Ten for Ten

Times Like These

“It’s eighteen-seventy five a month, two months deposit due at signing, for a two year lease,” the broker said.  “I know it’s a little outside your price range, but…”

But it was perfect. 

The high ceilings, the bank of windows running along the east and north of the living room, the breakfast nook, the marble bathtub, the hardwood floors, sang to her.  “But the truth is we’re in Inwood.  It’s too much to pay for this neighborhood.  We could get half again as much space if we went to Brooklyn.”  It went without saying they’d get a broker there, and Ms. Fiorentino would be out her commission.  Then again, the apartments they looked at were at chump change prices, at least for Manhattan.

Antonia was glad she’d brought Genevieve along.  On her own, she probably would have signed a lease for the first place she saw: a dark dingy hovel that conformed to every expectation she ever had about New York.  What did she know about real estate?  Genny pinched her hard and told the broker to “get serious” with the listings.  Sure enough, all of the apartments after the first one, although way uptown, higher than she thought the streets went, were beautiful. 

This one, though, was perfect.  It overlooked Isham Park, a hilled and wooden stretch of old, stately trees.  While on a quiet stretch, less than ten blocks away was a vibrant, lively community of immigrants from both near and far.  The building had a garage, with assigned parking, so she wouldn’t have to sell Dee to move.

“Well, we can go talk to the landlord,” Ms. Fiorentino said doubtfully.  “But you have to understand, there are people willing to pay list price for this apartment.”

“In a recession?  I doubt it.” 

Antonia hung back, watching Genny tangle with the broker.  The woman was humorless, and worse than that, filled with an inflated sense of self.  She’d taken one look at them – Genny in her childproof day time wear, Antonia in her paint splattered jeans and messy smock top – and imperiously asked, “You do realize I work on commission?”  If it hadn’t been for the time crunch, Antonia would have left then and there. 

In the months after her father died, she’d fallen into a deep depression. 

Everywhere she turned in the house were reminders – clothes left in the dryer, the smell of his aftershave – that became unbearable.  It was Dean Ardsley, of all people, who convinced her to sell the house.  “You’re staying for the wrong reasons.  Go be yourself somewhere else.”  The advice resonated with her:  the worst way to honor her feckless, generous father would be to stay stuck in one place.

So she sold the house.  Coupled with her father’s life insurance policy, Antonia knew financial comfort for the first time in her life.  She needed a change, and what better place to do that than in New York?

“I’ll take it,” she interjected.  Both the broker and Genny had forgotten she was there,, she could tell by their faces.  “I want this apartment.  Where do I sign?”

Genny pulled her aside.  “Are you sure about this?  I think I can get her to knock off at least a hundred,” she whispered furiously.  “It’s a matter of principle.”

Antonia smiled, taking in her new home.  Her father would’ve loved this place.  “Yeah Genny, I’m sure.”