music and skateboarding, but tonight, the only other souls are the elderly Italian couple who run the cheese and ravioli shop and the homeless chess player who frequents the library on cold days. He and Ruth have discussed books. He, too, is fond of the dead Russians.
“It’s so quiet,” he says to no one in particular.
“Maybe they should close the tunnel permanently,” the Italian husband says.
“Maybe they should close all the bridges and tunnels and leave us our island,” his wife says.
Alex and Ruth exit the park and cross the street to the newsstand. They barely glance at the evening headlines,
No Bomb in Baltimore
. It’s the classifieds they want. Ruth pays, while Alex hoists up the voluminous
Sunday Times
, clamps it under his arm, and, like a schoolboy carrying a schoolgirl’s heavy books, walks her home, all the way up the mountain of steps.
The phone machine has no new messages. Ruth isn’t sure if she’s relieved (the hospital didn’t call, Dorothy mustbe holding her own) or disappointed (no one has made another offer). Alex turns on the news, while she sits at the kitchen table to scout the real estate pages, a section thicker than the international news, for a two-bedroom elevator co-op below Fourteenth Street. She takes a pen from her purse to circle any possibilities. Out of the thirty-three two-bedroom open houses taking place downtown tomorrow only one is listed for under a million dollars.
Junior 2 Bedroom
Great for students or first-time buyers
Needs TLC
Price Reduced!
$900,000
What is there to do but circle it? She searches the next tier of prices.
Dazzling Sun-Filled Corner Two Bedroom
Built-in Bookcases!
Window Seat Soaks Up Morning Sunshine
$1,100,000
She not only circles this one, but draws a big star beside it. It’s higher than they wanted to go, but …
“Any news?” she shouts over the television.
“The mayor just gave another press conference. He wants New Yorkers to call the hotlines
only
if they have a credible sighting. The FBI has received over ten thousand calls. Did you find anything?” he shouts back.
“Someplace that sounds too good to be true. Do youthink all the sightings will affect prices? Don’t prices go up if everywhere is dangerous? Or does the market stay flat if sightings happen in all the neighborhoods? Do you remember what Lily said?”
Alex comes into the kitchen and peers over her shoulder. She’s drawn a big black star next to one of the listings. He knows that to draw a star that black on paper as absorbent as newsprint, she must have pressed very hard on her pen. He reads the fine print:
One million and one hundred thousand
.
“We can’t afford it,” he says.
“We can if we learn from Harold’s Ladies. If we like the apartment, let’s offer a hundred and fifty thousand less than the asking price, two hundred less if the news is still bad tomorrow morning. If we don’t take advantage of the panic, someone else will. What’s the worst that can happen? The sellers will laugh in our faces? We laughed at Harold’s Ladies, and look at us now.” She puts down her pen. “My God, I almost wished for bad news. Do you know what the worst that can happen is?”
“We’ll have to put off moving for a few months?”
“That my wish will come true.”
In bed, after she sets the alarm for seven, Ruth reaches for her
Portable Chekhov
and opens to the page that she’d been reading last night when she fell asleep. The lady with the pet dog is crying once again, though in a different hotel, many years later. This time rather than eat a slice of water-melon,Gurov takes her in his arms and experiences such compassion “for this life, still so warm and lovely, but probably already about to begin to fade and wither like his own. Why did she love him so much?” The lovers take council and try to figure out a way to spend more time together without secrecy and deception, despite living in two different cities, and his having a wife and a
“It’s so quiet,” he says to no one in particular.
“Maybe they should close the tunnel permanently,” the Italian husband says.
“Maybe they should close all the bridges and tunnels and leave us our island,” his wife says.
Alex and Ruth exit the park and cross the street to the newsstand. They barely glance at the evening headlines,
No Bomb in Baltimore
. It’s the classifieds they want. Ruth pays, while Alex hoists up the voluminous
Sunday Times
, clamps it under his arm, and, like a schoolboy carrying a schoolgirl’s heavy books, walks her home, all the way up the mountain of steps.
The phone machine has no new messages. Ruth isn’t sure if she’s relieved (the hospital didn’t call, Dorothy mustbe holding her own) or disappointed (no one has made another offer). Alex turns on the news, while she sits at the kitchen table to scout the real estate pages, a section thicker than the international news, for a two-bedroom elevator co-op below Fourteenth Street. She takes a pen from her purse to circle any possibilities. Out of the thirty-three two-bedroom open houses taking place downtown tomorrow only one is listed for under a million dollars.
Junior 2 Bedroom
Great for students or first-time buyers
Needs TLC
Price Reduced!
$900,000
What is there to do but circle it? She searches the next tier of prices.
Dazzling Sun-Filled Corner Two Bedroom
Built-in Bookcases!
Window Seat Soaks Up Morning Sunshine
$1,100,000
She not only circles this one, but draws a big star beside it. It’s higher than they wanted to go, but …
“Any news?” she shouts over the television.
“The mayor just gave another press conference. He wants New Yorkers to call the hotlines
only
if they have a credible sighting. The FBI has received over ten thousand calls. Did you find anything?” he shouts back.
“Someplace that sounds too good to be true. Do youthink all the sightings will affect prices? Don’t prices go up if everywhere is dangerous? Or does the market stay flat if sightings happen in all the neighborhoods? Do you remember what Lily said?”
Alex comes into the kitchen and peers over her shoulder. She’s drawn a big black star next to one of the listings. He knows that to draw a star that black on paper as absorbent as newsprint, she must have pressed very hard on her pen. He reads the fine print:
One million and one hundred thousand
.
“We can’t afford it,” he says.
“We can if we learn from Harold’s Ladies. If we like the apartment, let’s offer a hundred and fifty thousand less than the asking price, two hundred less if the news is still bad tomorrow morning. If we don’t take advantage of the panic, someone else will. What’s the worst that can happen? The sellers will laugh in our faces? We laughed at Harold’s Ladies, and look at us now.” She puts down her pen. “My God, I almost wished for bad news. Do you know what the worst that can happen is?”
“We’ll have to put off moving for a few months?”
“That my wish will come true.”
In bed, after she sets the alarm for seven, Ruth reaches for her
Portable Chekhov
and opens to the page that she’d been reading last night when she fell asleep. The lady with the pet dog is crying once again, though in a different hotel, many years later. This time rather than eat a slice of water-melon,Gurov takes her in his arms and experiences such compassion “for this life, still so warm and lovely, but probably already about to begin to fade and wither like his own. Why did she love him so much?” The lovers take council and try to figure out a way to spend more time together without secrecy and deception, despite living in two different cities, and his having a wife and a
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