William Lashner - Marked Man

“The sconces?” I said.

“Oh, the things they have now are simply beastly. But with something a little art deco and bright, maybe some frosted glass, the walls will look fabulous.” She found a key that fit, twisted it, shouldered open the door. “Let’s take a look.”

A blast of must hit us from the open door, as if the place hadn’t been inhabited in years. I was ready to duck in case a bat flew out.

Sheila the Realtor walked in with authority, switched on the lights, opened a window. Beth and I followed warily, stepping directly into a living room. There was a ridge running across the dirty wooden floor, the walls were scuffed, the fixtures hung by frayed wires, the windowsills were rotting, the ceiling had a great crack tearing through it.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Sheila. “Isn’t it thrilling? Varnished floors, maybe some flocked wallpaper. A leather couch, something bright on the wall. The potential here is outrageous. And you should see the kitchen – it’s bigger than some condos I sell.”

There was an archway to a small grimy dining area devoid of windows and then another arch leading to the kitchen, which was big but sparse, too, with just a few counters, a stove collapsing on itself, and a refrigerator with rounded edges that belonged in a museum. The linoleum floor, a filthy brown, was coming apart at the seams.

“Lovely, just lovely,” said Sheila, admiring the wreck of a kitchen. “It gets morning light, which is really a fabulous feature. You have enough room for an island and a breakfast nook. This is the house’s single best feature.”

“This?” I said.

“Oh, yes, Victor,” said Sheila. “I have clients in half-million-dollar homes who would kill for a kitchen like this. The possibilities are endless. And whatever you put into a kitchen, you will get out twice when you sell, especially a kitchen as big as this.”

“It does have potential,” said Beth.

“You see, Victor, Beth has vision. Beth can see beyond the current condition to what this kitchen can be. State of the art. A Viking stove, a glass-fronted refrigerator, granite countertops, walnut cabinets.”

“I like walnut,” said Beth.

“You could do the whole thing in walnut, with pin lighting from the ceiling. I could see this kitchen in Philadelphia magazine.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. Now, there are two floors above us. Three bedrooms on the second and a bedroom and an attic space on the third. Plus a full basement,” she said, gesturing to a door in the kitchen.

“Finished?” said Beth.

“You could,” said Sheila. “Why don’t we take a look upstairs first? I thought, for you, the third-floor bedroom could be a home office. It gets a tremendous amount of light, and there’s a view of City Hall. Oh, Beth, I think this place is perfect for you, just perfect. And I know there’s some leeway on the price.”

“You want to come up with me, Victor?” said Beth.

“In a minute.”

I stood with Sheila as Beth wandered back through the dining area and toward the stairs in the living room. As she climbed them, the stairs creaked like an arthritic old man trying to straighten his back.

“It’s a little run-down,” I said to Sheila the Realtor.

“It admittedly needs some work,” she said, the manic edge gone from her voice.

“It’s a pit.”

“Her price range was limited.”

“Are there really people coming to look at it this afternoon?”

“There are always people coming to look in the afternoon. What’s your situation, Victor?”

“Single,” I said.

She laughed, leaned back, flicked her hair. “I meant housing,” she said.

“Oh, right. I rent.”

“You could just throw your money out the window, it would be more efficient. Do you ever think of buying?”

“No, not really.”

“It’s a good time, Victor, while interest rates are still low.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“I have some places that would be perfect for you.” She whipped a card out of her portfolio, offered it to me. “If you’re interested, give me a call.”

“I don’t think I really want to buy something right now.”

“Still, give me a call. I’m sure we could work out something. Now, why don’t you go up and see how your partner’s getting along.”

I found Beth leaning on a sill, peering out a window in a small, closetlike room with a sloped ceiling on the third floor. There was enough room for a chair or a desk, maybe, but not enough room for both.

“Nice home office,” I said.

“Look at the view,” she said.

“What view?”

“If you lean forward and look left and bend your neck just so, you can see the tip of Billy Penn’s hat.”

“Oh, that view.”

“What do you think?”

“I think I don’t have the imagination for this place.”

“I like it.”

“You always had a thing for reclamation projects. That’s why you’re with me.”

“This would be quite a cozy office,” she said.

“Cozy being the operative word.”

“And did you see the rooms on the second floor? A nice master bedroom, a guest room, and then the small room that could be a nursery.”

“A nursery?”

“Paint it pale blue, put in a cradle, a nice rocking chair.”

“Doesn’t a nursery need a baby first?”

“And the kitchen is marvelous, isn’t it? You heard what Sheila said. Philadelphia magazine.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“I love walnut.”

“There’s not a stick of walnut in this entire house.”

“With the settlement you wheedled out of Eugene Franks and some help from my dad, I bet I can swing this.”

“Beth, do you really think this is the answer to whatever existential disquiet you’re feeling, to buy a house and saddle yourself with a thirty-year mortgage and a limitless future of home repair?”

She turned from the window and stared right at me, her lips flat with seriousness, her eyes impassive. “What would you suggest?” she said in a calm, soft voice.

I thought about it, but not for long, because the very calm of her voice let me know that she didn’t really want an answer.

“I represented a home inspector in a DUI once,” I said.

“Is he an incompetent drunk?”

“Only when he drives.”

“Perfect. Thanks, Victor,” she said, looking up to the sloped ceiling. “I think I’m going to be really happy here.”

“Can I make one piece of decorating advice?”

“Sure.”

“For the home office, get a laptop.”

I wasn’t long backfrom our visit with Sheila the Realtor when I was summoned from on high.

Talbott, Kittredge and Chase was one of the firms that had rejected me out of law school. There were many firms that had rejected me out of law school, a glorious fellowship of discretion and good taste. Yet Talbott was the bluest of the blue chips, and its rejection, all these years later, still irked. Whenever I spied a Talbott lawyer, the bitter strands of resentment and envy rose like bile in my throat. By now I had realized that my big-firm dreams were a chimera, I was congenitally unfit for working for anyone except myself, but if there was a spot I still secretly pined for, it was among the brilliant successes at Talbott, Kittredge and Chase, one of whom was Stanford Quick.

“Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Carl?” said the very attractive paralegal who had escorted me into the conference room of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase on the fifty-fourth floor of One Liberty Place. The paralegal’s name was Jennifer, the conference table was marble, the chairs were upholstered in real leather. The conference room’s windows stretched from the ceiling to the floor, and the view of the city as it rolled to the Delaware River was breathtaking.