black-legginged leg as if she was leaning and pretends to hold a cocktail.
I point at the errant rusted nail jutting dangerously close to her vest.
“You don’t like it.”
“No, I do! Sorry, it’s just, currently, while I’m missing three stairs and a contractor, I’m kind of dreaming about someone picking out everything down to the food in the refrigerator. In fact, coming home to a fresh carton of milk and some working doorknobs would be my idea of Christmas.”
“You’re just running low on inspiration.” She takes my hand. “Come on, they have the most fascinating things downstairs.”
An hour later we’ve snaked our way through the mildew-saturated catacombs displaying the remnants of New York’s prewar fixings, with Citrine’s sheer delight at every last piece of cracked tile, chipped knob, and tarnished letter serving as our torch.
“Oh my God, these are fantastic ,” I hear yet again as I sift through a bin of dusty mortis sets. “Nan, look.” I turn to the far end of the aisle, where Citrine, loaded up with collected finds under both arms, carefully displays a metal plaque with her outstretched fingers. “It’s from the factory next to my studio! Well, now it’s a demolition pit, but it used to be a glove factory. I’m totally getting it. How are you doing down there?” She shuffles toward me, careful not to drop anything.
“Good.” I continue to dig in the dusty crate of metal parts. “Just looking for a mortis set for our bedroom door.”
“A what?”
“In order to keep the original glass knob, which does not currently catch closed, I was told I needed to find an original ‘mortis set.’ At which point I devoted too much time on Wikipedia learning the history of mortis sets. I have forever lost this along with the part of my brain now completely filled by stair pitch gradations and bathtub flanges and their varying requirements.”
She smiles. “I’m one conversation about kitchen triangle configurations away from blowing my brains out. Wow. Is that a . . .” She steps around me and wanders out into the aisle. I look down at the three seemingly identical brass boxes on the cement floor and—eenymeeny-miny-moing—choose one. “Nan?”
“Coming!” Dusting off my coat, I follow the sound of her voice to discover Citrine sitting inside a massive alabaster bathtub.
I peer at the orange sticker on its side. Eighteen thousand. “Wow.”
She lolls her head to me along its rolled rim. “Come sit.” Pulling her sneakers up and clutching her treasure like a kid keeping her toys from floating away in the bubbles, she makes room for me to climb in at the other end.
Lowering my bag between my legs, I sink back into the perfectly calibrated curve. “This is nice.”
“Isn’t it?”
I nod, resting my head on the cool stone to gaze up at the network of pipes snaking overhead.
“You know,” she says, “it reminds me of Tatiana—her mother had a tub like this in their Lake Cuomo house. In her bathroom. Did you ever see it?”
“Never invited.” I smile at the idea.
“Oh.”
“Do you two still see each other?”
“No. I mean, I run into her, but when she turned twenty-one she got a trust from her father and then she married a trust and neither of them has to do a day of work. You wouldn’t recognize her. She had her boobs done. She gets Botox. It’s gross. And it’s not like she’s doing anything interesting. She just goes to the gym all day. That’s where I see her. Yoga class. She’s got a staff of, like, seven taking care of her two-year-old.”
“Tatiana had children?” I screech, unable to temper my shock.
“I know!” She laughs. “Scary, isn’t it? Nan, everyone’s getting so blah. I’m so psyched I found you. We have to get the boys together and hang out.” She knocks my ankle with the toe of her Puma.
“We should.”
“Don’t get too excited.”
“Sorry.” I fiddle with the hardware in my hand. “Ryan and I—we’re just having
I point at the errant rusted nail jutting dangerously close to her vest.
“You don’t like it.”
“No, I do! Sorry, it’s just, currently, while I’m missing three stairs and a contractor, I’m kind of dreaming about someone picking out everything down to the food in the refrigerator. In fact, coming home to a fresh carton of milk and some working doorknobs would be my idea of Christmas.”
“You’re just running low on inspiration.” She takes my hand. “Come on, they have the most fascinating things downstairs.”
An hour later we’ve snaked our way through the mildew-saturated catacombs displaying the remnants of New York’s prewar fixings, with Citrine’s sheer delight at every last piece of cracked tile, chipped knob, and tarnished letter serving as our torch.
“Oh my God, these are fantastic ,” I hear yet again as I sift through a bin of dusty mortis sets. “Nan, look.” I turn to the far end of the aisle, where Citrine, loaded up with collected finds under both arms, carefully displays a metal plaque with her outstretched fingers. “It’s from the factory next to my studio! Well, now it’s a demolition pit, but it used to be a glove factory. I’m totally getting it. How are you doing down there?” She shuffles toward me, careful not to drop anything.
“Good.” I continue to dig in the dusty crate of metal parts. “Just looking for a mortis set for our bedroom door.”
“A what?”
“In order to keep the original glass knob, which does not currently catch closed, I was told I needed to find an original ‘mortis set.’ At which point I devoted too much time on Wikipedia learning the history of mortis sets. I have forever lost this along with the part of my brain now completely filled by stair pitch gradations and bathtub flanges and their varying requirements.”
She smiles. “I’m one conversation about kitchen triangle configurations away from blowing my brains out. Wow. Is that a . . .” She steps around me and wanders out into the aisle. I look down at the three seemingly identical brass boxes on the cement floor and—eenymeeny-miny-moing—choose one. “Nan?”
“Coming!” Dusting off my coat, I follow the sound of her voice to discover Citrine sitting inside a massive alabaster bathtub.
I peer at the orange sticker on its side. Eighteen thousand. “Wow.”
She lolls her head to me along its rolled rim. “Come sit.” Pulling her sneakers up and clutching her treasure like a kid keeping her toys from floating away in the bubbles, she makes room for me to climb in at the other end.
Lowering my bag between my legs, I sink back into the perfectly calibrated curve. “This is nice.”
“Isn’t it?”
I nod, resting my head on the cool stone to gaze up at the network of pipes snaking overhead.
“You know,” she says, “it reminds me of Tatiana—her mother had a tub like this in their Lake Cuomo house. In her bathroom. Did you ever see it?”
“Never invited.” I smile at the idea.
“Oh.”
“Do you two still see each other?”
“No. I mean, I run into her, but when she turned twenty-one she got a trust from her father and then she married a trust and neither of them has to do a day of work. You wouldn’t recognize her. She had her boobs done. She gets Botox. It’s gross. And it’s not like she’s doing anything interesting. She just goes to the gym all day. That’s where I see her. Yoga class. She’s got a staff of, like, seven taking care of her two-year-old.”
“Tatiana had children?” I screech, unable to temper my shock.
“I know!” She laughs. “Scary, isn’t it? Nan, everyone’s getting so blah. I’m so psyched I found you. We have to get the boys together and hang out.” She knocks my ankle with the toe of her Puma.
“We should.”
“Don’t get too excited.”
“Sorry.” I fiddle with the hardware in my hand. “Ryan and I—we’re just having
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