modern building. There are many tall buildings like it on every side, most built in the nineteen-fifties. The street outside slopes to the black river. Pale green trees are visible in the park. The mosaic in the long, narrow lobby shows abstract fish and seashells suspended in blue waves.
The building is rent-controlled, with a very stable population. The apartmentâNormâs old bachelor padâhas been the familyâs Manhattan pied-Ã -terre for many years. It even housed Amalia during her college years.
The doorman, not an immigrant but a local man whose father and grandfather were doormen at the same address, wears a too-large suit with a matching cap, like a limo driver. Penny says hello and picks up her mail. She has not been home since Normâs first weekend in the hospice. She drops the thick bundle of junk mail and bills into her tote and steps into the elevator with an elderly woman.
On the third floor, as her neighbor is leaving the elevator, Penny tells her that her father has died.
âI knew him only in passing, but my condolences,â the woman says. âIâm sure he was a dear soul.â
Penny laughs awkwardly and says, âYes.â
âNever stop smiling,â the neighbor advises her. âLaughter is the best medicine.â
The apartment is a small one-bedroom with a balcony off thekitchen where Penny keeps her bicycle. The mahogany-stained bedroom suite remains from Normâs days as a grad student at Columbia: a low desk and dresser, a high wardrobe, and a twin bed with a tall headboard upholstered in brown vinyl with gold buttons. The kitchen table and chairs are chrome, vinyl, and yellow Formica. A framed Ph.D. degree in psychology hangs on the wall. The fridge whirs softly in harvest gold. The cabinets are avocado.
She sits down at the table to sort the mail. One envelope lacks a stamp. Inside it is a letter from the landlord, instructing her to vacate the apartment by the end of the following month due to the termination of the lease of Mr. Norman Baker, occasioned by his death the day before .
She calls Amalia.
âI canât believe it!â she cries into the phone. âHow in the world did they know?â
âOh my god,â Amalia says. âI told no one. I was too grieving. But Facebook maybe? I updated my status to single. Maybe I am friends with somebody in your building?â
A brief silence, then Penny says, âThey would have found out anyway because I told the neighbor. But youâre not single. Youâre widowed! People are going to think you broke up with him because he was too old for you or something. You have to call and tell people heâs dead. Nobodyâs going to notice an announcement on Facebook. Itâs going to get crowded out by other stuff.â
âHe was too old for me, nena . He died of old age. Iâm forty-three, maybe younger. He was so old he didnât even have Facebook. How else can I tell people heâs gone? I have to invite them to the funeral. I canât call them all. Oh my god, that would take forever.â
The two women stop conversing and tap their phones until Amaliaâs Facebook page appears.
âOh, so many consoling words,â Amalia says. âPeople are very sympathetic.â
âYes, they love you,â Penny says.
They scroll for a moment in silence.
Seeing condolence messages from coworkers, Amalia remarks to Penny that she hopes to retire young so she doesnât end up like Norm. âHe worked until he fell down dead. I want to retire at fifty, fifty-five, tops. Maybe I wonât live so long. I never saw old Kogi people.â
âHow would that work moneywise?â Penny asks. The question feels heartless, even to her, but she feels no connection between her heart and her mouth. âDo you plan to sell the house, or the clinic?â
The clinic is a sprawling international-style bungalow in an upscale residential section of Manaus,