Slim Chance (24 page)

T
he first thing I needed to buy for my new house was a scale. It wasn’t funny. No less than three months after sleeping with my personal trainer, I was nineteen pounds heavier…and hopefully, a little bit wiser. The truth was, it didn’t even bother me as much as I thought it would—the extra pounds made me feel a little more like me again, which was a good thing. I guess I just wasn’t destined to be thin. But I did plan on starting a daily walking program sometime soon, as a way to keep my head clear (and to keep from gaining too much more). There were worse things to be than chubby, I suppose. Like single at twenty-eight, with a dead-end job and no romantic prospects whatsoever except for a stubborn ex-fiancé who hadn’t called in over a month.

But all that was fine. For now.

Luckily, the house was enough of a distraction to keep me from going out and joining another gym or doing something crazy like that. The first time I walked in, I was crushed to discover that it would definitely not be the devastatingly stylish urban retreat I’d hoped for, at least not without a truckload of money. It wasn’t even country-in-the-city quaint—the tomato
plants and flowers Grandpa grew out on the back patio were long-dead by the time I got there. In fact, it could barely pass for shabby chic. The entire place smelled musty and old, and most of the windows had been painted shut for years. Geriatric contemporary was more like it.

I figured I’d just sell the place. It seemed like a lot more trouble than it was worth, and it was far too big to live in alone. Besides, what the hell did I know about taking care of a house? I could barely do my own laundry. But then I spoke to Claire’s new boyfriend, who’s in real estate, and he advised me to wait, since property values are on the rise. He said that even though it isn’t in the trendiest neighborhood right now, I’d probably be able to get quite a bit more for it in a few years. Still, I was ready to take the money and run, but Morgan convinced me it would be better to move in.

“It looks pretty good from the outside,” she said as we stood and stared at it from across the tree-lined street. “Why sell it?”

“It’s gross. A weird old man lived there alone for, like, twenty years. There’s canned food in the pantry that expired in 1989.”

“So, you clean that up. Get your mother to help—she likes throwing things out.”

“There’s more to it than that. It needs work.”

“How bad can it be?”

“Come and see for yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I led her through the three floors of creaky hallways, toothpaste-colored bedrooms and dank closets. Even the attic rooms, which must have been spectacular a hundred years ago, weren’t much to look at anymore, with their windows blacked out. And I couldn’t even bring myself to take her into the basement, which was packed solid with two lifetimes’ worth of broken furniture and jam jars, and probably at least one dead body.

But she seemed more convinced than ever that I should move in.

“You could really do a lot with it, Evie. It’s so exciting! God, I wish I had a place like this. Do you realize how lucky you are?”

Morgan wanted something that I had? Now
this
was a first. “But I can’t live here alone,” I said. “It’s too creepy.”

“You’d prefer a studio in Bensonhurst? Because with your salary, you’ll be lucky if you could afford even that.”

She had a point. Why look a gift house in the mouth? And somehow, selling the place wouldn’t feel right, especially if I just used the money to pay back Claire and subsidize my rent and shop like a fiend for a decade or two. Because good intentions or not, who was I kidding?—that’s exactly what would happen. And besides, Grandpa wanted me to have it. Even if he was a jerk to Mom, if I’d learned anything from years of watching
The Young and the Restless,
it was that the enemy of your enemy is your friend.

Aside from the generations of renovations ahead, the biggest obstacle would be dealing with Mom. She thought I should sell the house, of course, and put the money into a 401k and whatever else life threw at me over the next fifty years. I took that to mean she wanted me to subsidize her retirement. Although the thought of putting her in an old-age home as soon as possible was appealing, I certainly didn’t want to be the one paying for it. So I decided to keep the house.

It was like pulling teeth to get her to come see the place. I think she half expected her father to be sitting there when she walked in. After I accused her of being afraid of ghosts, she finally agreed.

“In all these years, they never changed a single thing,” she mused, opening a kitchen cupboard and running her finger along the tattered shelf paper with disdain. “What a catastrophe. This is going to take more than a coat of paint, Evelyn. I hope you know what you’re in for.”

“I’m going to do it all myself. I bought a book.”

She turned the hot-water faucet. A shuddering wail erupted from the pipes, followed by a trickle of brown liquid. “Hmm. I hope there’s a section in there on plumbing.”

