Good Riddance

by Elinor Lipman

  “I’m from New Hampshire! I laugh at the cold.”

  He came the following weekend and stayed for five days in a skinny duplex, one room up and one down, connected by a spiral staircase I didn’t think was safe to negotiate.

  He loved the place. Further delighting him was what he called the cornucopia of conveniences: restaurants of every ethnicity, and bodegas and people selling fruit and vegetables on the streets. In winter! He had his hair cut on Columbus Avenue and declared Reuben his new barber. Never had anyone been so sold on a city within the first hour of setting foot in it. And on day five he’d met with a rental agent and signed a lease for a one-bedroom with a loft in the same building he’d Airbnb’d in, four blocks south of me, effective the first of November.

  Now that it was actually happening, my worrying set in. I asked if he might be rushing things. Weren’t widows and widowers supposed to wait a year before they made any big decisions or lifestyle changes?

  “It has been a year, Daff.”

  Oh. So it had been. “Of course. October. I knew that.”

  “If this isn’t hard to hear: After a year, a widower can supposedly keep company with a woman without causing tongues to wag—”

  “And that can’t happen in Pickering?”

  “Let me put it this way: I sat next to Ceci Walsh at church. Remember her? She was the art teacher before the program was cut—”

  I heard the grandfather clock clang in the background. I checked my watch. It was on the half hour and had the eerie effect of my mother chiming in.

  “I’ve thought about it,” he said. “I didn’t want to start up with anyone in Pickering who might be anti–New York and probably make a live-free-or-die fuss about paying state income tax. What I was really asking was if your old dad invited a woman to a show—just being hypothetical here—would that sit okay with you?”

  “Yes, of course. You could do more than take her to a show. What daughter wouldn’t be okay with that?”

  “Holly, maybe.”

  “You know why that would be, don’t you? If you met someone, you might marry her, and she could have children and grandchildren, and what if they were smarter or cuter or lived closer than Holly’s two in Beverly Hills? Or, God forbid, a younger woman who’d give you a second family?”

  “I don’t know if that’s fair, Daff.”

  “Don’t worry. When or if the time comes, I can handle Holly.”

  Was my father a flirt? He certainly went out of his way to open doors for women of all ages. Appraising him through the eyes of prospective partners, I thought, Yes, handsome in his rimless glasses, his well-cut gray hair, his herringbone overcoat, his cashmere scarf, and his high school principal’s dignity.

  I’d told him over wine, our farewell-for-now dinner, that I thought—after seeing him in action—he’d do very well in the dating department.

  “Action? Hardly? Good manners, maybe. Well, there are a lot of ladies around. And I like the way they look here: smart—in both meanings of the word. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re available.”

  “They’ll let you know, believe me.”

  “First things first. I have to get down here and moved in.”

  I asked if he was going to put the Pickering house on the market.

  “I am. I don’t want that responsibility, don’t want to worry about who’s plowing the driveway and shoveling the walks and weeding the perennials and checking for dead mice in the traps. It’s not a snap decision; it’s not like I came here on vacation and decided on a lark to relocate.”

  “I was playing devil’s advocate. It’s time for the adventure to begin.”

  “I already called Kevin Hogan. Remember him from Fairgrove Avenue? He’s an agent now. I’d promised him the exclusive. He was just waiting for the go-ahead.”

  I might’ve said, Dad, you understand that I’m busy? You’ll have to build your own life here, with your own friends and interests and your own activities. But I didn’t. I was relieved, postdivorce, to know that my kind, brave, handsome, lonely father would be living ten minutes away.

  I took the bus to Pickering to help him sort and pack. He asked if I could attend to my mother’s side of the closet. I shouldn’t have given any thought to Geneva Wisenkorn’s musings about my mother’s wardrobe, but I did. What harm in taking pictures of her most iconic outfits? If this alleged filmmaker found no inspiration in them, maybe I would; maybe I’d have daughters of my own someday, and I could show them pictures of these suits and dresses, and say, “These belonged to your grandmother; this is how a teacher dressed in Pickering, New Hampshire, at the end of the last century.”

