Day Eleven

April 10

PRANK OR ALCOHOL-INDUCED HALLUCINATION, WHATEVER IT WAS, I’D thought about the strange spider-girl all day. I wondered if it was going to scare away any of our storytellers, but when I arrived on the roof, it looked like most of our usual suspects had come back. I was glad, despite myself.

While no one seemed ready to actually bring up the spider-girl again in the light of day, on the mural someone had painted a picture of two terrified, wide-eyed bunnies in a box with holes in it, in the hands of a big old man with a beard sitting on a cloud.

“I see,” said Eurovision, settled into his chair and pouring his martini until it slopped over, “that God Himself has decided to join us tonight.”

“Nah. Some old white dude sitting on a cloud, pulling our puppet strings?” said Vinegar, with a snort. “That isn’t my God. No, thank you.”

“I did a comic in which God appeared as a character,” volunteered Amnesia. “I made him purple, with a big nose, mustache, and five-o’clock shadow. Oh, and tentacles.”

Hello Kitty said, “God is just some dumb-ass kid and we’re his science experiment.”

“For which he will get an F,” said Darrow. He looked at Amnesia. “I’m kind of curious about you. You wrote comic books?”

“I did, until I was hired to write computer games. That was after I won a Ringo Award for my comic series Polypore, when I had my fifteen minutes of fame and riches.”

“Polypore?” Eurovision asked Amnesia. “What was that about?”

“It was a sci-fi horror series about a shelf mushroom that colonizes the human penis. There was a rush of offers, Comic Cons and cosplay sorts of things, and I got hired by Frictional Games for a freelance gig at gargantuan fees. I didn’t invent Amnesia, but I was involved in writing later versions. It happened so fast—I was a millionaire for a year, until I got sick with HIV, and like a fucking idiot I hadn’t bothered to get insurance. I went through all my money down the street right over there—in Presbyterian. My whole life collapsed, and then came Covid and when I got out of the hospital that’s how I ended up in this joke of a building. Anyway, during my glory time of fame and riches, I tried my hand at acting.”

* * *

“I got a gig doing The Vagina Monologues at the Westside Theater in New York. I never wanted to be an actor, but I got talked into it by the producer and the writer. It turned out to be a very interesting experience. Writers live alone. Actors are always involved with one another. An actor’s day is totally different from a writer’s. You wake up late, eat a late breakfast, promise yourself you are going to do something like writing or telephoning but—knowing you have to leave for the theater at five o’clock—nothing else gets done. At five, if you’re lucky, you get into a car the show has sent for you, and you go to the theater. There, you put on makeup and whatever clothes you are wearing and talk and gossip with the other actors. This is the best part of the day. This is the part of the day where you figure out auditions; where you get the gossip of the business and you wish it would go on forever. Honestly, doing your makeup, planning the rest of the day is kind of marvelous. And then it’s time. There’s a knock on the door.

“‘Be ready to go on at such-and-such a time.’

“And you fix your makeup yet again and go backstage, getting ready to go on, heart pounding. Always at this moment you’re sure you will forget your lines, and yet, when you take your place, everything comes back. The humor, the voice, the craziness of being in front of a darkened audience of invisible faces. It’s like living an alternate life, apart from your normal life. And it’s even more vivid than your life. You can’t eat before the show, and the hunger sort of propels you. When it’s over and the lights go up and you actually see the faces of the people who have been listening, you are absolutely ravenous, and all you want to do is go out and eat. I never like to eat when I have to speak in public—somehow, the food weighs me down—but after the show, I feel free and all I want is a glass of wine and food. No matter how dreadful the restaurant, the food tastes better than anything you’ve ever eaten, and the company is wonderful because the people you’ve been performing with are totally open. They will tell you anything after the first glass of wine.

“So even though I never wanted to be an actor, I loved the rhythm of an actor’s day—the fact that you go home and collapse, totally exhausted, sleeping until eleven o’clock the next morning, totally blissed out. As a writer, you always struggle with self-doubt, but as an actor, the words are not your own, so you inhabit the character with a kind of irreverence and joy. When I did The Vagina Monologues, some of my actor and director friends came to hear me and told me I was ‘not bad.’ Yet I would not trade my difficult life as a writer for the more social life of an actor. I’m glad I know about the rhythm of their lives. Someday I will write a play.

