The Doorposts of Your House and on Your Gates

by Jacob Bacharach

  • • •

  Afterward, in the Ross Building lobby outside of the hearing room, where a layer of dust or grime on the windows gave the late afternoon light the quality of a detective novel, Harrow and Abbie were on their way toward the exit when Barry, the young assistant, called them briefly back. He’d hurried out of the hearing room and was out of breath from the exertion. He carried a cardboard accordion file held closed—possibly held together—with a thick rubber band. One got the sense that this was his briefcase. His glasses had migrated to the top of his head, where his hair was already thinning. He was in his late twenties. He had, Abbie thought, unusually long arms and unusually short legs, like an orangutan. Harrow had been in the middle of telling Abbie that he may have laid it on a little thick with all that God and religion stuff.

  “Mr. Mayer! I’m sorry. Have you got a moment? Just a moment. And Mr. Harrow as well.”

  “Well—” Abbie began.

  “Just a moment.”

  “Sure, okay. Phil?”

  “Sure, okay.”

  Barry steered them gently out of the main lobby and into a narrower corridor between two banks of elevators, whose old brass doors rattled when they opened and closed, which they did rarely. Like municipal offices everywhere, everything moved placidly. Even the dust in the beam of sunlight from the narrow window above a wilting potted tree seemed lethargic.

  “More private over here,” Barry said.

  “Yeah, okay.” Harrow caught Abbie’s eye, but Abbie shrugged. They had nowhere to be themselves. It was the end of the day. Harrow had already suggested, before the hearing, that they could duck into the Common Plea after it concluded. “It’s a lawyer bar,” he’d explained. He winked. “Long on the pour.”

  “Mr. Mayer, first, let me say that I’m an immense admirer of yours. Really. When I was an undergrad at UB . . . uh, the University of Buffalo, I heard you give a talk at the school of architecture. I was in the studio . . . the fine arts at the time, but my interests were always more in design. It was a fascinating lecture, truly. Very moving and also a little frightening. I wondered if you thought things were really so dire.”

  Abbie tried to remember what he might have said in Buffalo four or five years ago, but it was fruitless. His talks hadn’t changed much in substance from year to year, but he had learned to pitch them with varying degrees of apocalyptic fervor depending on his audience. If Buffalo had been at the university, in front of students, then he’d probably predicted something like the end of the world.

  “I think things are likely to become fairly dire,” said Abbie, “but one does occasionally exaggerate for effect.”

  Barry appeared pleased by this answer, laughed, and almost clapped. “I would imagine so. Nevertheless, I was very moved by the talk. The image you describe of seeing Phoenix from the air and having this revelation was quite, uh, powerful. Quite powerful.”

  “Abbie is a powerful guy,” Harrow said with his customary assault on Abbie’s shoulder. “But we’ve really got to be, you know. We’ve got another appointment.”

  “Yes, yeah. I’m sorry. Just a moment of your time. Yeah? Okay, thanks. So, first of all, let me formally introduce myself. My name is Barry Fitzgerald. I’m a, well, in addition to working on the staff of the zoning board here, I’m also a graduate student, uh, writing my dissertation currently, about the development and decline of rust belt cities at CMU. I mean, I’m at CMU, the cities, well, you know. And, I’m sorry, this is . . . I don’t mean to be awkward. The thing is, I’m setting up a, a sort of institute, a non-profit, sort of, think tank. At CMU. Affiliated with, I should say. I’ve already filed for 501 status, actually! But what I’m really looking for, from a fundraising and capacity perspective is, frankly, guys like you.”

  “Like us?” Harrow was amused.

  “Well, like Abbie in particular. In an advisory capacity. As a board member, perhaps. And contributor.”

  “So you’re asking for money.”

  “Well yes, that, too.”

  “I’m more of a March of Dimes kind of guy,” Harrow told him. “And I toss the occasional check at some venerable cultural institution on the knife edge of dying off.”

  “The thing about the Future Cities Institute, though—that’s what it’s called—is that we’re going to be doing really vital work, I can assure you, and in your field. And I would love to meet, you know, formally, to go over a sort of prospectus.”

  “A prospectus,” Harrow said, “is for investors. There is a promise of return. Nonprofit institutes are charities. Now, I like charity. Looking out for your brother man and all. But I only give to worthy causes.”