“Thanks for your support, Mom. You better watch it, or I won’t let you live here when you’re old.”

After a few days of harping on me about how roofs sometimes unexpectedly cave in and sharing her memories of the basement flooding, she finally warmed to the idea and took charge in classic domineering fashion. Not that I’m complaining, because I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do or where to start. The week before I began work, she and I did our best to clean out the clutter, most of which was crap. We put all of the clothes into garbage bags and brought them to the church. And instead of throwing everything out, we had a big yard sale. People actually bought some of the stuff, including the cats, which I had the brilliant idea to sell for $2.50 each, including their dishes, collars and ear-mite medication.

A few antique dealers came by at dawn, hoping for the first crack at any hidden treasures. They didn’t seem too thrilled by any of it, although one slunk away happily with Grandma’s entire collection of porcelain clowns for thirty dollars. We knew there wasn’t anything much of value. Lucy had gone through the house before she left and packed up a few boxes of good stuff to have shipped back to London. And Mom didn’t give a crap about any of it, except for her mother’s jewelry box.

To mark the occasion of my transition from renter to owner, I hosted a combination housewarming-birthday party, although I didn’t actually turn twenty-eight until September 12, the following week. As a present to myself, I hired a professional housecleaning service, which helped get rid of some of the smell and all of the stains in the bathtub.

Because I only have a few close friends, the guest list was small and intimate. Billy came with Morgan, who agreed to tolerate the usual suspects on the condition that she be allowed to leave whenever she wanted. Although it would have been a good excuse to call him, I didn’t invite Bruce—there would be enough tongues wagging as it was with my growing backside on display.

“Evie, this place is
amazing,
” Annie said. She looked around as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Is it really all yours?”

Kimby and Theo echoed her sentiments. “It’s got a
ton
of potential,” Theo said. “With the right touch, it could be fabulous. I just don’t know if you have the right touch,” he added skeptically.

But I didn’t care. Even though I hadn’t done anything to earn it, being a homeowner gave me a real sense of accomplishment. Finally, here was something that was all mine, that I could be proud of. And for the first time, I was actually looking forward to being financially responsible. Not that I had a mortgage to pay, or anything quite so scary, but there were still going to be plenty of bills and taxes, and that would be enough to start. Dr. Shloff thought the house would help give me some confidence in my ability to take care of myself, and I hoped she was right. Bruce had always taken care of all that sort of stuff before, so it was all going to be new for me. New and exciting.

“Well, I can assure you I do have the right touch,” I informed Theo. “I have great plans for the place. The first thing I’m going to do as soon as I save up a few bucks is redo the floors and get rid of the wallpaper.” Refreshing the basics always goes a long way toward creating a more inviting living space (
Better Homes and Gardens,
October: “From Chintz to Prints: A Decorating Primer”).

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” he said, motioning grandly to the living room walls. “This fruit motif has got to go.”

“Is there any more wine?” Nicole asked. She was always bored unless the conversation revolved around her or, failing that, someone else’s misery.

“I’d also recommend sanding the paint off the doors and mantles and restoring it all back to the original wood, if it’s not too badly damaged,” Billy said, picking at a door frame. “You know, it’s the details that really make these old places come to life. Then maybe I’d put in some sconces, here and here, and possibly even an antique bannister…”

“
This
is the man who finally melted the Ice Queen’s heart?” Theo shrieked. “But he’s one of us!”

“He’s an architect, you idiot,” Kimby said. “Not a fag!”

Morgan laughed. “Poor Theo, foiled again.”

“Wench,” he spat.

“I’ve been thinking about maybe turning it into a B and B once it’s all done,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be fantastic? Can’t you totally see me doing that?” Urban pieds-à-terre can be a very profitable and rewarding business, provided they’re run properly (
Martha Stewart Living,
September: “The New Cottage Industry: Do You Have What It Takes To Run an Inn?”).

“An old spinster, renting out rooms in her boardinghouse. It’s perfect for you,” Theo said.

“I’m sure people would love to stay here. It’s a really great neighborhood,” Annie said. “How can you not adore Carroll Gardens? Ever since
Moonstruck
with Cher.” She belted out a few verses of “That’s Amore.”

