Seven Minutes to Noon (17 page)

But then she thought of Frannie and Giometti. Ivy’s gender was being held back on purpose; the detectives had to know what they were doing. Alice flipped shut her phone; making secret calls was not for her. She would not be the one to jeopardize the case. Instead, she would stick to what she could do: care for her family, run her business, find a new home.

After three hours at Blue Shoes, tending the shelf life of beautiful, overpriced shoes, chatting with browsers and watching street traffic pass from her side of their sparkling plate-glass window, Alice still couldn’t get her mind off Tim and Austin’s leaving. For the hour they overlapped, from two to nearly three, she and Maggie analyzed and deconstructed Tim’s decision and discussed how to tell the children that Austin would be gone for a while.

“It’s going to break their hearts,” Maggie said. “For them it’ll be another death.”

“Mags, that’s too extreme. He’ll be back.”

“I think Tim’s leaving for good. I think he’s had enough.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Alice said.

“I only know that if it were me, I’d be gone. This whole place would be too painful.” Maggie dinged open the cash register drawer for no reason other than dramatic effect, then pushed it shut.

Maggie had a point. The more Alice thought about it, the more she wondered why she and Mike were staying in the neighborhood. Why didn’t they let the situation with Julius Pollack eject them not just to another house but to another city? Another state?
Why live here?
she wondered as she walked to school to pick up Nell and Peter. Why not move south, where it was always warm? Or north, where they could ski in winter and enjoy cool summers? Or overseas, away from their roots, where they could raise sophisticated, multilingual children far from the crass commercialism of American culture? Why stay here at all?

Because,
Alice thought as she turned right onto Carroll Street and stopped in front of the school,
because this was their home. It was where they lived.
Having come to Brooklyn via a childhood in Long Island, then California, Alice had long felt that this little neighborhood was the true home of her soul. She also knew, from her mother’s flight from pain, that there was no real transportation away from the loss of Lauren and Ivy. That would linger anywhere, everywhere. By the time the children appeared with their classes at the door, Alice had stopped even considering the possibility of leaving town. They were here and they would stay.

Nell and Peter held Alice’s hands and chattered about their days as they walked over to Maggie’s apartment. Sylvie had agreed to watch them, with Ethan, for an hour or so; she was always happy to double up the babysitting, both to earn extra money and provide Ethan with
a built-in play date. And Alice had decided it would be better to house hunt as much as possible without the chaos of little voices. There were enough voices causing conflict in her mind as it was.

The next house was a wide Clinton Street brownstone with single-pane windows that ran from floor to ceiling and were so clean they reflected the shimmering light that played on the leaves of a big sycamore tree out front. It was a large, five-story house with fancy ironwork and carved wooden double doors that looked recently varnished. It even had an indoor garage — a rare amenity in Brownstone Brooklyn — with a driveway leading down to the half-submerged basement level. An old rosebush, covered with masses of yellow roses, leaned against the house. Alice loved the house the minute she saw it. She sat on the front stoop, waited for Pam, and imagined herself coming home here. It felt right, perfect even, and she knew in the same thought that it couldn’t possibly be within her reach. She wouldn’t even go inside, she decided, if the price was too high.

As soon as she saw Pam trundle up the street in her neon orange caftan and new wedgies, Alice got up from the stoop and went to greet her. They kissed each other on the cheek like old friends.

“How much?” Alice asked.

“See it first.”

“How much?”

“You’re going to love this one. We can work the numbers.”

“I knew it.”

“Just come inside.”

Alice shook her head. “Tell me.”

“One point nine.” Pam sunk her gaze onto Alice’s. “But everything’s negotiable. Let’s go in.”

Alice knew it couldn’t be that negotiable, but the temptation was too great and she felt her resistance drain away. She would see it as a voyeur, she decided, not a potential buyer.

“Are the owners home?” Alice couldn’t bear to face
them, whoever they were; they would know the minute they saw her that this wasn’t her level of house.

Pam jangled a set of keys out of her pocket. “Both at work.”

Alice followed Pam up the stoop.

The front hallway was spacious, with a white marble floor and a glittering crystal chandelier. The living room was huge and ornamented, without all the layers of paint that ruined the details of so many local homes. Everything about the house bespoke wealth.

