,” Nora said.

“Well, we all have to do something,” Alma said, picking up a petit four. “I hope Sherry will be back next year. But not her husband. I draw the line there.”





“I hate February,” Nora said to Charlie at breakfast.

“There are places where we could live that are warm even in February,” Charlie said. Nora wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“I hate February,” Nora said to her lunch group, and Elena rolled her eyes. “Everyone hates February,” she said, snapping a breadstick. “Have you ever heard anyone say they loved February? If you did, would you ever have anything to do with them again?”

“God, you’re in a great mood,” Suzanne said.

“I hate February,” Elena said, and winked at Nora.

“The good news is that whoever was putting dog poop on my stoop has stopped,” Nora said.

“Again with this?” Elena said. “How many times do I have to say, Not at lunch, babe. Not. At. Lunch.”