  “Mr. Mayer,” Barry turned to Abbie. “Your work was actually a major inspiration. Your early design principles. For instance—”

  “Yes, Barry. Thank you, but I’m familiar with my own principles, design and otherwise. I’m afraid that I have to go with Phil here, on this particular question.”

  “But.” Barry looked at the ground briefly. If he was not then, as he later became, a consummate raiser of monies, he had, even in those early and awkward days, that imperturbable fake earnestness that pursues every no as if it were yes. “What if”—he lifted his head—“what if there were a return.”

  “Young fella,” Harrow said, “distribution of proceeds to shareholders is emphatically not what a non-profit does. I’m not sure what they taught you as an art student”—he pronounced it to be certain that it was heard, and understood, as faggot—“but in business school, you learn that kind of thing is illegal.”

  Barry pressed on. “Joe Termini is screwing you.”

  Harrow perked, and he and Abbie exchanged glances again. “How?”

  “Well,” Barry said, seeing, even then in his inexperience that he had set the hook, “that would be confidential information of the zoning board. I would be, I’m afraid I am unable to divulge that information at this time.”

  “Goddamnit.” Harrow began to raise his voice. Abbie put a hand on his arm. He went on, measured but angry: “What the fuck are you playing at? I’m a good friend of Joe Termini—”

  “I’ve got no doubt that that’s the case. But seeing as he is, despite this great friendship, about to completely screw you . . .”

  “Phil,” Abbie said. “Let’s have a word.”

  They walked across the lobby leaving Barry alone between the elevators. Harrow seethed. “That little shit. He’s full of shit, too.”

  “Be that as it may,” Abbie said.

  “Be that as it may nothing. Joe Termini is a friend of mine.”

  “A friend, really?”

  “An acquaintance. Whatever. Are we debating it?”

  “In your friendship. Acquaintanceship. Would he, I believe the phrase is, screw you?”

  “No. I don’t know. Sure! I mean, it is what it is! You gotta spend money to make money. But what the hell, here? What’s the angle?”

  “Well, sounds like we can find out if we give this kid some money.”

  “Fuck that little cocksucker. Did you hear his voice? Queer as a three dollar bill. He can suck my cock, how about that?”

  “Phil,” Abbie said.

  “Abbie, do not give me that look. We’re partners now, but you’re still just a hired hand on this one.”

  “Listen, how much can it cost? I bet you can throw him a thousand bucks. I’ll go on his board. That’s probably less than you spent on dinner the other night. If it’s bogus, cancel the fucking check! Rat him out to his boss! But listen, Phil. If it’s not bogus, maybe it works in our favor. And plus, this is more up your alley than mine, but isn’t he basically offering to be our paid guy on the inside of the zoning board? That’s got to be worth something.”

  “You’re a scheming motherfucker,” Harrow said.

  “Well,” said Abbie.

  “No,” Harrow said. “That’s good. That’s a compliment. But you’re the one he’s wet for. Let’s see if you can Jew him down to five hundred. I’m not made of money.”

&
nbsp; “Jew him down,” Abbie said.

  “Aw, come on Rabbi. You know what I mean.”

  Five hundred and a handshake commitment from Abbie Mayer proved more than enough, and it was only two martinis and a half dozen cigarettes later, in the dim back bar of the Common Plea, surrounded by loud judges and attorneys, that Phil could bring himself to talk about it without just muttering, “God fucking damnit!”

  They’d called Veronica from a pay phone, and she’d joined them about one and a half martinis in. She got a gin and tonic, and Abbie explained to her the broad outlines: that there had been, for more than a decade vague talk of building a new highway connecting Pittsburgh and Uniontown, a shot in the arm to the rusting mill towns of the Monongahela Valley and the declining coal towns that nestled against the Laurel Highlands farther southeast. This project, whose economic and topographic complexities hinted at a price tag in the many billions of dollars, had been, for most of those ten years, hardly even a dream, just a whisper of a fantasy that an occasional businessman or state legislator would murmur to himself after the twisting, poorly lit, stop-lighted haul up Route 51, a bare forty miles from Uniontown to the Liberty Tunnels that took a half an hour longer than it should have. And Pittsburgh, in those days, was hardly booming itself. Its population was old and falling. And what would a highway do? And who would pay for it? But Reagan had recently lost the Senate, and Jack Murtha in the House had talked to Robert Byrd from West Virginia, who said he’d support the thing if they extended it to connect to Morgantown, and all of a sudden there was the prospect of an open spigot of Federal money with all of its attendant benefits.