  I hadn’t realized my father was watching me as I spread a full-skirted shirtwaist dress out on the bed. “You’re taking pictures,” he said. “That’s nice.”

  “One never knows.”

  “What about her jewelry? She liked to wear pins. They’re in her jewelry box.”

  I said that Holly had put in her requests, which was fine with me. I’d already spoken for the pearls and Mom’s jade ring. Over there was the pile of things to be negotiated.

  “My girls . . .” he began.

  “What?”

  “In some families, there would be bickering. But with you two, it’s been ‘You want it? Take it.’ No one insisting, ‘Mother wanted me to have that.’”

  He was nearly correct in his characterization. I’d be sending photos to Holly and FaceTiming the flipping of coins over a beaded shawl, three Bakelite bangles, and my mother’s dress-up watch.

  I wondered if I should tell my father what had happened to the one thing that Mother did want me specifically to have. No, not yet. Why announce that her overworked yearbook might get a new life? That documentary would probably never get made, as predicted by every New York acquaintance who’d ever had a brush with Hollywood.

  And, worse, I’d have to confess that I’d ditched my mother’s prized possession, and a trash-diving documentarian had rescued it.

  5

  Nice to Meet You

  I had met across-the-hall neighbor Jeremy the day I moved in after knocking on his door to complain about the barking from within. He was tall in a gangly way, with a bony face, a not-unattractive large nose, and a mouthful of braces. He was wearing jeans and a faded Monkees reunion tour T-shirt. I stared for a minute because it had the now-deceased Davy Jones on it. I introduced myself as his across-the-hall neighbor, not even having taken up residence, and told him I’d heard his dog since the minute the elevator door opened.

  “He’s a friend’s, only here for one night, and since I was at work, not a happy camper.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “That I don’t own a dog?” He opened his door wider. “You’re welcome to inspect the premises.”

  I said, “I’m not antidog. I just didn’t want to live across the hall from a yappy one.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Daphne.”

  He smiled. “Like the nymph.”

  That was unexpected and gave me pause. “Not many people know that.”

  “I had two semesters of Greek mythology.”

  “And when was that?”

  He smiled. “Is that a trick question? ‘How long ago was college?’ as opposed to ‘How old are you?’”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll be twenty-six in September.”

  “That’s eleven months from now.”

  “I’m a very mature twenty-five.”

  I couldn’t agree due to that assertion being at variance with his orthodontics. Behind him, I could see an interior hallway, which meant his apartment was not a mirror image of mine but larger. He must’ve noticed my surveillance because he stepped to one side. “Care to look around?”

  “Another time. Sorry to start off grouchy.”

  “Already forgotten. Where are you relocating from?”

  “Most recently, the Upper East Side. But before that, New Hampshire.”

  Fresh from the moving van, I was hold
ing two potted plants that I’d liberated from my marital apartment. “Are these for me, a reverse housewarming present?” he asked. “Some quaint New Hampshire custom?”

  I said no. I explained that one was mint and the other lavender, both required in my next semester.

  “Studying what?” he asked.

  “Chocolate making.”

  He pretended to slump in ecstasy against his doorframe. “Did a chocolate chef just move in across the hall from me or am I dreaming?”

  “Right now I’m just a student.” Without a free hand to shake, I said, “Well, nice to meet you . . .”

  “Jeremy Wynn.”

  “W-i-n?”

  “That, too.” Now he was grinning.

  “Daphne,” I said again. “Maritch.”

  “And is there a Mr. Marriage?”

  “It’s my maiden name. Maritch. I’m divorced.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I never should’ve married him. He tricked me. It was a scam.”

  “Gay?”

  “No. Long story. About a will. He needed a wife to free the inheritance.”

  “What a douchebag. Who’s sorry now?”

  “Not him. Believe me.”

  “Look how close we are already,” he said.

