If We Lived Here (14 page)

“What’s that smell?” Emma blurted out. Nick sniffed it, too, the air shellacked with a strange sweetness.

“Oh, it’s a hoot,” said Alysse, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Emma’s tone. “Yankee Candle started a line of Judaica candles. This one’s Apples ’n Honey. I bought Freshly Baked Challah, too.”

“Do they also have Latke?” Emma said under her breath. “Miraculously makes your house reek of oil for eight full days!”

“It’s very festive, Alysse,” Nick said. Emma rolled her eyes.

Max appeared in the foyer, donning an apron that read, “Schmaltz happens.” “My lovely sister and her beloved! Hello, welcome, make yourselves at home!”

Nick was glad Emma didn’t take the bait, insisting that it
was
her home. “Hi, dork,” she said, hitting her brother on the arm, then following him back into the kitchen. Nick was left behind with the two kids. Alysse had disappeared, too; she had a tendency to desert visitors with her children, likely assuming anyone would consider it a privilege to babysit her progeny. It was actually something Alysse and Emma had in common, a wholehearted devotion to their own agendas.

“What are we gonna do now?” Caleb asked. He and his sister peered up at Nick.

Nick dredged up the tricks he’d used ages ago as a camp counselor intended to simultaneously entertain and exhaust children: He bounced Aimee and Caleb around on piggyback rides, timed them in three-legged races around the living room, and challenged them to a dance-off; still they begged for more. With no sign of relief from either parent, Nick longed for a drink. From experience he knew that Max tended to make a big deal of drinks before dinner, acting as if it were a massive inconvenience to dig out a beer from the fridge. (This made Nick wonder if somewhere along the way Emma had complained to her brother about Nick’s drinking.) The way Nick saw it, if you were going to pop out a few kids and set up house in Westchester, you may as well embrace the Cheever-Yates-Updike tradition of middle-class suburban debauchery, or at the very least treat yourself to an occasional five o’clock cocktail.

No booze in sight, Nick thought up an alternative remedy. Ignoring the kids’ protests, he pulled their squirming bodies onto his lap, then whispered in their ears, “Can you two keep a secret?”

“Maybe,” said Aimee, squealing as Nick tickled her belly.

“Just maybe?”

“Of course we can.” Caleb said this with big-brother seriousness, setting his mouth into the same line as his mother’s. “Trust us.”

“All right, I’m going to teach you a song that’s top-secret, one hundred percent classified, understand? So you’ve got to sing it very softly and never breathe a word about it to a single soul. Are you ready?” They both nodded somberly. Nick sang in their ears: “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree.”

Nick felt a perverse thrill as Aimee and Caleb repeated the line in their scratchy whispers, their eyes wide at the word
Christmas
. He took them through the ensuing verses, and they diligently sang along, giving in to the greed of requesting turtledoves and French hens and gold rings and more. Nick happened to know that for the kids’ birthday parties, Alysse requested charitable donations in lieu of presents. Caleb and Aimee were having fun, and Nick congratulated himself on making a relatively harmless choice; after all, he could’ve taught them the much more religious “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” or “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”

Aimee tapped his shoulder. “What’s lords-a-leaping and maids-a-milking?”

“Like Consuela, dummy,” Caleb told his sister, then explained to Nick, “Consuela comes each Tuesday to vacuum and change our sheets and take Mom’s old clothes. And the lord is like Hashem, Adonai—you know, God. Duh. Leaping is jumping.” The boy smiled with self-congratulation. It was clear he’d be a piece of work by the time he reached the age of Nick’s students; Nick was glad he didn’t teach in this area.

Now Nick was starting to enjoy himself. He was about to explain the concept of milking cows, when Max appeared, miraculously holding out a beer. “What are you hooligans up to out here?”

Despite Nick miming a zip-your-lips gesture, Aimee blurted out, “Nick’s teaching us a secret song.” Her brother bopped her on the head.

“I have no idea what she’s talking about,” Nick said, putting up his hands in surrender and winking at Caleb. Nick accepted the beer and clinked it against Max’s.

“
L’chaim,
cheers,” said Max. “Dinner’s ready, folks.”

In the dining room, Nick found Emma slyly chomping her way through a hefty chunk of mandel bread. He wiped a crumb from her cheek, then kissed the spot.

“Guess what?” She held out a stack of papers. “Alysse gave me homework.”