“What do they do for a living?” Alice whispered, as if they might hear her from their vast distance.

“Who knows?” Pam winked. “Yada yada yada.”

They made a quick tour through the restaurant-quality kitchen, the master suite upstairs with its renovated bathroom and closet-lined dressing room, and three bedrooms upstairs. Alice didn’t have the heart to enter the landscaped backyard; she only glimpsed it from a top-floor window.

“Why did you bring me here?” Alice asked Pam, when they returned to the parlor floor.

Pam put her purse on the dining room table. “Because I wanted you to see what was possible.”

The women stared at each other.

“This house isn’t even for sale, is it?” Queasiness rose into Alice’s throat.

“No.”

“Is this your house?”

“You bet it is. Wanna know how much I paid for this place?”

“One point nine, I guess.” Alice’s tone was hard but she didn’t correct it or try to apologize. “I’m leaving.”

“Wrong!” Pam followed her to the front door. “I paid one hundred fifty thousand dollars for this house, seventeen years ago. At the time I thought it was way overpriced. I said forget it, but my husband showed me the math and I knew he was right.”

“There’s no math that could convince me I could ever get a house like this, Pam.”

“Wrong again! Come here. I’ve got something to show you.”

Alice put her hand on the knob but didn’t turn it. She hated real estate, hated this whole thing. Maybe she was wrong; maybe she
could
wrest her soul out of Brooklyn.

“Give me five minutes of your time!” Pam delivered the ultimate salesman’s pitch with such enthusiasm that Alice burst out laughing.

“All right,” Alice said. “Five minutes.”

Pam set them up at her dining room table with a legal pad and a calculator. Twenty minutes later, Alice was convinced that she and Mike could afford to pay one point two million dollars for a house, so long as it came with two rental apartments and was in a good enough area to command high rents. She was flabbergasted.

“Your one point two today,” Pam said, “was my hundred-fifty thou yesterday. And another piece of good news. I did a little research this afternoon. Even though your friend’s apartment was stabilized, it wasn’t registered with Housing, so the ball’s in the landlord’s court if anyone decides to play him.” Pam threw up her hands, showing Alice the backs of her bloated fingers, pinched by their rings. “But when I saw who it was, I knew it wasn’t going to be me, no way. Julius Pollack is the worst scum landlord I ever saw. I wasn’t one bit surprised.”

Alice was stunned by the news that Julius Pollack had been Lauren’s landlord. All these years Lauren’s landlord had been Metro Properties, a cold, corporate entity. Now, with a name attached — and not just any name but that of a man whose callousness Alice could personally vouch for — the vitriolic fight at the other end of Lauren and Tim’s eviction made perfect sense. Alice was so upset by the revelation that, by the time she turned the corner onto Warren Street, she had broken into a near run.

Her mind spun with questions. Hadn’t she mentioned Julius Pollack’s name to Pam at the coffee shop that morning? How could she have left out that crucial detail? Should she have recognized the importance of his name?
Julius Pollack.
It was just a name. It had never occurred to her until this moment that there could be such a thing as a real estate tycoon in their little neighborhood; that the tenants of Carroll Gardens might be puppets; that above them, one man held all their strings, twitching them to his own purposes. Alice ran faster, her babies jostling within her, a heavy sweat collecting on her face. By the time she reached Maggie’s, she was so exhausted she could hardly climb the stoop.

“What’s wrong?” Sylvie opened the door and stared at Alice.

“I was afraid I was late.” Her breathing was labored and she forced a slow, calming breath. “The kids okay?”

“Fine. They haven’t stopped playing since they got here. Come in, let me get you something to drink.”

“Water would be nice.”

Alice followed Sylvie into Maggie’s all-white kitchen and sat on a counter stool, catching her breath, while Sylvie poured her a glass of ice water. The sudden coldness on her tongue and its wash down her throat calmed her. She drank another long swallow.

“I just found out,” Alice said, “that my new landlord and Lauren’s old landlord are the same man.”

Sylvie’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“Pam told me. Apparently the man’s even worse than I thought.”

Alice drained her glass and set it on the marble counter. Sylvie sat on the stool next to her. Small, sharp voices rose from the downstairs bedroom level, approaching the pitch of trouble before unwinding suddenly in laughter.