“The most remarkable thing that happened during the show is that, as I was doing my vaginal piece, someone in the audience, a man, dropped dead! Naturally I didn’t know this until after the show. I don’t blame myself for the death, but maybe the material was too upsetting.”

* * *

Amnesia stopped, and Hello Kitty began to laugh uproariously. “I love it,” she said. “The Vagina Monologues killed a man!” She pealed with laughter. “That’s priceless. You say you were ‘not bad’? I bet you were fucking awesome! A millionaire writer and an actress! How many actors can say they actually killed someone in the audience with their talent?”

No one else seemed to think it was funny.

“Did you ever find out how he died?” Darrow asked Amnesia, pointedly ignoring Hello Kitty’s outburst.

“They said a heart attack.” She looked a little uncomfortable at the direction the conversation about her story had taken. The man’s death interested me less than the part about how Amnesia had gotten HIV—of course, I wasn’t about to ask any questions that might draw attention to myself. But boy, is that an awful disease. She must have come down in the world pretty hard to end up in the Fernsby Arms.

Hello Kitty was still laughing, though less enthusiastically now that she realized others weren’t sharing her mockery.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s very funny,” Maine said. “You should pay a visit to the ER someday and see what it’s like when someone is having a heart attack.”

Instead of responding, Hello Kitty just took a huge inhale on her vape and folded her legs back up into the cave chair, looking defiant.

The Lady with the Rings spoke up. “I love what you say about an actor’s day. I was never a stage actor, not exactly, but . . . Well, perhaps it’s time to tell my story.”

I was starting to appreciate how deftly the Lady with the Rings handled tension on the roof.

“Yes!” said Eurovision. “Didn’t you say you lived a lie? I’m dying to know what that means.”

“Yes, well, first, let me first tell you that I started out as an artist. And I was good. Well . . . ,” the Lady with the Rings paused, nodding at Vinegar, “maybe not as good as you. But, I’d gotten into Pratt. And, back then, it meant something. I really thought . . . well.” The Lady with the Rings shook her head almost imperceptibly.

* * *

“You see, my brother, my darling, clueless brother Glenn fancied himself a playwright and a producer . . . ,” she laughed softly. “Not good plays, mind you. So he had to produce them. It had always been his dream and, somehow, when one of his actors decided he needed a real job and left him hanging on opening night, Glenn roped me into standing in for him. One night. Just a fluke. Glenn was so . . . desperate, said he had ‘a possible backer, some guy with deep pockets and please . . .’

“I played ‘the Butler,’ of all things: just a few lines, just one night.” The Lady with the Rings chuckled softly, running her long fingers along the line of her chin as she remembered.

“Picture this: a much-used wig, one scratchy mustache, and a ratty old tuxedo Glenn had scared up from the Goodwill in Red Hook. I had to wrap my chest pretty tightly to hide my . . . um, assets,” she grinned.

“Sometime during the second act, it occurred to me that I had never once expected that anyone would attend, much less underwrite, Glenn’s play. He had sworn that an investor was coming but, trussed up like I was, I just felt light-headed and annoyed that I’d ever agreed to help out. The guy operating the lights was so heavy-handed that I could barely see the audience. But I could see . . . and smell . . . Glenn’s secondhand props, still damp from the flooded basement where he’d found them. The actors swanning around me in period dress looked comically flimsy. Maybe I was just dizzy from wrapping my breasts too tightly. Plus, the cheap mustache glue had dried up and itched like hell. Still, I could make out my dear, sweet Glenn, giving me a thumbs-up from the third row, grinning like he’d just gotten paid. I realized then that his ‘money’ guys must’ve shown up. So I got in one good scratch to my upper lip by adding an elaborate mustache twirl and delivered my big line: ‘Madame, I believe the constable has arrived.’

“Act three was a hot mess. By the time my character had been cleared of suspicion and the culprit was revealed to be a nanny named Agnes . . . wait for it . . . Butler, most of the audience had taken advantage of the dark and slipped away. I was seeing halos around every light by then and just wanted to get the wrapping off before I passed out.