  It was natural, ten or so days later, after decluttering had brought Geneva to my door, that I would ask Jeremy if he knew her, and if so, did he have an impression of her talents or trustworthiness.

  Though he hadn’t mentioned what he did for work, I’d seen him leave ridiculously early, a car waiting outside. I left a note. “Knock when you have a minute? Daphne.”

  He did when he got home that same night. I told him I had a question.

  “Shoot.”

  I whispered, “Can you come in? It’s about a neighbor.”

  He did. “Cozy,” he said, looking around.

  “It’s almost a one-bedroom. What’s yours?”

  “Two bedrooms. I’ll give you a tour anytime.” He smiled. The brackets of his braces were sky blue. “You said you had a question.”

  “I do. It’s whether you know Geneva Wisenkorn down the hall. Documentary filmmaker. Maybe forty-five, maybe fifty. Curly dark hair. Crazy eyeglasses.”

  “Big woman?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Sure, but just in passing. Why?”

  “She wants to make a documentary about my mother.”

  “Who’s your mother?”

  “No one you know. A high school teacher who left behind a yearbook that Geneva thinks tells a hundred stories.”

  “Do you think that?”

  “I don’t think it tells one story.”

  “What’s she doing with your mother’s yearbook?”

  Why disguise the fact that I’d been careless and coldhearted? “I threw it out and she found it in the trash room.”

  “She must’ve seen something in there. Possibly something you missed?”

  “I’m thinking . . . maybe.”

  “Let’s go. Eleven what? Will she let me see the yearbook?”

  “What for? And what do we say?”

  “What we say, Miss Daphne, is that you mentioned to me that she was a filmmaker, and because I’m an actor who’d rather be turning out scripts, you thought we two should meet.”

  Well, this was a whole new topic. “A working actor?”

  “Why do people ask me that? Or the other favorite: ‘Character actor?’ Is it the braces? Because those are a prop. I play younger. She might even know the show.”

  “Where? What show?”

  “I’m sure you don’t watch it—kind of a teen drama: Riverdale. Based on Archie Comics, which I say without apology.”

  I not only knew of the show; I watched it. Or did when I had more channels. “And who are you in it?”

  “Random kid in the corridors, in the locker room, sidekick to the dead brother.”

  “Does this random kid have a name?”

  “I got one this season: Timmy.”

  I made a speech: I’d moved to Manhattan against the advice of everyone who warned that the city was too expensive, too dangerous; there were terrorists in Times Square and slashers in the subway. Didn’t I read the newspapers? It was impersonal, a town without pity where neighbors didn’t call 911 when they heard you screaming. But they’d forgotten to mention that celebrities walked and lived among us.

  “Thank you. It’s usually: ‘Actor? Alleged writer? What restaurant do you work at?’”

  I said, “This could be very helpful.”

  “How so?”

  “With Geneva. You’re in the business. You’ll get a sense of whether she’s a professional or a bullshitter.”

  “So we exchange an industry handshake, then I ask what she’s been up to lately?”

  “Exactly. Will you report back as soon as you talk to her? I’m not sure what her daily routine is—”

  “Unh-unh. You’re coming, too.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  “But you just got home. You probably have lines to learn.”

  “Ha! This is what I have to sit around all day for: ‘Hi, Mrs. Cooper. No thanks. Can’t stay for dinner. Bye, Betty. See you at school tomorrow.’”

  “Betty’s my favorite character.”

  “Up till now,” he said.

  I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t watched season two, having downsized to bare-bones cable. I changed the subject by saying, “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

  Geneva answered in a plush, floor-length black velour bathrobe, her feet bare and her toes separated by pink foam spacers. Without being asked, she volunteered that she did her own pedicures ever since the New York Times’s exposé on nail salons. Slave labor!

  Trying not to look at her splayed toes, I said, “I was telling Jeremy—this is Jeremy—that a documentary filmmaker lived on our floor, and he said, ‘I should meet her.’”

