If We Lived Here (15 page)

“And what, invited me over to edit her friend’s kid’s essay, and then condescend to me about how I couldn’t possibly begin to imagine the blessing of a newborn baby?”

“Well, those things, too, yes. But I bet there’s a killer apple cake coming out for dessert.”

“No ice cream, though.” Emma had slumped onto the mess of sheets.

“What?” Nick sat down beside her.

“No ice cream. It’s freaking dairy. And it’s idiotic to eat apple cake without ice cream. It’s dry and crumby and dumb. Stupid kosher laws, they don’t even make sense.”

“Okay, okay.” Nick rubbed circles into her back. She seemed calmer, despite her anti-kosher tirade. “Let’s go back out and have some dessert, and then we can deal with everything else in the morning. Please try and at least pretend to be happy for Alysse.”

“Who, the reproductive robot? The busy breeder? The fertile female? The—”

“Yep, we all know you’re good at alliteration. Come on, Em, let’s go.”

Emma let herself be led into the dining room. Nick didn’t comment when she Hoovered up three pieces of cake, and he was relieved to hear her ask Alysse for the recipe.
Happy New Year,
he thought, thanking God or whomever that it was time for bed.

Chapter
16

T
he throbbing of Emma’s head served as an alarm clock, knocking her out of sleep. She lay still, blinking her vision into focus, and then slowly, like the oozing of some poisonous molasses into her brain, the events of the previous evening returned to her. She rolled over to realize she was alone in bed, alone in the guest room, and the silence was total—no buses whirring by outside the window, no neighbors’ voices muffled through porous walls, no horns or sirens or any of the other sounds that had formed the background to Emma’s thoughts for all the years she’d lived in Manhattan. Overwhelmed by the quiet, she emitted a low groan.

Emma considered her choices: escape back under the covers and sleep it off for a few more hours, but eventually face Alysse’s scornful glee at her late rising; or tough it out and force herself up. After a moment of thought, Emma opted for the latter, and one at a time she jostled her limbs to make sure everything was in working order—yes, barely. Getting dressed seemed too challenging of a chore, so she slipped on the bathrobe she’d packed in reluctant deference to her sister-in-law’s morning modesty policy.

Emma padded downstairs and into the kitchen, where she was glad to find only her brother. He was at the counter, mixing.

“
Shalom,
sunshine,” Max said.

“Hey.” She kissed him on the cheek, not caring about her unbrushed teeth.

“Alysse is at her Pilates class, and I sent your man out with the kids for more OJ.” Emma nodded. “I bet you could use some coffee.”

Emma was still nodding as Max placed the coffee in front of her, with 2 percent milk and one sugar like he knew she liked it. She cradled the warm mug, breathed in the steam of roasted beans, and sighed with gratitude. Her eyes filled with tears.

“Hey, Max, I’m sorry about last night.” He waved her away, but she continued: “No, really, you and Alysse invited us over, and you shared your big baby news, and I acted like an imbecile, and, um . . .” She’d told herself she wouldn’t let Max know, but she couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of her mouth. “We have bedbugs. The apartment Nick and I are supposed to move into next weekend, apparently it’s overrun with bedbugs.” She saw her brother recoil and inch away. “Hey,
I’m
not infected!”

“Sorry, gut reaction. Oy vey, that’s a tough break.”

“I know.” The liquid brimmed over Emma’s eyes, and she buried her face in her arms. “I don’t know what we’re going to do. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” She felt a perverse pleasure in repeating the curse in Alysse’s squeaky-clean kitchen.

“You know”—Max placed a hand on her shoulder—“sometimes when I’m having a hard time and don’t know what to do, what I do is go to shul, and something clicks.”

Emma lifted her head. “Max,” she said sternly.

It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “Shul can really help clear your mind—the familiar songs, the sense of community, the mood of the service. And what’s so mystifying is, the rabbi’s sermon always seems to speak to whatever it is I’m struggling with. Whether that’s God’s mysterious workings, or luck, or what, I don’t know.”

Emma sneered at her brother. “My God, Max.”

“What?”

“Can you stop being a Jewish missionary for, like, five seconds? Seriously.”

“Oh.” His voice was quiet. He sat down next to her, bringing the mixing bowl. “Sorry. I just thought it might help you.”

She rolled her eyes. “What are you making, anyway?”

“Pancakes. Buckwheat raisin, with chia seeds.”

“Ugh, you’re such a good father.” Emma groaned, but she didn’t feel as upset. “Remember Dad used to make us Bisquick?”

“Yeah, with that Mrs. Butterworth that was all corn syrup and chemicals.”

“And delicious. It was always on Sundays, when Mom was off Jazzercising. And sometimes we convinced him to make them with chocolate chips.”

