me. These kids, they blame their Mamis for everything.”
“Maybe some parents deserve to be blamed,” she said. And again, once she spoke, she regretted.
Edgardo pursed his lips and looked genuinely pained by what she’d said. His eyes got watery. “So, what if we deserve it? Don’t you think we had parents, too?”
She couldn’t think of a sensible answer to his question, so they stood there, eyes averted, as the elevator creaked. After a while, he took a few steps away from her. She did the same, until, like boxers, they occupied separate corners.
Finally, excruciatingly, the elevator dial clicked fourteen. They stumbled out, blinking into the light, like caged animals dumbfounded by their freedom.
Once Edgardo keyed open 14B, she forgot the elevator’s awkwardness, and the fact that she’d left work, and even the faulty foundation of this building, which might soon crumble. Everything changed. Everything was wonderful.
“Ha!” she cried. Edgardo caught her enthusiasm and smiled, too. She didn’t wait for him to show her around; she galloped down the long, dark hall and into the den where it mushroomed. Then she ran its expanse like a kid. A stained-glass turret! Central Park views! Built-in bookcases! Original pocket doors! Fifteen-foot ceilings! This place was huge. If she wanted, she could get a friggin’ pool delivered, connect a hose to the tub, and swim laps!
The apartment was run-down, but its bones were solid. Its western slant wasn’t severe enough to warp furniture, and even its curved hall showed a kind of brilliance because it directed the eye toward the focal point of the apartment—the den.
On her way down the hall, she bit her lips and braced herself for the bad news. No way the rent here was $999. Add a zero. But then, something glistened. A crystal chandelier in the master bedroom cast foot-long rainbows against the walls. Red. Yellow. Blue. Green. Leaping Jesus, it was beautiful!
Her eyes got misty. Her heart pounded, like meeting the love of your life for the first time, and you just know. For as long as she could remember, she’d scratched. Everything she’d ever gotten was hard-won. But today, she’d arrived. That guy in the sky was showing some benevolence, and giving her something for nothing. About frickin’ time.
She found Edgardo waiting by the turret in the den. He looked pensive, and she wondered if he was thinking about his daughter. She decided she liked Edgardo, which was unusual, because she never liked anyone unless she’d known them for years.
“This place is crazy. I love it. No catch? It’s really $999 a month?”
Edgardo nodded.
“I’ll write you a check. First, last, and deposit?” she asked in one breath, like if she didn’t draw her pen fast enough, another homeless New Yorker would barge through the door with more money and better credit.
Edgardo frowned.
“I want the apartment,” she repeated, then joined him at the window overlooking Central Park. A tiny red ant crawled across the glass, and he smooshed it with his thumb. Down below, ducks bobbed under the small waves of the Harlem Meer, and joggers sprinted along the reservoir. If she squinted, she could even see the Parkside Plaza renovation on 59th Street.
Edgardo tapped his cane. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. He was stalling. She was about to offer him a C-note bribe (it was all she could afford, unless she started turning tricks), when he finally spoke: “They want someone with your job. That’s why you’re here. Someone who can build things this time. Last one, fine voice, but no good with her hands.”
She beamed. “I’m a real professional. It’s very professional. A career. I’m not home during the day making noise or having part—”
He cut her off. “—But I like you, you see? You stupid, like my Stephanie.”
“What did you call me?”
His eyes watered again. She decided maybe his tear ducts were broken. “They want it a secret. I could lose my job. But I should tell you.”
Her stomach sank. Lead water mains. Asbestos-filled walls. Rats. She’d have to share the kitchen with fifty Chinamen. Well…still might be worth it.
“There was an accident,” he said.
She cocked her head. An old lady fell out the window. A neighbor’s malnourished pit bull developed an appetite for human babies. Whatever. For the last example of Chaotic Naturalism in the world, she could handle tag-team serial killers in tights.
“You heard about her. The woman and her babies. Happened in July. The bathtub?”
“I just finished school—architecture,” she told him. Barely scraped by. Between Saraub and her final project, using negative