“What is that?” Nick read the title: “My summer helping African orphans.”

“Alysse’s friend’s son is trying to get into Princeton, so she thought I wouldn’t mind taking a look at his personal statement. She even gave me background info so I could research the program the kid did.”

“Oh no. I hope you told her no.” Nick knew how much this bothered Emma. He’d listened to her rant about how people didn’t approach dentists at parties and ask them to extract a sore tooth, gratis; and yet, Emma’s most distant acquaintances felt comfortable asking her to review their kid’s/cousin’s/brother’s college apps in her spare time.

“I told her I’d be happy to take a look, for my professional rate of one hundred dollars an hour.”

“I’m proud of you, Em. Just—”

“I was nice about it, don’t worry. I can be a goddamned saint when I want to be.”

“My sweet angel.” Nick drew a halo above her head, and she batted her eyelashes.

 

Dinner began with prayers. Nick assumed the stance he’d perfected over his years with Emma’s family, eyes set at forty-five degrees to the ground, half humming along to show that he’d learned something from all his time spent witnessing the Feits’ religious traditions. The final “Amen” set Nick into Pavlovian salivation. For all of Emma’s complaints about visiting her brother’s family, Nick always looked forward to Alysse’s cooking. He didn’t begrudge Emma the fact that she’d never learned to cook—he wasn’t one of those guys who felt a woman had to know her way around the kitchen—but he did envy Max, who probably came home each night to a home-cooked meal. Plus, Nick felt grateful that Alysse prepared alternate vegetarian dishes for him. (Emma, of course, suspected her sister-in-law of martyrly motives, believing she wanted extra praise for specially accommodating her guest.)

The heaping plates made their way around the table: apples and honey, of course, then pomegranate coleslaw, matzo ball soup—with vegetarian broth for Nick, despite Alysse’s comments in the car—sweet potato tzimmes, and eggplant kugel. Nick allowed himself a whiff of the brisket before passing it along. “This looks beautiful,” Max said, and Nick nodded in agreement, his mouth already full.

Nick was savoring a bite of honey-glazed potatoes and buttery (although since the meal was kosher, probably margarine-y) noodles, when he felt the buzz of a text in his pocket. He discreetly pulled out his phone, and when he saw the name Luis, his mouth went dry:
Neighbor complaints about noise. Tell your guy to keep it down.

Nick’s throat erupted in coughs. He reached for his water, and drained the glass. What did Luis expect? Nick had instructed José’s father to finish by ten p.m., but beyond that, he couldn’t exactly tell him to use a silent hammer. Nick saw Emma’s face contort into worry, so he shoveled more potatoes into his mouth—tasteless mush—to show he was okay. He felt another buzz:
The smell, too—bothering the residents. Not happy.
Nick fumed. Again, what was he supposed to do? He considered typing back,
If you don’t want a worker there making noise and using chemicals, maybe you shouldn’t have let your apartment fall into such disrepair.
He stilled his twitching thumbs and forced himself to put away the phone. He craved a drink—something stronger than beer.

“Nick?” Looking up, he saw everyone’s eyes fixed on him.

“We were just talking about how the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are meant for reflection and repentance,” said Alysse. “We’re all sharing our hopes and regrets. Do you have something you’d like to contribute?”

Emma touched his elbow. “I said I was going to reflect on how to value myself more as a professional, and stop offering my services pro bono.”

“Um,” Nick said, “I guess I’m going to try and think more positive thoughts.” He tried it right then, sending good vibes to this landlord who made his insides churn, and waves of forgiveness to himself for all his recent foibles. He took out his phone and typed back to Luis,
Worker will be gone soon. I’ll ask him to open some windows.

“Well, I’ve got something I’d like to share,” Alysse said, squeezing Max’s hand. “We’re so excited to be telling you this in person. Here goes: Next spring, we’ll be welcoming a new addition to the family.” Her palm went to her stomach. Max beamed.

Silence. Nick glanced at Emma, urging her to offer her congratulations or say anything positive. And she did, about a beat too late:
“Mazel tov.”
She raised her wineglass, then tipped its entire contents into her mouth. “Damn it,” she whispered to Nick, “I thought she’d just put on some weight.”

Nick shushed her. “Congratulations, Alysse,” he said. “That’s really great news.” Emma reached for the bottle of wine, and now Nick was really jonesing for some whiskey. He scanned the room, unsuccessfully.