“But there were bows to take. Even a second round of bowing, thanks to Glenn, who led the applause himself. Where had he even found an audience for this pun-ridden farce? RH Playhouse had been a produce warehouse, washed out of business by a recent hurricane. The space had only been affordable because my dear brother was desperate enough to slather paint over water stains and have his actors shout lines at each other over the whirring of gigantic fans. It had taken a week to dry out the walls and floors.

“Ever since he had graduated two years earlier, Glenn had been staging his plays at area colleges, mostly with students and a ragtag group of his theater friends. He categorized his plays as ‘experimental.’ None of them made sense. Let alone a profit. His friends seemed hell-bent on performing, though. So they recycled costumes and hammered together sets regardless of where or when Glenn’s stories were set. I don’t think any of his plays ran for more than two or three nights.

“What I did know was that each production soaked up whatever money Glenn made tending bar and painting apartments during the week. When we were kids, I had been his default lead in every play, from his fourth-grade interpretation of Wonder Woman, the Prequel to his send-up, The Cadbury Tales, which he’d staged in the community room of our Park Slope apartment building when he was in tenth grade. His cast actually raised funds for that one.

“I do believe that most of our audience had come for the free candy we passed out during intermission.

“I had been his willing accomplice. But that was then. Once I got into Pratt, I needed to work at least two jobs every semester. Whatever financial aid I was able to get barely covered my art supplies. I had little money and less time. And I made it clear to Glenn that I was not an actress . . . I was so into my art then. So, sure . . . .” Shrugging her shoulders, the Lady with the Rings shook off the thought.

“When Glenn’s leading man dropped out at the very last minute, leaving him stranded, what could I do? The guy had chosen a ‘real’ job over the glittering lights of Red Hook. And it was only one night.

“Once the applause died, I made a beeline for the storage room that Glenn had set aside for me, his star. I didn’t mind playing a man, there was very little I wouldn’t do for him, but I needed privacy to get into and out of that butler costume. I’d even cut my hair short so the wig would fit and added that nasty mustache to make me look more masculine. I had mixed pastel shavings . . . my good Caran d’Ache pastels that I skipped lunch for a week to afford . . . I mixed them with Vaseline, glazed my chin and throat with the mess and, voila! Stubble and an Adam’s apple. But flattening my chest? That was exhausting. I needed to breathe.

“Before I reached the storage room, I heard Glenn calling, ‘Hold up!’ He was grinning and giddy, flanked by the two guys I’d seen sitting with him in the audience. There was no way his investor talk had been serious. This was still Red Hook. And my sweet, determined, delusional Glenn, the brother I adored and encouraged, had written a real stinker this time. But I’d never tell him. So I might wrap myself in gauze, slap on a mustache, and play along like I had in grade school. And somehow he had convinced others—non–blood relations—to take on roles this time. But luring in someone who’d spend actual money on this play? Not possible.

“‘Jeremy, Chaz, I’d like to present my star,’ Glenn said proudly. He gave me a curious wink.

“Heads nodded, hands were shaken, compliments were paid. My accent, timing, my presence . . . just masterful, Jeremy gushed. Seriously? His friend Chaz had said nothing, but simply studied my face. I felt suddenly aware of how dank with mildew the walls were in that hallway, how close together they seemed. Honestly, if I couldn’t get out of that costume soon, I worried I’d use what little air I had left to scream.

“Glenn knew me too well; he knew I was ready to bail. ‘We’ll meet you out front in ten, cool?’ he said to his new friends, either missing or intentionally ignoring the side-eye I was giving him.

“‘I gotta get out of this thing, Glenn,’ I insisted the minute they’d left.

“‘No. C’mon, Alex,’ he said. ‘You gotta come with us. Please? That guy, Chaz, is loaded. Like, serious, old, big-time money, okay? He can take this straight to off-Broadway!’

“I was happy for him. Happy he had such faith. And I told him so. ‘But tell me about it after I change, all right?’ I remember saying. Just talking was a strain.

“Glenn had leaned in close even though the exit door had firmly closed behind his new friends. ‘Listen, sis. Chaz, the guy with all the money? I think he thinks you’re a dude. Really. Like, kudos, hats off to you kid, you nailed the part!’

“‘’Kay, so? I get the lead when he brings your play to Broadway . . . seriously? No offense, brother dear, but the fuck do I care? Not an actress, remember? And don’t wanna be.’

