“Gence, when are you going to sort out the wall?” Jack asks. “What’s taking so long?”
“Mos ma çaj bythën. You have questions, I know. I will answer. The owner of your apartments, Mr. MacManus, is very upset. He says he will not renew your leases. He ask me to knock down wall,t’raftë pika, so he can sell as one apartment to one of you.”
“What?” I cry out at the same time Jack shouts, “Sell?”
The edges around my vision blur. This isn’t real. I can’t lose my place. “Gence, I will talk to Mr. MacManus,” I say.
“No. Mos pjek pordhë në tepsi,” Gence says.
“He told you not to bake a fart in a pan. That can’t be right?” Jack says. He holds up his phone, the translation written on the screen, clear as day.
“Oh, you know things,hajvan?” Gence says.
“Why are you mad at me? She’s the one who put the hole in the wall!”
“I know things too. I knoweverything.” Gence glowers at Jack.
“I met Mr. MacManus once, a couple of years ago. I’ve got his number. There’s no way he can kick me out! I love my apartment!” I insist. I fumble with my purse, pulling out my cell.
“No, no!” Gence’s eyes shift, taking in Mrs. Russo’s descent into the lobby. The old woman shuffles past us to the mailboxes, pausing to clutch the cross hanging from her neck and give Jack a disapproving glance.
Gence’s voice is softer when he says, “No need to bother Mr. MacManus. He did say maybe he sell the apartments separately. But only ifyoufix the wall and do anything else that is needed. You remove wall, you get permits, you can split the work, cost, to put up wall maybe with each other if you both want to buy. If you do all of that and make official bank-approved offer to buy before city deadline, you get apartments. If not, Mr. MacManus sells as one apartment. Full price. And we know how fast condos go here,a din?”
“What’s—” I lick my lips. “What’s the price?”
Gence cites a number that freezes my insides. “For the entire floor?” I ask hopefully.
“Each.”
I force a smile. “Oh. Okay. Great!”
Gence walks on down the hall to his apartment. I stare after him.
“Nice going,” Jack murmurs.
“What? I don’t know where you can get live chickens,” I say, loud enough that Mrs. Russo hears. She moves with purpose in Jack’s direction.
My heart beats against my chest like a demented caged bird. I could own my apartment. My baby would be mine. Permanently. I hurry to the door.
My own patch of city—ifI can somehow, miraculously, come up with the money and build that wall in less than sixty days.
The walk is marked by an emotional yo-yo within me. It crashes violently when I think of the cost of buying and buoyantly jerks back up when I think about my place being my forever home.
An hour later, while I’m on what has easily become the most painful conference call of each day, I multitask and fill out a mortgage pre-approval application. Anthony, a colleague of mine from our European region, drones on and on.
Application submitted, I sit back in my chair and smile.
“And so, perhaps we can regroup on this second agenda item,” Anthony says, finally arriving at his point. I’ve dubbed him “The Professor” in my mind, since he loves to pontificate and poke holes in others’ work while never volunteering to do anything himself. Academia in the corporate world at its finest.
“Actually, Anthony, if we can just review this one piece—”
“No, Penelope, I must insist. Moving on to agenda item three…”
I open my mouth and shut it, my shoulders slumping.
“You know what? I don’t need you after all, Jolly Green. I did it all by myself,” I say to Avery, adjusting my earbuds and balancing on the ladder I borrowed from Gence. I push the sticky Command hook firmly against the plaster wall, about a foot above and to the left of the giant hole in the wall.
“I don’t understand. One night of drinking to excess and you’ve devolved to College Penny. Why didn’t you just put a Taylor Swift poster over the hole?” he says.
