space for his mouth. She thought he might be recovering from a recent, drastic procedure. Galton—Jayne had mentioned him.
The old lady from 14C next door—Mrs. Parker—had traded her dressing gown for a sequined black cocktail dress that revealed dimpled chicken legs. Bad. Worse, her orange lipstick feathered along the skin of her upper lip. “No subletters!” she shrilled.
“I don’t like strangers. They give me terrible dreams,” Galton mumbled through his mask.
A tall man wearing a bow-tie tuxedo bellowed, “Siamese twins belong in Siam!” He banged what looked like Edgardo’s knobby cane…In a fit of senility, had he stolen from his own super?
“Shaaddup, Evvie Waugh, before I throw a drink at you!” Mrs. Parker shrieked back at him.
The guy closest to Audrey’s apartment crouched, so that his center of gravity was level, then raised his Parkinson’s-shaking dukes at Saraub like he was going to throw a punch. His face got so red that she thought it might burst: “You leave the little lady alone!”
Audrey’s eyes met Saraub’s, and they exchanged a single, half-formed thought: what the hell?
Saraub lifted his hands above his head, open palms facing out. Sweat rolled down his thick, black brows, and he wiped it away with his raised shoulders. His wax jacket lay in a crinkled pile in front of her feet, where he must have dropped it.
Parkinson’s didn’t budge. Audrey feared that the stress would give him a coronary seizure.
“I’m sorry,” she announced to the cocktail party. “It’s fine. Please, it’s a personal matter. I hope we didn’t disturb you.”
Instead of backing away, the shaking old man inched closer, like he’d decided she was a battered wife defending her abusive man.
Evvie Waugh (14D?) lifted the knobby cane like a baseball bat, and got ready to swing. The sight was both terrible and ludicrous.
Saraub panted, and his eyes bugged. He hated getting in trouble, even imaginary trouble. “Really, folks. It’s fine,” she called out.
Jayne peeped her head from behind Audrey’s shoulder and waved at them. “It’s fine!” she agreed with bouncing, irrepressible delight. “We were having a girls’ night!”
Audrey put her hand on Saraub’s back and he lowered his arms. “This is my boyfriend”—she winced at the misuse of the word, but now wasn’t the time for fine distinctions—“I’m very, very sorry. We don’t usually fight…This won’t be a regular midnight show,” she said. “You can all go back to…. your party.”
“Boyfriend! Edgardo said she was single. I wasn’t expecting it. I don’t like surprises. Party’s over! My whole night is ruined!” Mrs. Parker screeched, then stomped back into 14C.
Evvie lowered the knobby cane. He, Galton, and a handful of others followed Mrs. Parker back to 14C, where Audrey imagined they’d been having a Bengay orgy. They smelled like it. Thank God for soundproof, plaster walls.
“Just as long as you’re okay,” Parkinson’s announced to Audrey without ever looking at Saraub.
“Marty Hearst, she’s fine,” Jayne told the shaking man. Then she waved her hand at him like it was a broom, sweeping him away: “Skedaddle!”
Sheepishly, Marty Hearst dropped his dukes and retreated with the others. Drinks in hands, the rest of them meandered toward the apartment near the fire stairs.
“Good night, everybody,” Audrey called, then picked up Saraub’s wax jacket from the floor where he’d dropped it and entered 14B. Hopping at her heels, Jayne followed. Saraub brought up the rear and shut and locked the door behind him.
“Bananas!” Audrey announced.
14
We Pick Our Own Families
They walked down the fifty-foot hall. Though they’d never met, Saraub took Jayne’s upper arm and helped her as she limped.
“Jayne,” Audrey heard her say, and he answered, “Saraub Ramesh. Pleased to meet you. Do you live in the building?” He sounded flustered, but polite.
When they got to the den, he helped Jayne into the fold-out chair, seeming immediately to understand that she required kid gloves. Jayne grinned, delighted by the attention.
“That was, indeed, bananas,” he said to Audrey.
She smiled. “Yes, but could you have taken Marty?”
He shook his head, like she was incorrigible. “Funny girl.” Then he picked up the mostly empty bottle of wine and pointed it at her. “Liquid dinner?” His eyes followed her shape from turquoise pumps to coffee-stained blouse, and the slack belt that cinched nothing, in between. “Looks like too many liquid dinners.”
She shrugged. “The breakfast of champions.” She was out of breath as she spoke. Surprisingly nervous. Surprisingly happy. What if he’d come here to apologize? What if she left with him right now and never had to breathe the depressing air of this apartment ever ever