“Glenn rolled his eyes. ‘No, c’mon. Course not. He’s got a job for you. For big bucks I think,’ he added. ‘Hey, you know that’s gotta be good news. Just come with us to this thing in the East Village.’

“I studied my brother. Yes. I needed money. I had one semester to go at Pratt and no job prospects in sight. I had a hundred and thirty-eight dollars in my savings account and not enough in checking for an ATM withdrawal. Plus, rent was due. So there was that. My internship at WE Press Books hadn’t paid me in two weeks, so I had stopped going. Which made it highly unlikely that they would pay me what they owed me anytime soon. Yes, money would be nice.

“Still, I leaned in close to his ear to make my point. ‘I. Can’t. Fucking. Breathe.’

“‘You are such a drama queen’ was all he said.

“We took a taxi, following the car service his new friends had taken, so Glenn had time to brief me on how Chaz was ready to finance his play, to make it ‘real.’ I remember thinking about how many good and well-intentioned lies we tell others. His new friend’s offer set off an alarm in my brain. I watched Glenn’s face. I wanted to warn him. But being honest seemed cruel. My brother was too excited to entertain the truth about his play. Crossing the Manhattan Bridge, the lights overhead kept stroking his face on, off. On, off. He believed this was his beginning. And I wanted that for him. Hell, I wanted as much for myself. But when others said I had talent, I had enough sense to question it. Others could be well-intentioned liars, too.

“How many times had I railed against situational ethics? But this was different. This was Glenn. And situational ethics sounded better than lying.

“Every bump that we hit on the bridge, every pothole we caught as we headed up the Bowery had a curative effect, each jolt loosening the fabric I had wound around my chest. I tried to focus on breathing. This had better be worth it.

“The party turned out to be on the rooftop of a nondescript walk-up building on East Third Street.”

The Lady with the Rings looked meaningfully around the rooftop, at all of us staring breathless back at her, trying to figure out where this story was going.

“Anyway, strings of lights outlined the borders of the roof, and most of the crowd stayed clustered in the shadows, their silhouettes merging and pulling apart, defined by the city lights behind them. There was a makeshift bar, blankets, pillows, and chairs set in one corner, and someone was playing what sounded like a weird mix of rap and sitar music.

“Glenn left me and returned with two plastic cups of very bland wine. Then he took off in search of his friends. I found a spot on the ledge of the building that abutted the roof next door, the side that didn’t offer a seven-story drop to the sidewalk. I parked myself and sipped my wine.

“‘Glenn told you I have a job for you?’ Chaz was suddenly above me, holding a half-filled champagne flute. Clearly, Glenn had missed the bar with the good stuff.

“‘Yeah, he did mention that,’ I said, hoping I sounded husky despite being taken by surprise. With enough distance and makeup, I had pulled off being a man onstage and in that shadowy hallway. But now I was worried about the streetlamp a few floors below. How much was revealed in this light?

“‘What I’ve got is a, well . . . it’s not, uh . . . not a conventional acting job, exactly.’ Chaz let out a choked, heh-heh, phony sort of laugh. His eyes narrowed, and he studied me as though he was unsure about telling me more.

“I stared at my plastic cup and slowly swirled what was left of the wine, keeping my face turned away from the light. Jesus. What did that mean? Birthday clown? The back end of a horse? Some weird sex thing? Had Glenn known what the deal was and not wanted to tell me? Did that even matter? Rent was due in two days.

“‘What’s involved?’ I asked.

“‘Well,’ Chaz said, sitting down next to me on the edge of the roof, ‘you’d have to lose that mustache for starters, Alexandra.’”

* * *

We were leaning forward intently when suddenly we heard a crash at the far end of the roof. Someone began yelling, and a man, disheveled, unmasked, covered in sweat, his eyes wild, rushed into the center of our gathering.

“Hey, I wasn’t expecting anyone up here. Yeah, I thought I’d be alone.”

“Who are you?” demanded Florida, half rising from her seat. I saw Vinegar and Eurovision exchange an alarmed glance. We were all half frozen with surprise.

