mine. May I help you?”
Next he tried “Is Gwen here?”
Anthony hesitated. We hadn’t discussed whether I was or wasn’t at home in terms of our reception strategy.
I joined them from the dining room, and from a still-safe distance, I pronounced in an onstage, drawing-room fashion, “Why, hello, Charles.” He was thinner everywhere and pale. I realized that he must have dyed his hair in civilian life because it was now completely gray. He was wearing erratically bleached jeans, a plaid shirt that looked starched and ironed, loafers, and slouchy white socks.
“No hug?” he asked.
“Sorry,” I said, and backed up a step.
“It’s good to see you, Gwen,” he said. “And I want to thank you for accepting my calls from upstate.”
Anthony said, “You told Rafael that you had something to deliver?”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Anthony Sarno. I’m the roommate.”
“Interesting,” said Charles.
“What is?” I asked.
“‘Roommate.’ I didn’t know the Batavia allowed its owners to rent rooms to unrelated parties.”
Anthony said, “Oh, really? You might want to check the bylaws. It’s just above the one that says parolees can sublet studios.”
I could see that Charles understood: A fine specimen with an Italian surname wasn’t going to brook any threats from a scrawny ex-con.
Charles said, “Look. I think I got off on the wrong foot here. Anybody want to offer a thirsty neighbor a cup of tea or a shot of whiskey?”
Anthony and I exchanged glances. I shrugged.
Charles reached into his shirt pocket and removed a folded white envelope. “A step toward . . . if I may, restitution.”
“I’ll bring it to her,” I said. “She’s the one who should decide if you can stay for a drink.”
Charles called to me as I headed down the hallway. “Make sure she reads the note!”
Margot was lying on her bed, fully dressed, tuned to the Food Network where a southern cook was discoursing on okra and its properties.
“He’s here,” I announced, and handed her the envelope. She opened it, peeked in, put it down, and said, “Not a bad start.”
“He said to make sure you read the note.”
She slipped two reluctant fingers into the envelope and extracted a folded piece of lined paper as if it were contaminated. She read it, shrugged, and handed it to me.
Margot: My accountant is setting up a payment schedule whereby you’ll be getting these once a month by U.S. mail. In other words, I won’t be bothering you.
C.
“Nothing inappropriate about that,” I said.
“Except that he’s bothering us now! And excuse me, but when was the last time you could believe anything he said?”
I hitched a shoulder in the direction of the door behind me. “Want to get it over with?”
She knew what I meant. She raised the remote control, clicked the TV off, but made no other move.
I said, “I’m supposed to be asking you if it’s okay if he stays for a cup of tea or a drink.”
“Was that Anthony’s idea?”
“No! You’d have been proud of him. He’s playing macho gatekeeper. I haven’t seen him like this before.”
“Yes, you have—with Olivia. The big brother in action.” She tilted her body to one side, checking herself in the framed wall mirror.
“You look fine.”
“I’m not primping, if that’s what you think. I don’t care how I look. I’ll never forgive him for humiliating me. Has there ever been anyone cuckolded in a more disgusting fashion?”
I was saved from confirming or debating this by Anthony’s calling, “Coming out anytime soon? Anyone?”
“I am. Margot hasn’t decided.”
“Can I come in?”
As I opened the door, Anthony entered the room with one long stride. “Someone has to relieve me. I’ve now heard twice that he hates himself and did I think he’ll have the chance to tell you in person.”
“Tell me?” asked Margot.
“You! Her! Me, for chrissake.”
“All of this came up while you were standing around in the foyer?” I asked.
“There was this awkward silence while you two were caucusing, and suddenly he said, ‘You’re probably wondering what this is all about . . .’ I could’ve said, um, dude? No need. I’ve read every word of the transcript.”
“Is he still out there?” I asked.
“He’ll be back! He went downstairs to get a bottle of champagne.”
I turned back toward the bed so Margot and I could exchange open-mouthed gapes of astonished ill will.
Anthony said, “What? Is that so bad? He’s a free man now. I don’t think it’s to toast anything major.”
“Champagne? After all he did? And with all that it symbolizes?” I asked.
Anthony said, “What else do we do around here for entertainment?