The View From Penthouse B Read Free Page B

then I pictured the inlaid marble floors of the Batavia’s lobby, its frescoed walls, its bank of filigreed brass mailboxes, and its companionship. “Yes,” I said. “I want to.”
    Margot said, “Then I can, too.”
    Though I could talk about Edwin and even his death without getting choked up, I still lose my voice and composure in the face of unexpected acts of kindness.
    Margot saw this. She added, “We’ll be good for each other. I’ve always secretly envied you and Betsy sharing a room.”
    Betsy laughed. Even when Margot went to college, she fought to keep her bedroom sanctified and empty for her visits home.
    I said, “It’ll be temporary. A few months?”
    “Why go and set some arbitrary deadline?” asked Betsy. “This could work out beautifully for all sides and all pocketbooks.”
    Margot said, “Maybe she’ll get sick of me. Maybe after your last child goes off to college, Gwen will be ready to move in with you and Andrew.”
    “That sounds about right: I’ll go from sister to sister till I die, young and unexpectedly.”
    Margot explained to Betsy: “What happened to Edwin—it makes her feel doomed herself.”
    Betsy reached across the table and took my hand. I knew what was coming: the speech about life’s possibilities. She began, “I know you don’t like to hear this, and I know you think it’s too soon to imagine that one day . . . someone—”
    Eyes closed, I shook my head to stop her. I had no appetite for what I knew she was about to say, that my life wasn’t over. And by “life” she would mean one lived in the company of a man or men.
    “Later, Betsy,” said Margot. “She needs time. I’ll remind her occasionally that she’s still alive.”
    I slept at the beautiful Batavia that night, not in the second bedroom but on the other half of the king-size bed that Margot had brought from the marital home in New Jersey, hoping that one day she’d need something expansive. Because of her large wardrobe of nightwear and spare toothbrushes, I didn’t stop at home first. We stayed up talking past midnight, Margot confessing what she thought were the bad habits and rituals that I might find annoying in a roommate. Not one was unfamiliar or discouraging. I offered a few feeble warnings of my own, that I’d leave dishes in the sink and lights on; that I had insomnia, a dry cough; still wore my retainer at night and was apt to leave it—
    “Not one a deal breaker,” she said, and reached across the broad expanse of mattress to pat my pink satin–clothed forearm. It was kind of her not to make me admit my most obvious shortcoming: I would be a sad roommate who couldn’t be counted on for any fun at all.

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    W E DO GO OUT —Margot to dinner parties hosted by friends who understand she can’t afford to reciprocate, and I to free museum nights and occasionally, still, to my widows’ support group at the Y. Otherwise, Manhattan is beyond our budgets, with its double-digit appetizers and skimpy wines by the glass that cost three times as much as whole bottles from Trader Joe’s. For a woman who can be counted among the bereaved (marriage over, brother-in-law deceased, money gone), Margot excels at keeping both our chins up. She announces almost gleefully every novel down-market activity she engages in. Last January, for example, her New Year’s resolution was to read supermarket circulars, scissors in hand. It opened up a world she hadn’t ever entered—double and triple coupons. I told her about the bruised-fruit-and-vegetable shelf that some stores offered, where a barely shriveled Holland red pepper or wilting head of radicchio, ordinarily beyond us, could be had for ninety-nine cents. She was amazed to learn that if you get on a bus after you’ve paid for a subway ride, it’s considered a transfer and deducts nothing from a MetroCard.
    We have a terrace and roof garden at the Batavia, open to all, frequented more often under dark of night by me, who doesn’t want