* * *

“You haven’t seen me before, have you? You don’t know me. Of course you don’t. Who knows me? No one. That’s why I came up here, see. Since you’re staring at me like I’m some new kind of animal species, I’ll tell you the truth. I came up here to jump. Yeah. Like a nosedive. Off the roof. Ha ha. I’m laughing at your faces. Such horror. Like in a bad movie. You can close your mouths. I was probably joking, you know. I mean, that’s what I do. I’m a joker. None of you have ever seen me, have you? Morty Gund. The stand-up. Anyone been to Stewie’s on Second Avenue on open-mic night? Of course you haven’t. How about the Comedy Shack on Ninety-Sixth Street?”

Nobody was even attempting to get a word in edgewise. I glanced at the Lady with the Rings, who had been so rudely interrupted. She was as stunned as the rest of us. Who was this guy?

“Morty Gund. The name doesn’t mean a thing to you. And, of course, it’s phony. Martin Grunwald. Who would come see a comic named Martin Grunwald? Martin Grunwald would have to be the funeral parlor manager who tells everyone he’s sorry for their loss.

“So that’s why I’m Morty Gund, not that anyone asked.

“Morty Gund, fastest comic in the west. Ha ha.

“My ex-wife didn’t think that was funny. She didn’t think I was funny. My ex-wife is the main reason I’m up here joking about jumping off the roof.

“Here’s more you don’t want to hear. Her name is Annie. But I call her Annie the Anvil. Because she’s been like an anvil, a heavy weight pulling me down my whole career.

“Hey, a lot of people think I’m funny. I killed at Ray-Jay’s in Hackensack. A talent scout for The Tonight Show was supposed to be there, but I think he had car trouble. I played that club three times and got screams.

“Not from my ex-wife, of course. She screamed okay. She screamed at me day and night about why don’t I make a living. She never stopped screaming about how I’m not funny.

“She hurt my confidence, but I know I’m funny. You don’t know me, but maybe you know my catchphrase. Every stand-up has to have a catchphrase, right? Like Rodney Dangerfield—‘I don’t get no respect.’ Even you folks must remember that one.

“Well, my catchphrase is, ‘Really for real, folks.’ I say that ironically, you know, after a joke. Like I’ll tell a crazy joke about my ex-wife, and then I’ll say, ‘Really for real, folks.’ It makes people laugh.

“Listen, this is a hard time to make people laugh. I’m not the only one who is striking out. People don’t want to laugh these days. They just want to be offended.

“Everyone is offended all the time. People just walk around being offended by everything they hear and every joke someone tells.

“My gay dentist routine used to kill. I mean, really for real, folks.

“But try to do a gay joke today. They just stare at you like you committed a crime.

“Everyone is so uptight.

“I had this great bit about my ex-wife. I’d say, ‘She’s so fat, when she stands on the corner, people drop envelopes into her mouth.’ Ha ha. That’s a riot, right?

“I always loved it when a fat woman came into the club. I’d go to town on her, and everyone would go nuts. Then I’d say, ‘Just kidding. Just kidding. Not.’ And the laughs just boomed off the ceiling.

“You can’t do that now. No one has a sense of humor.

“I mean, what kind of world is this where you can’t do fat jokes?

“It’s tough out there. Take it from me. And I’ve been funny my whole life.

“When I was in second grade, I was in some kind of stupid play. And I was onstage in front of all the parents. And my costume fell off. As I bent down to pick it up, I heard a roar of laughter ring out over the auditorium.

“I still remember that laughter. And I remember thinking, ‘That’s fun. Making people laugh is fun.’ All those years ago. And so I tried to be funny ever since. And people laughed. Really for real. Everyone except the anvil, my ex-wife.

“I came to the city to do stand-up. My ex-wife did everything she could to discourage me and make me doubt myself. I knew it would be hard work. I knew it would be two hundred open-mic nights and dozens of shabby clubs in terrible little nowhere towns. But I was willing to do all that because I knew I was funny. I knew I could be big-time.

“And yes, early on I had a mentor. Someone who helped me define my personality and carve out my act until everything worked.

“Buzzy Gaines.

“You know Buzzy Gaines, right? You have to know Buzzy. Buzzy is big-time. He had his own half-hour on Netflix last year.

“Well, I met Buzzy at The Jokery in San Jose, and we became fast friends. I was flattered when he offered to give me tips and help work on my act. I mean, he was a pro. He studied comedy and audiences, and he had a great eye for what worked.

