The View From Penthouse B by Elinor Lipman Read Free Book Online

of the recession and personal setbacks.”
    Grinning, Anthony asked if we felt as if we were taking in a foster child.
    I looked at my sister. Did I mention she was wearing a soft, cream-colored blouse that showed off her lovely neckline? Her skirt was straight and not that easy to sit down in; her shoes were oxblood patent leather and open at the toe. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was thinking foster child at all.

Anthony’s Interests
    H E MOVED IN thirty-six hours later with his laptop, backpack, duffel, weights, compact discs, and muffin tins. From our basement storage unit, now housing leftovers from my former life, he selected a futon, a rug, a quilt, a floor lamp, and a framed French movie poster of The Producers . He said his parents were relieved; they liked the sound of two mature ladies watching over him. Should they send a gift basket of fruit or products indigenous to Arizona? “I took the liberty of suggesting wine,” he said.
    Neither Margot nor I have ever thought of ourselves as fascinating, but suddenly we were. Anthony approached our meals and conversations as if he’d scored an orchestra seat to a sold-out show. He is more communicative than almost all the men I’ve known. We think it’s his age—that he spent four years in coed dorms and after that shared cubicles and conference tables with women. His questions aren’t rude or overly personal; they all have a getting-to-know-you quality, and we are flattered at his unflagging attention. Not to be discounted: He is also a newcomer to our signature topics of fraud, extortion, and sudden death.
    “Tell me when I’m prying,” he says. We haven’t yet. As polite women, we try to turn the tables conversationally. He’ll say, “You already know about my marriage and divorce. Nothing more to report there. Classic green-card arrangement. Happy childhood. Played T-ball, flag football, a little tennis, a lot of soccer. Never progressed beyond jayvee. College, Wall Street.”
    “Siblings?”
    “One sister, younger. For now an au pair.”
    “Where?” we ask.
    “Upper East Side. Fifth Avenue, in the nineties. Park view.”
    “Here! New York City! When do we meet her?” Margot asked.
    “I never see her. She’s a slave.”
    “Nice children at least?” I ask.
    “Two lawyers with one baby.”
    “Boy or girl?” I ask.
    Anthony says, “Umm. Girl? I forget. She has one of those androgynous names like Tyler or Taylor.”
    We move in that direction every so often—our interviewing Anthony—but mostly we experience him as moderator. It’s part gregariousness and part something else, sociology or anthropology, as if he’s never had the chance to discuss the stages of life beyond his own. He is happy here. And he is easy to have around, both thoughtful and helpful. He’s freed us from stereotyping and hating men who have anything to do with Wall Street or wealth management. As far as being handy, he has exceeded our expectations. In the first twenty-four hours of his residency, he put batteries in our remote control, set our clocks ahead to daylight savings time, and gave new life to what we thought was an inoperative ice maker. He always has the right cable needed for various transfers of information that we didn’t even know we wanted. He can see and talk to his far-flung friends while sitting at his computer, and he is the king of uploading and downloading, of searches and hunts.
    He likes his room, or at least its location on the other side of the kitchen, somewhat segregated. When he’s home, we often find him at the kitchen island, on a stool with his laptop and vitamin water. “Praying at the altar,” he says with a smile. He bakes a double batch of cupcakes every week, some for us, and the rest as offerings to his dates.
    I’m not sure where he meets these young ladies, but he must, wherever he goes. His phone vibrates and barks fairly constantly. He is exceedingly polite in our presence. Whatever calls, e-mails, and texts pour