  Geneva, taking in the plaid shirt, the braces, the freckles, said, “Okay. Hello. No jobs on any projects right now.”

  With a cock of his head, actor Jeremy materialized. “Oh, darn. I was hoping you needed a gopher or an assistant to an assistant.”

  I said, “He’s joking. He’s on a TV show.”

  “Which one?” Geneva asked.

  “I’m sure you’ve never heard of it: Riverdale,” he said.

  Never heard of it? I could see the internal debate she was moderating: Would admitting devotion throw her intellectual bona fides into question?

  I added, “He plays Timmy. It’s a speaking role.”

  “Can we come in?” Jeremy asked. “I’d love to hear more about Daphne’s project.”

  Geneva hadn’t budged yet. “Daphne’s project?”

  “Based on her mother, I understand.”

  “Who apparently was everyone’s favorite teacher for reasons that aren’t very clear,” said Geneva.

  “Yearbook advisor,” I amended. “It was dedicated to her.”

  “I’d love to hear more about it,” said Jeremy. “And to hear what else you’ve done.”

  Geneva lifted her right foot a few inches off the floor. “You might’ve noticed that I’m getting ready to go out.” But before we could apologize for the cold call, she said, “Oh, what the hell. I can finish later. Anyway, it’s better letting the first coat dry before you apply the second.”

  Her apartment was a shrine. The foyer walls were a deep red, covered with framed posters of documentaries she’d never told me about. “Yours?” I asked of the first one, then the next one, until I caught on: She had nothing to do with these.

  I went into my own acting mode, pretending that she’d brought Spellbound and Is Paris Burning? and Capturing the Friedmans and Born into Brothels to the big screen. “Wow. And the only thing you bragged about was the matzo-factory movie. I assume you had a hand in all of these?”

  Geneva said, “Ha! I’d be a household name if these were mine. I guess you didn’t realize how iconic these ti
tles are.”

  “I totally realize how iconic these are.”

  Jeremy asked, “Do you work out of your apartment?”

  “Who are you again?” Geneva asked. “In relation to Daphne.”

  “Across-the-hall neighbor,” I said.

  “At the very least,” said Jeremy, tossing me a look that said, Play along.

  Geneva plopped onto a nubby upholstered chair and put her feet on its matching ottoman. That left us a sofa that looked like giant upholstered red lips. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  “I understand you found the yearbook in the trash,” Jeremy said.

  “Not the trash,” Geneva said. “The recycling bin. It’s found art.”

  “Lucky find,” he said.

  I could see that Geneva wasn’t sure if she was being teased. “It happened to be sitting on top of a pile of magazines. Anyone would’ve picked it up.”

  “And then left it there,” I said.

  Geneva said, “We’ve discussed this. I do research. I’m intellectually curious. I’m interested in Americana. I can’t imagine who wouldn’t pick it up.”

  Jeremy said, “So how’s it going?”

  “I’m in the note-taking stage. I have a thousand things to absorb.”

  “I’d love to see it,” said Jeremy.

  “If there are screenings, sure.”

  “I meant the yearbook itself.”

  “I don’t keep it here. It’s at the bank.”

  “What’s it doing at the bank?” I asked.

  “All my important papers are in a safe-deposit box. I have to think of fire or flood. Last year, or maybe it was two years ago, the upstairs neighbor died in the bathtub with the water still running. Drip, drip, drip till he was found. My bedroom ceiling had to be replaced.”

  Jeremy said, “I remember. I think the building held a memorial service for him.”

  Geneva said, “I didn’t go. It would’ve been in poor taste because I was suing his estate for the difference between the building’s insurance and what the repairs cost.”

  “Speaking of that, how are you financing the documentary?” Jeremy asked.

  Wasn’t that a personal question? Apparently not; apparently funding was open for discussion, if not the first question filmmakers and actors asked early in an acquaintance. I made my facial expression match Jeremy’s: Yes, do tell. Where does your money come from and how do you support yourself?