“It means a lot when an old pro takes an interest in you and tries to give you a boost. Buzzy and I were close for over a year. And then came that night in Hoboken.

“He was headlining at Sammy’s Joint, and I decided to surprise him. I sneaked into the club and sat at the very back table. It was really dark there by the bar, and I knew Buzzy couldn’t see me.

“My plan was to heckle him. You know. Give the guy a hard time. I knew he’d get a kick out of it. But when he came onstage, I changed my mind. And I just sat there in stunned silence.

“You see, Buzzy was doing my act.

“He stole the whole thing. Every word.

“I never spoke to him again.

“I guess I became bitter after that betrayal. I changed my act. The act was now all about my ex-wife. But I couldn’t do fat jokes anymore. So I did thin jokes.

“‘My ex-wife is so thin, I turn her upside down and use her for a broom. My ex-wife has no tits at all. When she turns sideways, you can’t see her!’

“Great stuff. But audiences don’t want to laugh anymore. The women would start to hiss at each joke, and then the men started booing and hissing. And Stewie asked me not to come to open-mic night anymore.

“Annie the Anvil said, ‘I told you so.’ And that’s when I decided to make Annie my ex-wife. That’s when I decided to kill her.

“I dreamed up all kinds of plans, but then I decided they wouldn’t work. I didn’t think I had the strength to just plain strangle her.

“Annie had taken away all my confidence. I had no faith in myself.

“But I surprised myself. I did have the strength.

“And that’s how she became my ex-wife.

“No. Don’t get up. I’m leaving. I’m not going to jump off the roof.

“Let me just say, ‘Thank you all for being such a great audience. Good night, drive carefully, and God bless.’

“And don’t worry about me. I’m working up a whole new act, and I think it’s going to kill.”

* * *

Just as fast as he’d come, he was gone. We were surrounded by vacant lots, so he couldn’t have jumped to an adjacent roof. He had to have gone out the door, but none of us had heard it rattle. People were breathing loudly behind their masks, freaked out.

“What the fuck?” Eurovision finally exploded. “Who was that dude?” He turned to me almost accusingly. “Is he a tenant?”

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” I said defensively. “The doors are locked. He must’ve broken into the building.”

“Where’d he go?” Eurovision cried, lurching to his feet. “Did he jump?”

“He said he wasn’t going to,” said Wurly.

“He must have,” said Eurovision. “He’s not here and he didn’t leave by the door! He was over there when he disappeared. For fuck’s sake, somebody look over the side.” He fixed his eye on Darrow, who was closest.

“Hell no,” said Darrow. “I’m not looking. I’m not going to end up on a witness stand. Somebody else look.”

“We would’ve heard him hit the ground,” said the Lady with the Rings.

“How would you know?” asked Vinegar. “Don’t tell me you pushed Chaz off the roof?”

“That’s not funny,” said the Lady with the Rings.

Finally, with an irritated sigh, Hello Kitty got out of her chair and went over to the parapet and looked down, while the rest of us watched in a stasis of dread.

“It’s too dark to see,” she said, returning to her cave chair.

“What do we do?” asked Wurly.

“Nothing,” Hello Kitty said with a shrug. “A batshit crazy trespasser invaded our roof and disappeared. Not. Our. Problem.”

“It is our problem if he’s dying on the sidewalk down there!” Vinegar said.

“If you’re so concerned,” said Florida, “why don’t you go down and give him mouth to mouth?”

“But how did he get in?” said Whitney, turning to me again. “Isn’t the lobby door locked?”

“Of course it’s locked!” I repeated. “Someone probably buzzed him in.” I looked around to see if I could catch the guilty party. “That’s how most people who aren’t supposed to be in the building usually get in.”

“Maybe he’s still in the building,” said Wurly. “Someone should go check.”

I felt their eyes resting on me and my resentment mounted. “I’m the super, not a fucking door shaker.”

The big silent Iraq veteran, Blackbeard, stood up. “I’ll do a sweep.”

He left. For a moment no one said anything, and then Amnesia said, “We might as well hear the end of the story about Chaz while we’re waiting?”

The murmuring seemed to be in favor of the Lady with the Rings finishing the story. Everyone was too upset to just wait around and think about what had just happened.

