of the apartment opened onto a huge circular foyer, with a mosaic floor laid out like one of his grandmother’s charts of the zodiac. White walls with intricate moldings rose to a high ceiling. Living room and dining room opened off the foyer through arched doorways, the parquet floors gleaming softly in the dim glow from a single lamp. Erika went ahead, snapping switches, flooding the rooms with light. There was no sign of her father or, Bren thought, of anyone besides Erika in that luxurious space. Her boots and red umbrella, thrown down on some past rainy day, made a splash of color on the muted designs of the floor.
The kitchen was large and old-fashioned, but it lacked the warm, lived-in atmosphere of the room where Bren spent so much of his time. He wondered if anyone ever cooked or sat down to eat a meal with another person at the long glass table in the dining room. There was plenty of room but no place to eat in the kitchen.
Erika extracted two bottles of imported beer from the large and otherwise nearly empty refrigerator and opened them with a quick, irritable snap of the opener.
“Well, what do you think?” she said, with a vague gesture that seemed to include the rest of the apartment. “Neat, isn’t it?”
“Fabulous,” Bren said, “and huge.” He thought that this notably smaller place seemed much bigger than the house he lived in. Obviously the occupants made a difference—the presence of so many overwhelming personalities, human and animal.
“Yeah, it’s a lot of apartment for one and a half people,” Erika said, “and you haven’t even seen the bedrooms yet. Let’s skip the bedrooms,” she added. “They’re just bedrooms except for mine, and it’s just a mess. Come on, we’ll sit in my favorite spot and drink these lovely things.” She led Bren into the living room and over to the radiator window seat with its view of the Hudson. By an intricate and pleasantly intimate arrangement of their legs, they were both able to fit in the small space. Bren followed Erika’s gaze and saw a new aspect of his river. The sky was not quite dark in the west. The lights on the Drive were a sparkling necklace along the shore. By craning his neck he could see the riding lights of the few boats that remained in the basin.
“I wonder if the houseboat’s still there,” he said. “It must be cold walking to it in the winter—wait till you feel the wind on Riverside Drive. But it’s probably warm inside. They’ll have a little space heater or maybe a pot-bellied stove.”
“Better than this mausoleum, that’s for sure,” Erika said.
“I thought you liked it.”
“I do. I like it a lot most of the time, and I like being alone, but enough is enough, you know?”
Bren nodded but found himself at a loss for words before this new, forlorn version of his girl. Their legs nestled warmly on the window seat, but she sat like a stone, her head turned away from him, her eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. Why had she brought him here? It seemed inconceivable to Bren that one’s home could inspire such sadness. He wished suddenly that he could take her to West Eighty-fourth Street and install her in a niche by the hearth, there to be nuzzled by Shadow, snapped at by Rose, treated with queenly kindness by Miranda. After a moment, he did the only constructive thing he could think of. He reached over and took both of her hands firmly in his own. She looked at him now with an almost startled expression. “Erika,” he said. “Cheer up. Come back from wherever you’ve been. It can’t be so bad.”
She started to get up. “I’m sorry. This should have been a good idea, but I guess it wasn’t.”
Bren slid to the floor and, turning, put his arms around her, but she wriggled free and walked out of the living room into the unfriendly, bright light of the foyer. “Dad could come home any time,” she said. “Sometimes it would be nice to know when. Would you like another beer?”
“I haven’t
The kitchen was large and old-fashioned, but it lacked the warm, lived-in atmosphere of the room where Bren spent so much of his time. He wondered if anyone ever cooked or sat down to eat a meal with another person at the long glass table in the dining room. There was plenty of room but no place to eat in the kitchen.
Erika extracted two bottles of imported beer from the large and otherwise nearly empty refrigerator and opened them with a quick, irritable snap of the opener.
“Well, what do you think?” she said, with a vague gesture that seemed to include the rest of the apartment. “Neat, isn’t it?”
“Fabulous,” Bren said, “and huge.” He thought that this notably smaller place seemed much bigger than the house he lived in. Obviously the occupants made a difference—the presence of so many overwhelming personalities, human and animal.
“Yeah, it’s a lot of apartment for one and a half people,” Erika said, “and you haven’t even seen the bedrooms yet. Let’s skip the bedrooms,” she added. “They’re just bedrooms except for mine, and it’s just a mess. Come on, we’ll sit in my favorite spot and drink these lovely things.” She led Bren into the living room and over to the radiator window seat with its view of the Hudson. By an intricate and pleasantly intimate arrangement of their legs, they were both able to fit in the small space. Bren followed Erika’s gaze and saw a new aspect of his river. The sky was not quite dark in the west. The lights on the Drive were a sparkling necklace along the shore. By craning his neck he could see the riding lights of the few boats that remained in the basin.
“I wonder if the houseboat’s still there,” he said. “It must be cold walking to it in the winter—wait till you feel the wind on Riverside Drive. But it’s probably warm inside. They’ll have a little space heater or maybe a pot-bellied stove.”
“Better than this mausoleum, that’s for sure,” Erika said.
“I thought you liked it.”
“I do. I like it a lot most of the time, and I like being alone, but enough is enough, you know?”
Bren nodded but found himself at a loss for words before this new, forlorn version of his girl. Their legs nestled warmly on the window seat, but she sat like a stone, her head turned away from him, her eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. Why had she brought him here? It seemed inconceivable to Bren that one’s home could inspire such sadness. He wished suddenly that he could take her to West Eighty-fourth Street and install her in a niche by the hearth, there to be nuzzled by Shadow, snapped at by Rose, treated with queenly kindness by Miranda. After a moment, he did the only constructive thing he could think of. He reached over and took both of her hands firmly in his own. She looked at him now with an almost startled expression. “Erika,” he said. “Cheer up. Come back from wherever you’ve been. It can’t be so bad.”
She started to get up. “I’m sorry. This should have been a good idea, but I guess it wasn’t.”
Bren slid to the floor and, turning, put his arms around her, but she wriggled free and walked out of the living room into the unfriendly, bright light of the foyer. “Dad could come home any time,” she said. “Sometimes it would be nice to know when. Would you like another beer?”
“I haven’t
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