“It is pretty amazing,” I told them. “Except that there’s an Italian bakery on virtually every corner. And the takeout is sick. It’s hard not to lose control completely around here.”

“Why bother?” Nicole said. “Just enjoy it.”

Theo snorted. “Easy for you to say, you’re obviously off the wagon.”

“Shut up,” Annie said. “Don’t listen to him, Nic, he’s just being a jerk.”

“Why is he always with us?” Nicole asked Kimby. “Can’t you ever just leave him at home?”

“I probably should,” she said. “But he has separation anxiety and eats my slippers.”

“Watch it, or I’ll piss on the couch,” he said. “And as for you, Nicole, you’re the one we should be leaving behind.”

“Shut up, Theo! Or else!” Nicole warned.

“Or else what? You’ll bop me on the head with one of those Twinkies in your purse?”

Morgan laughed. This was by far the most fun she’d ever had with my friends. No doubt about it—I was a fabulous hostess. All these years and I’d never even known it. What a shame. From
now on, I vowed to have legendary dinner parties on a regular basis.

“I’m having a Halloween party,” I announced. “The First Annual Evelyn Mays Costume Ball.”

“I’ll only come if Theo isn’t invited,” Nicole said.

“And I won’t come unless Morgan does,” Theo added.

“Neither will I,” said Billy.

Morgan shook her head in disbelief. “What a bunch of idiots.”

“It’ll be great,” I said. “But I won’t let you in if you’re not dressed up. And the costumes have to be good. No sheets with eyeholes cut out or anything like that.”

“Are there going to be more people than tonight?” Theo asked, looking around.

“Invite whoever you want. But make sure they wear costumes.”

“We should all wear our bridesmaid dresses,” Kimby said. “And put fake blood on them and stuff.”

“Oh! And Evie should wear her wedding gown!” someone added.

“Yes,” I said. “What fun that would be. And if any of you actually show up here in those dresses, I can assure you there will be real blood on them instead of just ketchup….”

“Evie!” Annie said nervously. “Why don’t you tell us about your new job?” Always the peacemaker. The girl really knew how to bring down a room.

“Oh, it sucks.” It only took me about forty-five minutes to discover that writing dreary blurbs about printer ink and producing a lame company newsletter known as “Bits and Bytes” would be a grave misuse of my talents.

“I’m sure it does,” Theo said. “Catalogue work is tantamount to professional suicide.”

“Well, I’m keeping my eye out for other prospects.” I did have applications pending at several of the larger publishing companies and television studios, but none had called. Until they did, I would have to make the most of being an In-House Direc
tor of Marketing and Communications. For now, I was in no position to be picky—a paycheck was a paycheck. Maybe Mom would dump Albert, and then, if I found something better, I could dump the job without having to hear about it for the next three decades.

“Oh, you’ll find something,” Kimby said.

Nicole, bored again, went into the kitchen to get more dip.

“She’s so moody,” Theo complained. “I don’t get it.”

“Maybe it’s because we’re all incredibly self-absorbed and nobody ever asks her what’s going on in her life. We just sit around and make fun of her instead,” I suggested.

“That could be it,” Theo concurred. “I do enjoy the sound of my own voice.”

“We all do. Sometimes too much, I think,” I said.

When she came back, I asked her about her thesis. Her face lit up.

“Well, it’s
finally
finished, but the hard part’s coming up in November when I have to defend it.”

“Well, then, I think that deserves a toast,” I said. “To Nicole and the Guyanese lesbian freedom fighters! May they be successfully defended!”

“I’ll drink to that,” she giggled, and everyone clinked paper cups.

I had no alternative but to admit to myself once and for all that Bruce was uninterested in resuming our relationship. It wouldn’t have been my choice for the perfect happy ending, but it was an ending nonetheless, and I knew that making peace with it and accepting it was the only way I’d ever be able to get on with my life. He did call to wish me a happy birthday, though. We made pleasantries, caught up a bit on each other’s lives, and left it at that. The thrill of speaking to him lasted a day or two, then I returned to the drudgery of my daily existence, which alternated between scrubbing tile grout with a toothbrush and proofreading coupons for pricing errors. Still, for the
first time in as long as I could remember, I was content and—dare I say it?—almost happy.