“Where was I?” said the Lady with the Rings.

“Chaz had a job for you.”

“Yes.” She gathered up the ends of her scarf and pulled it tighter against the encroaching cold. “When Chaz Cavanaugh called me Alexandra and said to lose the mustache, I peeled it right off and relaxed a little . . . And when he showed me his photos, I finally understood what he wanted me to do. To become.”

She patted her hair with a beringed hand. We waited.

* * *

“So. Let me paint you a picture: thirty years later. Another night, in another world, I was throwing a party. The caterers had come highly recommended, but they were running behind schedule. So was Glenn. He had promised to come directly from the theater with a star or two in tow, and his show should have ended forty minutes earlier. My hair had been styled, I had dressed, gone through five shoe options, changed my jewelry, changed it back, and even had time to instruct Herve on how to arrange couches on the terrace to encircle the firepit: close enough for conversation but not so near the fire as to make anyone hot. It was a cool night like this, I recall.

“I had wandered onto the balcony to watch, as a stream of taxis sailed along Park Avenue, far below. Traffic noise never fully reached me up there. From high above, leaning over the railing, it was easy to admire the artistry of the gardens that graced the center of the avenue. Someone must coordinate the blooms and the shrubbery, decide which trees to incorporate and where to place them. Someone had to curate the sculptures that change with every season. I would’ve been good at that. Choosing colors, themes. That’s what I’d always been told: What a great color sense I had. I rarely looked over that railing without thinking back to the rooftop on East Third Street, back to that one night so many years before.

“‘The caterers have arrived, Ms. Cavanaugh,’ Herve had announced from the terrace door. Indispensable Herve. The irony of having a butler never escaped me. Behind him, my housekeeper was ushering in a small band of workers with their trays and carts, pointing them toward the kitchen.

“You see, as intricate and improbable and shady as it had all seemed, I realized then how well it had worked out. Chaz Cavanaugh hadn’t blinked when I removed that mustache. He had simply stared. It was a long, hard, unsettling stare, to be honest. When he showed me photos of his sister, though, I understood what he wanted. Jessa Cavanaugh could have been my twin. It felt as if I were looking at photos of myself, but dressed differently and in locales I didn’t remember visiting. Everything happened quickly after I agreed. For the next couple of days, Chaz schooled me on every pertinent detail of his and his sister’s childhood. He produced documents for me to study; I read and reread letters she’d written. I sat at an antique desk in his sister’s apartment, a desk that would’ve paid for my last year at Pratt, and practiced her handwriting. We rehearsed the story of where Jessa had run off to, when she had returned, and why she had kept to herself when she returned. These were not lies, I told myself. These were possibilities.

“Now and then, it nagged at me, of course, how certain Chaz had been that his sister would not return. But who was being hurt by this? The lawyers got paid. Chaz got his inheritance. I made sure that Glenn got Broadway. I got Jessa’s lifestyle.

“Chaz is gone now. Since he’d never married or had children, I inherited from him as well.”

The Lady with the Rings took a long look at her neighbors. “Of course, I often think about him and that night when everything changed. What I remember most is his eyes. And the relief I felt looking into them: relief that I thought I could stop pretending . . . and relief that I wasn’t perched on the side of the roof with a seven-story drop.”

“So what happened? You just lived as Chaz’s sister for thirty years?” Darrow asked. “Did you find out where she’d gone?”

The Lady with the Rings smiled again.

“Back in those days, there weren’t photos all over the internet, tracking everyone. Glenn was my only close relative, and he was in on it. So there was no one to call me out or wonder where I went. We weren’t close to our parents. A change of address, even my name change they chalked up to our ‘artistic’ lifestyles. But the money put me through the School of Visual Arts’ graduate program in fine arts. I opened a small gallery downtown, hired staff, and mostly showed art by Black conceptual artists . . . David Hammons, Senga Nengudi, even Elizabeth Catlett. Once a year, I exhibited my own work. Ha! How delicious to thread through the crowd and listen to comments about the mysterious artist Alex Chimère, who never attended her own openings. Actually, Alex became something of a sensation for a while. Chaz loved that. A little theatrical paint, a couple of wigs . . . and voilà! I would have headshots of the elusive Ms. Chimère for each exhibit. The ‘shy’ artist never gave interviews.