  “What’s that got to do with Greenview?” Veronica asked.

  “Well, apparently, that’s where they intend—assuming this thing happens—to have the interchange with the Parkway.” Abbie shrugged. “So we buy the land, we prepare the land, then they eminent domain it out from under us to build an on-ramp. It has a certain poetic simplicity. I’m almost impressed.”

  “God fucking damnit,” said Veronica.

  “That’s what I said,” said Phil.

  “The thing is,” Abbie said, “I don’t think it’s all bad.”

  “How the fuck do you figure that?” Phil clinked his glass against the bar as the bartender passed. “Another, darling.”

  “Well,” Abbie said, “You guys have worked on road projects before.”

  “Tangentially,” Veronica said.

  “And don’t we know . . . You two still know what’s her name down in Fayette County, no?”

  Harrow looked up.

  “Sherri Larimer,” Veronica said.

  “Sure. And she’s some kind of raja down there, yeah? And how much can land cost in Fayette County? So why don’t we get in on this highway business and build some beautiful housing divisions . . . neighborhoods, out in the country.” Now Abbie shrugged. “Away from the crime and poverty of the city. I did see a highway in my vision, after all. Who are we,” he grinned, “to doubt the will of Hashem.”

  “Abbie, you’re out of your fucking mind,” Veronica said.

  “But still,” Harrow said.

  “No,” said Veronica. “Yeah, I agree. A drive wouldn’t hurt.”

  5

  “I don’t stand next ta no juice!” Isaac laughed. It was a punch line, but in her spinning and slightly goggle-eyed state, Isabel felt unequal to the task of connecting it with whatever joke preceded it. There were just the three of them left in the apartment, and only the two of them were still awake. It was late—3:30 AM, if the restored brass clock on the white wall could be trusted; and Isabel wasn’t certain it could be trusted—but not yet so late that she felt too badly about it. It was Friday night, or Saturday morning; she told herself that she had no particular need to be anywhere in particular anytime soon. The truth was that Isabel was five years past an easy recovery from a night that tipped past two in the morning. Knowing this didn’t dissuade her. Quite the contrary.

  They’d been drinking, and they’d done some lines. Isaac’s speech and grin had that fluttering and effervescent quality that accompanies youth and cocaine, like a face caught permanently in the moment before a hiccup. Isabel had the rictus of approximate fun that occludes the face of people over thirty who are acting as if they’re still under it. Isaac’s hand rested on the little white ball of a dog beside him. He was telling another story about going to school in Uniontown, in Fayette County. He’d been telling them all night. The vice principal who had, over twenty years, stolen nearly thirty thousand dollars in quarters from the pop machines and pleaded, when he was finally caught, that he’d only ever intended to use the money to pay for his own kids’ college tuition. The boy rumored to have a glass eye, the result of tossing a can of aerosol hairspray into a bonfire at a party, whom they’d tormented in dodgeball, thinking they might knock it loose. (“Did he really have a glass eye?” Isabel asked. “Got me,” said Isaac.) His junior-high English teacher, Mr. Krupp, who’d taught them about acrostic poetry using the word DIVORCE. The life-sized statue of a mustang—the high-school mascot—commissioned, built, installed, and then unveiled rearing back from a horrified crowd of athletic boosters, its gigantic mustang dick presenting between its fiberglass legs.

  Why, Isabel asked, didn’t his parents send him to private school in Pittsburgh?

  “Sarah,” he said. “My mother,” he added, as if it weren’t clear. “My mother believes in public education. She is, in the immortal words of David Bentley Hart, a fideist who thinks she is a rationalist.”

  “Who’s David Bentley Hart?”

  “He’s an Eastern Orthodox Anarchist Monarchist. God. Don’t you read the internet?”

  “Okay, well, I guess not, then. How can an anarchist be a monarchist? No, actually, never mind. And what’s the thing about juice?”

  “Jews.” He over-articulated his pronunciation. “Jews. My peoples. In the local vernacular pronunciation. Your peoples too, from the look of that nose.”

  “Ouch.”

  “No, it’s a lovely nose. Take this with a grain of salt from a huge fag, but there’s something hideous about women with cute little noses. A woman should have a real nose.”

  “Thanks, I guess. And my father was, I think. Jewish.”

