Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

The way it's supposed to work is that I'm in charge of my own life. But periodically everybody else's life and mine get mixed up and then I wonder, Am I still living in my own house, or have I moved into somebody else's?

When it feels like boundaries have gotten confused and property lines are blurred, it's time to clean house--let go of other people's criticisms that have stung and hurt me deeply. For some reason I've invited them in, even put out the welcome mat. "Come on in and make yourself at home."

A little cabin fever is welcome when I can't clearly see my property line anymore. Keep to myself for a while and put up a fence to keep out other people's stuff, because I need time to review what's going on in my own life. Maybe pull a few weeds, do some replanting, fertilize, then stand back and take another look. 'Is this how I want my life to look--not how other people think it should look?'

And when I feel confident that I have my own place back in order, then I can take down the fence and let other people in again.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book Go Gentle: A Novel by Alyssa Wees. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

I slid the fried egg— extra crispy, embedded with cracked pink peppercorns— onto a nest of baby arugula centered atop a slice of toasted sourdough. I sharpened my paring knife with a few satisfying slashes and sliced four cornichons thin enough for light to pass through. Those I placed across the warm egg, chevron-style. I capped it off with a second piece of toast, this one thick with lemon aioli.

Or: I made a fried egg sandwich.

But how you do anything is how you do everything, and one might say my life's work has been chasing the Platonic ideal.

Viv appeared wearing that day's iteration of short-shorts, baby tee and sneakers. Her alarm had gone off at six. Evidence indicated she'd devoted the past hour to awesome lashes and beachy waves.

"Good morning!" I couldn't help but sing out.

Gorgeous, shallow creature, Viv! Reliably irritable, bereft of interests. Scroller, consumer, influencee. That Fate gave me Viv as a daughter provides a daily fountain of dismay and delight.

I encased the sandwich in glass, snapped shut the lid, and presented it to Viv. She looked down and back up in dawning, victimized bewilderment.

"I'm not shivving you," I pointed out. "I'm handing you your favorite sandwich."

"But—" she began.

"But all my friends go out to lunch? But bringing lunch from home makes me look poor? It's okay, you can say it."

Viv narrowed her eyes, swiped the sandwich and pivoted back down the hall to her room. For punctuation: ye olde door slam.

A scrape in the lock. Our dog walker, Ziggy, returning Mr. Man from his morning constitutional.

Ziggy, there's a kid: freshman at LaGuardia, he just had three pieces in the student art show. He's a dedicated runner, has a dog- walking business, and in his free time is watching all of Bret Easton Ellis's movie recommendations. Added bonus, he's besotted with me.

Mr. Man, unclipped from his harness, shot past me and straight to his bowl without a hello.

"Hey, Ziggy," I said, positioning myself outside Viv's room for maximum effect. "How's photography?"

Also, Ziggy contracted meningitis as an infant, which resulted in progressive hearing loss. He grew up in the building and is a fan favorite. When we learned he was saving up for eardrum surgery, we put up flyers in the elevator. In a week, residents and staff had raised enough for two surgeries; we threw in one for his pal from camp. Not one to let a skill go to waste, Ziggy gets paid princely by gossip sites to lipread clips of celebrities badmouthing other celebrities at awards shows.

"Or," I said, loudly enough for Viv to hear, "is photography on pause because of cross country?"

"I can do both," Ziggy answered, hopping up and down while standing still, which is his love-struck way.

"How do you find the time? You must never be on your phone."

"Kindly stop trolling me," a muffled command from within.

"Hey, Viv!" Ziggy stared at the closed door, hanging for a response. None came.

Or: maybe it's Viv he's besotted with.

Mr. Man, seeing his bowl was sans treat, returned and gave me an abject look.

"Don't you worry, Mr. Man," I said, all cute. "You'll be dead soon enough. We'll all be."

"Oh!" Ziggy said. "Seven-sixteen. I saw them talking in the elevator."

"For real?"

Ziggy poked his head into the hallway and indicated they were still there.

I whipped the dishtowel over my shoulder.

At the far end of the hall, a luggage cart— the brass cage type, a remnant from when the Ansonia was New York's grandest hotel— was stacked and strung with Fairway.

A blonde in her twenties, whom I'd seen in the trash room (sweet- faced but notably unfriendly), came out in stocking feet and hoisted a palette of IPA onto one knee.