“My forgery of Jessa’s life went on without a glitch. Only the three of us knew, and it was in our best interest to keep up the charade. There were moments . . . but, I just played through, you know? Even when Chaz passed away, and I worried an old friend or some long-lost relative might expose me at the funeral. To answer your question, no. I never learned what became of Jessa. I could have pressed. I certainly had the resources to find out. But . . .”

The Lady with the Rings paused. Her back stiffened and she looked away. “I never tried.”

* * *

The door to the roof banged loudly, and we all jumped. Blackbeard came out. “Building’s clear,” he said. “Front door is locked, everything seems secure. Unless he’s gotten into an apartment and locked himself in, the guy’s not here.”

“Did you look out on the sidewalk?” asked Vinegar.

“Fuck no. I’m not going outside.”

At that, it was clear everyone was ready to get back to their apartments, doors safely locked behind them. Before she left the roof, though, I walked over to where the Lady with the Rings was gathering her wineglass, because a suspicion had been building in my head. I finally voiced it. “Chaz killed his sister, didn’t he. That’s why she never showed up.”

The Lady with the Rings hesitated, and a look close to pain crossed her face. “Chaz told me that people really do just disappear: They travel to remote places with someone they trust . . . but shouldn’t . . . and meet with a tragic end that is never revealed. He could be curiously precise when it came to what may have happened to Jessa. But that was Chaz, cryptic as hell. The man changed my life.” The Lady with the Rings shook her head slowly. “No, I would never say he killed his sister.”

But I could still hear doubt in her voice. She had the face of a person satisfied with how things in life have turned out—but I wondered just how at peace she really was, having built a life maybe, just maybe, on the back of a murder. Not that I was one to talk.

“So with all that wealth,” Eurovision said, surprising me from over my shoulder, “how on earth did you end up here, at Fernsby?”

“That,” she replied grimly, “is a story I think I’ll save till the next pandemic.”

We broke up for the evening. I made my way downstairs to my apartment, but instead of transcribing tonight’s wild stories, which I was still having trouble wrapping my mind around, I felt so wiped out that I decided to do it in the morning. I lay down on my bed, but couldn’t sleep. God, how I hated this recent bout of insomnia. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Lady with the Rings. If she had all that money, why was she living in this shithole of a building? Was she even who she said she was now, or was the whole story just something she made up? But I liked her. I liked her a lot. I wondered how many of us up there had something to hide.

The creaks and ticks of the old building filled the silence, and then the footsteps came, right on schedule. A soft brushing sound, like someone in thick socks sliding his feet across the floor. I had a sudden, chilling thought: Maybe that’s where the crazy guy, Morty Gund, has been hiding.

After a few moments of wrestling with my conscience, I got up, grabbed my master keys and the old super’s Louisville Slugger that he kept by the door, and snuck out into the hall. The basement was dark and cold, half the lightbulbs in the ceiling burned out, but with my cell phone light there was enough to see by. A few roaches scuttled away—which reminded me of another thing I’d run out of: Roach Motels. I ascended the stairs to the first floor. The long hall was quiet.

I crept up to the door and listened. All was silent.

I slipped my key in the lock, turned it, and shoved the door open with my foot, cocking the bat and flicking on the light switch at the same time.

No light. Of course, with no tenant, the power was shut off. I backed away, lowering the bat, fumbled out my phone, and turned on the light, which cast a feeble bluish glow about the room. Empty except for the shabby furniture. The dust on the floor lay undisturbed, only marked by the previous footprints I’d made while checking for leaks. I moved across the living room holding the bat in one hand, phone in the other, past the Pullman kitchen and into the bedroom and bathroom, shining the light back and forth. There was a strange smell in the place, moldy like damp leaves. The bedroom window, shut and locked tight, looked out over the empty lot next door, covered with rubble and broken bricks, and beyond that a chain-link fence and a stretch of the Bowery. I paused to listen but could hear only the muttering sounds of the old building, which never seemed to settle down.

The apartment was clearly empty. I lowered the bat, feeling foolish.

Back in my own apartment, I dropped back onto the bed, fully clothed. I could swear I still heard those sliding feet.

I lay awake in the darkness until first light, when I finally fell asleep.