“Dad was such a pushover,” said Max. “I think his strategy was to flood us with sugar, so after ten minutes of hyperactivity, we’d crash hard and nap the rest of the day.”

“Then he could read the paper in peace.”

“Exactly.”

“You know what I could really go for right now?” Emma said. “A bacon, egg, and cheese. That’s the best hangover cure in the world.”

“Emmy, come on.”

“You come on. I know you’re Mr. Kosher now, but admit it, there’s nothing better than a bacon, egg, and cheese. When’s the last time you had one? Seriously?”

Max’s sharp facial features relaxed as he considered it. “Years ago, probably. Definitely before Caleb was born.”

“That’s bonkers. Well, I have an idea. Let’s sneak out and indulge in some big, fat, greasy breakfast sandwiches.”

“Emma, be serious.”

“Oh, do it for me, Max-y. We’ll pick up some mouthwash and no one will ever know. I’ll take it to my grave, cross my heart.” From muscle memory, Emma performed the series of complicated hand gestures that had once made up their sibling swear.

That did it. Moments later, she and Max were sitting in the parking lot of the next town’s deli (Max didn’t want to risk being seen close to home), tearing into their eggs.

“Oh my God, that is freaking incredible,” said Max, mouth full.

“Orgasmic.” Emma began giggling. “Hey, you have egg on your face.”

“So? You do, too.” He lobbed a piece of food at her cheek and barked out a laugh.

“How dare you!” She tilted her coffee cup toward him in mock threat.

“All right, I surrender.” Max held up his hands. “You know, we should do this more often. I mean, not you peer-pressuring me into breaking the dietary laws of my faith, but, like, hang out more. It’s the New Year now, the time to look at our lives, to reflect, to think about what kinds of changes we’ll make in the coming year—”

“But, Max, the problem is you’re always doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“
That.
Lecturing me to go to temple or to feel some Rosh Hashanah spirituality, or trying to convince me to take some class about the Talmud—whatever your latest campaign for the chosen people is.”

Max was quiet, nodding. “I see. By the way, I’m sorry about what Caleb called Nick last night.”

“Goy boy? I thought that was actually pretty clever. It has a nice poetic ring.”

“It’s Alysse, not me, who’s so concerned about Nick not being Jewish. But you know it comes from a place of love.” Emma arched her eyebrows. “Truly. She’s just worried about you. She thinks it might cause problems down the road to have a partner with such an unfamiliar background, someone who grew up so differently from you.”

“You make it sound like he was raised by wolves.”

“You know what I mean. But, Emmy, an interfaith relationship isn’t insignificant.”

“Whatever you say.”

“And I admit it makes me sad that you’ve turned your back on our faith. Make fun if you like, but Judaism gives our family a real sense of peace and purpose.”

“Max, it’s my instinct to make fun when I feel like I’m being proselytized. We’re not the same, okay? It doesn’t give me a sense of peace and purpose, for example, to wake up early on a Saturday and spend half the day singing along with that tone-deaf cantor, then kibitzing with all the perfumed old ladies of Westchester.
Look at little Maximillian, such a mensch, with such a sweet punim!”
She pinched her brother’s cheek, imitating the elderly Jewish women who were the mainstays of the shul’s congregation.

Max swatted her away. “Cantor Cohen
is
kind of tone-deaf, isn’t he?”

“Completely! What kind of crazy person who can’t carry a tune decides to make a career out of singing?”

Max shook his head, laughing. “Let’s make a deal, okay? I’ll stop nagging you about the Jewish stuff, if you stop treating my devoutness like it’s some kind of ridiculous, antiquated hocus-pocus. How about it?”

“Fine,” said Emma. They shook on it. “This seems like a good time to invite you to my Islam conversion ceremony.”

“Ha ha. Anyway, as I was saying before, we should be in each other’s lives more. I know I’m always on you to trek up to the ’burbs, but I could come into the city, too. We’ll hit the bars like we used to.” He said it with enthusiasm, as if he really believed this was something he’d do, so Emma nodded along. He’d made similar proclamations before.

“Sounds good,” she said.

“Bring it in.” Max extended his arms, and their embrace was tight and warm, not like those fake hugs his wife doled out. “Okay, we should get back to the house. Everyone’ll be waiting on us, and I’ve got to get the kids ready for shul. Remember, you rat me out about this sandwich to Alysse, I’ll kill you.”

“Noted.” They drove back in silence, Emma thinking how, bedbugs or not, she would never trade her life for Max’s. She guessed he was thinking the same about her.