"Hi!" I called, as I approached. "You're selling your apartment—"

At the sight of me, the girl became skittish as a bird.

"How did you know?" she half-gasped.

"I live down the hall, and—"

A handsome man with loose curls and strong captain-of-the- Lacrosse- team vibes appeared and stood, back flat against the door frame. At well over six feet, he looked down on me in more ways than one.

"Why, hello, you," I said, and turned back to the girl. "I'd like to talk to you about buying."

"Hold on," the guy said. "Are you—"

"Matt!" the girl whispered. "No—"

"—in the coven?" A grin broke out across his cherub-hued face.

Mention to one doorman, in passing, that you're starting a coven, and soon the whole building is looking at you askance!

I chose to ignore.

"We can do it off-market," I told the girl. "Save you the hassle and stress of listing."

"I'm not really sure," she said, eyes darting at Matt.

"How much?" he asked.

"We can get it appraised," I answered. "If we don't use a realtor, it saves you commission."

"Not bad," mused Matt. "We'll get back to you." He tossed a laughing look my way. "Now, if you'll excuse me. Duty calls."

Matt returned to a big screen TV. He dove onto the couch, pulling off a midair half-rotation to land him flat on his back and aimed at the TV. This, he unmuted to Breaking News.

"TERRORISTS HIT THE BRITISH MUSEUM," read the chyron.

"...no casualties have been reported," blasted the anchor. "But we can confirm the Rosetta Stone has been badly damaged."

I was beginning to reassess my man Matt, the news lover, when the screen went black and switched to a crude animation of the back alleys of Baghdad.

Matt clutched a videogame controller with both hands, and, elbows dug into his sides, began the grim business of annihilating soldiers, prostitutes and fruit merchants alike.

"He's in commercial real estate," the girl offered, starry-eyed. "We're moving to Phoenix for his job."

"Call me before you decide anything," I told her. "I can think of five people who'd be interested."

Just inside, I spotted a Sharpie on the counter. I popped in and wrote my number on a jumbo bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

"Wait!" said the girl, as I turned to go. "Are you saying that the coven...." She was doing some kind of math.

"Yes?"

"Has a waitlist?"

Inside her apartment, Matt (shoes-on, doing the couch luge) was gunning people down with an intensity I reckoned he never applied to learning her love language. A statement bong dominated the coffee table. Meanwhile, out in the hallway, bag handles had begun to cut off circulation to his beloved's ringless fingers.

"You'll see," I said.

* * *

I entered Central Park at Seventy-Second Street with amazement that this was my route to work. Even after five years, I took in the city with the mawkish wonder of a recent arrival. On the upside, tourists never stopped me to ask directions. On the downside, I tripped and fell more than your average New Yorker.

Passing the Dakota with its lit torches: each step I took as if through history itself. Approaching the Imagine mosaic and its unceasing soundtrack of buskers: my ears peeled through the din of car horns and helicopters to name that tune. Today, a deep cut, "Hey, Bulldog." Not even a John song! Descending the dogwood-flocked path: the majestic clomp of distant horse hooves sent a reliable thrill. Beholding the crazy quilt of budding magnolia blossoms, lime-green chutes and cutesy crocuses beginning their annual prison break: spring had sprung, baby!

The reflexive next move would be to stop and breathe it all in. But I've learned the hard way. Central Park, no matter how fresh- smelling it may look, you take one whiff and it's piss all the way down.

I crossed the park, my pace juiced by the recent bomb-drop. (Not your bomb-drop, British Museum. Sorry, Rosetta Stone, you were fun while you lasted!) The available apartment. Who would I ask to join...

Whatever you'd call our trio of highly competent, accomplished women (theater director, lawyer, philosopher) of a certain age (divorcee, widow, divorcee) who'd bought apartments on the same floor of the Ansonia so down that the line we could age in place and go out in a blaze of peaceful independence?

An unimpeachably intentional, highly curated, feminist, old folks' home? Nah, not much of a ring.

A tragic, estrogen-free trio trying to put their best face on the realization society is done with us and we're destined to die alone? No, and bite your tongue.

It had started innocently enough. I'd moved to the Upper West Side after my divorce. Weeks in, I went to see chamber music with my friend, Emily Ann (widowed lawyer), and on the way home said I had to stop at the market.

(continued on Tuesday)

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