  “You think?”

  “Well, he and my mom weren’t married. I mean, I never knew the guy.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  “Most people say they’re sorry.”

  “Yes, well,” he said.

  There was a silence. He did a line, throwing his head back theatrically.

  “Anyway,” he said, “Later on, I told her that I wanted to invite Adam Martens to my bar mitzvah, and she was like, ‘The boy who said the thing about Jews?’”

  Isaac made his mother sound like a bubbie from some long-lost Borscht-belt comedy act, even though Sarah sounded precisely like the American neutral product of Fieldston and Wellesley that she was.

  This was the night that Isaac decided he and Isabel had really met. He may or may not have believed that. He may have forgotten about the dinner at Barry’s or just chosen to efface it in favor of a better story. He may have believed both stories. He was untroubled by contradiction. This was how they’d got there:

  After a couple of months at her new job, and at Barry’s urging, Isabel bought a house, an old Sears catalog bungalow on a steep hill in Edgewood, with a wide porch and big eaves and a vegetable plot at the back end of the backyard that she never got around to planting. When Barry had first suggested that she buy a place (they’d been on their way back from a tour of Fallingwater), she’d laughed at the idea. She could imagine shouldering a mortgage in Pittsburgh, where houses were old and beautiful and cheap, but with only a paid-off used car and no prior equity and no down payment, how would she ever get a loan? Barry shrugged and said she should at least take a look. The next day he and his own old real estate agent hauled Isabel around from property to property, each of which, the agent assured her in a brittle, Virginia-Slims voi
ce, would be “perfect for a girl like you.” None of them was perfect for a girl like her, least of all the Sears & Roebuck bungalow on the steep street in Edgewood; it was perfect for a married couple twice her age, academics or administrators, their children already adults and long-since departed, its walls to be heaped with books and its kitchen to be stuffed with too many sets of stemware; so of course, she fell in love with it. Isabel always loved inappropriate things. “But,” she told Barry, “I can’t make an offer. It isn’t 2006. I’ll never get a mortgage.”

  “Oh, honey,” he said, meaning that she didn’t know what she was talking about. She permitted him to condescend to her about money out of a vague sense that she might benefit from his unearned paternalism. Like a lot of gay men his age—and how he’d have hated it to learn that Isabel considered him a gay man of his age—he evinced a desire to take a younger girlfriend under his wing. For a month she protested weakly that the whole idea was impossible. By then he’d called Art Imlak, and Imlak had called someone at Dollar Bank, and then a chirpy young woman called Isabel to tell her that she’d been pre-approved and just needed to fill out some paperwork.

  “But how?” She’d asked Barry, because it would flatter him to pretend not to answer.

  “Oh, honey,” he’d said, meaning she didn’t have to ask.

  Living in Pittsburgh had been—so far—revelatory; it was the first time since her childhood that she’d had a house in which she wanted to live. The New York apartments with Ben had been designed for photography, not for habitation, and every piece of low, lovely furniture suggested that perhaps you might not want to sit on it. Before that had been smaller apartments, shared houses, dorms. She’d long since lost the habit of just coming home after work, and she’d forgotten how to stay in at night. There were plenty of work dinners with supporters and visiting professors and local developers and politicians, and there was a dingy bar still hanging onto business between new Thai restaurants on Braddock Avenue in Regent Square, just a ten minute walk from her house, where she’d occasionally drink a decent scotch for which they charged only four dollars. But in those early months in Pittsburgh, if she wasn’t working or having a drink after a working dinner, then she was mostly at home on the big white slipcover couch she’d bought for the living room, sipping wine or tea, reading and writing emails while some or other movie played on the TV across the room. She’d made a few friends: a married pair of architecture profs who had her to dinner from time to time; a lawyer named Brad who took her to openings and fundraisers and probably wanted to date her more seriously but spared them both the embarrassment of ever bringing it up; Barry, of course; improbably, his—and now her—real estate agent, who’d seemingly sold a house to everyone in the city. But these weren’t friends friends; they were all nice and charming and wanted her to stay in the city, and she wanted to stay in the city, too, if vaguely and in an unsettled way. The truth was that, six months in, she loved only the house. Everything else was only fine. She still thought about Ben and stalked his Instagram account, which was as professionally architectural as ever, simultaneously hoping for and dreading a photograph of humans that never appeared.