“I feel like there’s some relevance,” Alice said, “but I can’t put my finger on it.”

Sylvie picked up Alice’s glass and crossed the kitchen to refill it.

“Thanks,” Alice said. She drank only half the water this time, finally sated. “Pam said she’s going to check him out for me. She’s really something, isn’t she? Thanks for introducing us.”

“Please,” Sylvie said. “Anything I can do.”

The kids came streaming up the stairs, locked in a three-way battle over a single toy. They all had their hands around it and moved in a clump, unraveling at the top of the stairs to reveal the point of contention: a tiny Lego astronaut with a visor that moved. Nell had the prized toy in her steel-tight grip, with both boys clawing at her hands to get it.

“Ethan,” Sylvie commanded, “share your toys with your guests!”

Alice walked over to pry the children apart. “Nell, let it go. It’s Ethan’s. I said let it go.”

“You see?” Ethan’s voice rose triumphantly. “It
is
mine.” He stood apart, apparently satisfied with that fact having been established.

“Give it to me, Nell,” Alice said, pulling Peter off his sister. “Now.”

Nell handed over the one-inch plastic toy. Alice held it up and shook her head.

“You guys are friends,” she said. “And you’re fighting over
this
?”

“But—”

“No,” Alice interrupted Peter. “No little plastic toy is worth that much fuss.” She handed it to Sylvie, who slipped it into the pocket of her striped bell-bottoms.

“But it’s
mine
,” Ethan said.

“Now it is mine.” Sylvie pronounced each word like the strike of a piano key, accentuating the prettiness of her French accent.

“Thanks, Sylvie.” Alice led Nell and Peter to the front door. “Sorry it ended like this.”

“It’s nothing.” Sylvie pursed her lips. “He’ll forget it in two seconds.”

Out on the street, Nell and Peter chattered about the little Lego man. They went home to a simple dinner of rolled cold cuts, leftover pasta and carrot sticks. After their baths, Nell and Peter lay with Alice on her bed and snuggled against her sides. She read to them from the original
Winnie the Pooh
by A. A. Milne, whose quirky prose sailed over their heads but still lulled them. They fell asleep in Alice’s arms. Mike was working late, so she left them in bed for the time being, brought the covers up to their necks and switched off the light.

Dishes done, Alice brought the laptop to the kitchen table and booted it up. She couldn’t resist the temptation to Google Julius. When she plugged his name into the search engine, she was astonished by what came up.

Voluminous complaints filed with the Better Business Bureau. Archived articles detailing lawsuits. The Web page of a tenants advocacy group listing nearly a hundred properties owned or co-owned by him. In all the listings or articles, only Julius Pollack’s name was ever
mentioned: “Julius Pollack and his partner in Metro Properties.”

Alice looked at the time. It was nearly eleven o’clock, too late to call Pam and ask her who Julius’s partner was. She sat back, away from the keyboard and the blinking laptop screen, and listened to the quiet. She was rarely alone in the evenings when the kids were asleep. The current of her ongoing dialogue with Mike, or the television, typically blotted out this depth of silence. Such stillness. She heard a key struggling in the outside lock. Finally, Mike was home.

She got up and crossed through the living room to their apartment door. Her hand was on the knob and she was just about to turn it when she heard footsteps tramp up the stairs. She cracked open her door and watched Julius’s back labor upward. He was wearing a pale pink raincoat and — were her eyes deceiving her? — silver high heels. She crept into the hallway and peeked up after him, glimpsing the coat as his door shut and locked.

How had the infamous Julius Pollack come to buy this house, her home? It was a beautiful house on one of the best, old blocks in the neighborhood. He was rich, and he wanted respectability, but he also wanted privacy. He could have afforded a penthouse anywhere in Manhattan. He couldn’t possibly want her apartment for the income; he wanted to hide out alone in this big old house in Brooklyn. Why? Because he cross-dressed? These days even that wasn’t so shocking. There had to be more.

Standing in the common foyer, in the dim overhead light, she knew she shouldn’t be there — not in the hall and not in this house. She crept quietly across the foyer to her front door, then stopped. Upstairs, she heard a high, thin crying. She walked back to the bottom of the staircase, put her foot on the first step, and pitched an ear forward. The crying was distant, but she heard it escalate. She was sure of it: there was a baby up there.