 

It seemed like five days, not five hours, later when Emma and Nick found themselves idling outside the building in which they’d rented a space to live. They were waiting for their new landlord, who’d communicated via text message that he’d arrive
Btween 2&3:30
and no, he could not be any more specific.

With her brother’s help, Emma had successfully fended off Alysse’s insistences that they join the family for services, then she and Nick had boarded Metro North, where they’d spent the whole trip back to the city researching bedbugs. Nick had quickly become captivated by a series of slideshows of the critters, eyes peeled like at a car crash, while Emma entrenched herself in housing law. She’d been heartened to discover that it was a landlord’s responsibility—legally
and
financially—to act in the face of an infestation. She’d then read up on all the available extermination techniques, and built a spreadsheet organized by companies’ supposed effectiveness, price, and user ratings; if they acted fast, they could get this taken care of by their move-in date. She’d imagined how relieved Luis would be to learn that she’d already gathered all this helpful info.

By 3:45, there was still no sign of their landlord. Nick had decamped to the corner bar a half hour earlier, but Emma was still standing in front of the building, optimistically scanning every passerby for Luis’s face. She hoped their conversation would be finished by four, when she’d told Sophia to come meet her. She’d explained the situation over the phone (well, a version of it, saying services were running late and she wouldn’t be able to make it up to Midtown in time for their appointment—she didn’t want her client knowing about the bedbugs), and the girl had happily agreed to another adventure out to Brooklyn.

“Man, you can go to temple in sweats?” Sophia appeared, ten minutes early, eyeing Emma’s outfit. Emma had never changed out of her pajamas from morning. “Lucky. For church, my mom makes me wear these awful Lilly Pulitzer getups.”

“Oh, hey, Sophia. Um, no, I was uncomfortable, so I ran home and changed.” Emma realized how little sense this made, and also what a bad idea it was to have Sophia there when Luis showed up; she scolded herself for this poorly planned attempt at multitasking. “I had to arrange a last-minute visit with my new landlord, so I’m thinking we should cancel today’s appointment. I know it was a pain for you to get out here—I’ll talk to your mom and credit you a session.”

“Ooh, so these are the new digs?” Sophia asked, ignoring the part about the canceled session. She lunged for the front door and, discovering it unlocked, disappeared inside before Emma could stop her—or warn her about the bedbugs. Sophia was back outside a minute later, thumbs working her phone.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked.

“Instagramming. That is one insane rat trap in the hall.”

“Excuse me?” Emma peeked at the phone screen, and her stomach flipped. “Surely it’s a mouse trap. Practically every building in New York has mice.”

“No way, José. Look at the size of that thing.” Emma watched as the girl typed a caption:
Epic #rattrap. #grittybrooklyn #eek!!!

Emma decided to excise this new information from her mind, figuring that if she didn’t, she might have a breakdown right there on the street. “So about today’s session.”

“Oh, come on, please let me tag along to your meeting. I was excellent support the other day, remember? If it’ll make you feel better, you can quiz me on vocab until he shows up.”

Sophia made a good point about her support with the other landlord, so Emma considered the proposition. Well, why the hell not? Plus, part of her suspected that, as if to prove something, Luis would continue to keep them waiting well past four.

She was right. Emma and Sophia had made their way through nearly a hundred SAT words—“abjure” all the way to “winsome”—before Luis sauntered by the building at 4:25, as if his tenants hadn’t been waiting on him for two and a half hours. His relaxed stance seemed like a put-on.

“Good afternoon,” he said, shifty eyes playing over Emma and Sophia in a way that made Emma want to wrap her teenage client in a protective embrace.

“Let me grab Nick,” she said. “He’s just over in that bar.”

“We’ll all go to the bar,” Luis declared. “I’m thirsty.”

“Okay,” Emma said. It couldn’t hurt to meet in neutral, non-bedbug-infested territory. “Sophia, you can wait—”

“I’ll come,” she chirped, whipping out a driver’s license that aged her five years and darkened her hair several shades. Sophia didn’t even drive, Emma happened to know.

“All right, whatever, but no drinking. Come on.” So the motley crew consisting of Emma, her teenage client, and her new landlord, set off to join Nick at the corner bar.

There were certain difficulties Emma had anticipated about this meeting—one, that they’d have to be delicate about their delivery, since no one wants to hear that his property is overrun with bedbugs; two, that the money part might get tense, since the treatments deemed most effective were also the priciest; and three, that they’d have to be pushy about the time frame, so everything could be handled before their move-in. But there were also certain assumptions that Emma had taken as givens about the meeting—one, that Luis would be as invested as his tenants (if not more so) in ridding his building of the bloodsucking parasites; two, that he would not argue with the letter of state housing law; and three, that he was a rational human being and would act accordingly.