“Isn’t that right, kiddos?” Alysse said. “Soon you’ll get a little brother or sister.”

Aimee, who’d previously been preoccupied with dragging an apple slice through a blob of honey, perked up. “I want a cat!” she screeched, flinging a handful of kugel in Nick’s direction. The noodle mass plopped onto his plate, splattering custard in his face.

“Good arm,” he laughed, dabbing at his chin with a napkin.

Max ignored his daughter. “It’s a blessing, and it’ll be just in time for Passover.”

Alysse beamed. She turned to her fussing daughter: “Which do you want, sweetie, a baby brother or sister?”

“A cat! I want a cat!” Aimee was now screaming and on the verge of tears.

“No, a partridge in a pear tree,” said Caleb to his sister, eyes wide with mischief.

“Yeah, a partridge in a pear tree!” yelled Aimee, and then the two of them were off and singing, an enthusiastic duet.

Nick, though impressed by the kids’ recall, nevertheless intended to escape into his e-mail. But a glance at his phone revealed another text, this one from the worker:
Problem here, need to talk. Call me ASAP.

“Where’d you learn that song, kids?” Alysse’s brightness clearly masked fury.

“Mr. Nick,” Aimee squealed, before launching into the sixth verse.

Alysse seemed about to speak, but then Caleb broke out with, “Poopyhead goy boy taught us. Poopyhead goy boy!”

Alysse’s porcelain cheeks blotched red.

“Who taught him to say that? I wonder,” Emma said, giddy at the drama.

“Please excuse me for a moment.” Nick stood up. “I’ve got to make a call.” Though he was certain no one believed him, Nick fled from the table down the hall to Max’s study. This room was the only one that made Nick jealous of suburban living. Classically done with cherry wood and sturdy, stately furniture, it featured three walls of bookshelves—this was the kind of man cave Nick would want. Although his would feature a bar, too. Dropping into Max’s ergonomic office chair, Nick dialed José’s father.

“Bedbugs,” the man spilled before Nick could even say hello. “I hate to give the bad news, but I had to say. The minute I put on the paint—I guess it was the chemicals bring them out. They’re everywhere, the little guys in every room.” Nick stopped listening. His brain buzzed, like the bedbugs had crawled inside his head. He flashed on all the horror stories—the furniture and apartments and whole lives ruined by the tiny, unstoppable bloodsuckers. People with bedbugs went crazy, got shunned by their friends and cast out from society; they lost their jobs. And then Nick heard a voice carry from down the hall: Emma. What would he tell Emma? What would they do? They’d already scheduled movers for the following weekend.

When Nick realized the man had stopped talking, he tamped down his panic. “Mr. Valdez,” he said, “why don’t you take off? You shouldn’t be exposed to that. Thank you for letting me know. I can pay you after school tomorrow—I mean, on Tuesday.” Nick remembered he had the next day off for the Jewish holiday. At least he’d have time to—
what?
—celebrate Rosh Hashanah with the arrival of bedbugs? He thought he might be sick.

When Nick returned to the table, no one was speaking. The kids had clearly been silenced and were sullenly picking at their food. Emma was reaching for more wine. Nick tugged at her shirt. He was hesitant to tell her the news, but feared she might soon polish off the entire bottle. “Hey, can I speak with you privately for a minute?”

Secluded in the guest bedroom, Nick filled Emma in, and she laughed. Hysterically. Perpetually. She was drunk, and she set her woozy sights on the bed, which was made with military precision and featured mints in shiny wrappers atop each pillow. Before Nick could stop her, Emma lunged for the bedspread and flung it to the floor. Then she tore into the sheets, ripping them from their neat tuck and twisting them up into a maniacal tangle. Next she went for the mints, grabbing them one by one and chucking them across the room. One hit the television with a dull ding, and Nick winced.

“We don’t deserve bedbugs,” Emma whined, her voice wobbly. “They do. Max and his Jewish Martha Stewart and their two-point-five children and their perfect, happy little life.
They
deserve the bedbugs.”

“Shhh.” Nick worried their voices were carrying. Also, it looked like Emma was searching for something else to throw; clearly her tantrum-prone niece had rubbed off on her. Nick restrained her in a hug. “Come on, Em. Alysse cooked us a nice meal, and—”