Anne sat in the back row, biting back a smile. Beverly had lived in the building since the late sixties, and had been propping up Dennis, her life-size Satan dummy with glowing eyes, in the window of her fourth-floor apartment every October for almost as long. Apparently, it had never been an issue until the building was renovated a decade ago, attracting a new echelon of tenants, andnow every autumn the same battle was waged in the Uppercross co-op meeting.
Ellis readjusted his glasses. “Regardless of the technicalities, there have been complaints—”
“What complaints?” Beverly snapped.
“Well, there’s been some concerns about it appearing demonic and lowbrow—”
“From who?”
“They were submitted anonymously,” Ellis said, shifting his weight.
“So, it was Wendy,” Beverly replied, shooting a death glare across the room.
“It’s distasteful!” A shrill voice rose up from that direction. Anne knew it was Wendy Graham, a fairly new tenant who had moved from the Upper West Side and spent her weekends in Connecticut. “And scary!”
Beverly scoffed. “You want to talk scary? I went on a date with Lou Reed in 1968.Thatwas scary.”
A dozen different conversations suddenly broke out across the room. The Uppercross only had sixteen units, so despite Ellis’s efforts as co-op board president to restrict the monthly board meetings to just the board members, everyone inevitably showed up, attracted by the need to air their grievances as well as partake in the charcuterie boards that Ellis’s husband, James, laid out in the kitchen.
Over the din of conversation, Ellis found Anne and looked at her pleadingly. He may have been the board president for the past five years, but Anne came from co-op board royalty. Her mother had run these meetings so efficiently during her tenure as president that no one could fill her shoes, though the rest of the building regularly looked to Anne to try. Whether it was negotiating withplumbers or talking through tenant disputes, Anne was inevitably brought in to help.
“Why doesn’t Beverly just close her curtains at night, like last year?” she offered.
Ellis’s eyes lit up. “Right! That’s right. Thank you, Anne. Why don’t we agree to have you close your curtains at night, Bev?”
Beverly considered for a moment. “Fine.” Then she sat down.
“Great! Fantastic. Moving on.” Ellis cleared his throat as he looked down at the tablet in front of him. “Next item of business is the proposed sale of apartment 8A.”
There was an uncomfortable shift through the room as a few eyes darted Anne’s way. She was used to it—she could barely traverse the lobby these days without a look of pity from one of her neighbors.
“Now, under normal circumstances, we wouldn’t put a time limit on the vetting process for applications,” Ellis continued. “But I think we can agree to fast-track this one—”
“Objection,” Beverly blurted out as she stood up again.
Glen raised his hand. “She means point of order.”
“Point of order,” Beverly continued, her tone flat. “Does anyone else think it’s funny that our president here is trying to push through this sale while he’s also conveniently the listing agent?”
Conversation erupted again as tenants talked and debated with one another, all while Ellis stood in front of them looking defeated. Anne was tempted to go up and try to help but stopped herself. That wasn’t her role here anymore, was it?
The thought sent a jolt of anxiety through her bloodstream. She stood up and slid out of her row, then headed for the kitchen’s swinging door.
The usual array of food was laid out on the countertops: glasses and plates and about five vastly different charcuterie boards. After James and Ellis were married a few years ago, James had thrownhimself into his role as first husband of the Uppercross, and as such, made sure to have each board meeting include the finest catering platters that the gourmet grocery store around the corner had to offer. But Anne ignored all of it and went straight to the selection of wine bottles lined up along the terra-cotta backsplash.
Anne had never been a big drinker. Those times Freddie had convinced her to go out with his friends in college, it was routine for her to order a drink, have a sip or two, and then stealthily slip it to him to finish before anyone noticed. If she had more than that, she would spend more time worrying about the inevitable hangover than enjoying the evening itself.
Not now, though. Anne took a deep sip of her wine, ignoring how it burned down her throat as she straightened her shoulders and smoothed out the front of her fitted cardigan.
This is fine, she reminded herself.It’s all under control. You can handle this.
A moment later, the kitchen door swung open behind her and James walked in.
“It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion,” he said as he reached for a bottle of red. His array of rings clattered against it as he poured himself a glass. “I’m serious, Anne. I will pay you a million dollars not to move out and leave us with those people.”
“Do you have a million dollars, James?”
It was rhetorical. James was the first to admit that being the first husband of the Uppercross was wildly underpaid.
