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from Gertrude Fish. She had said that Gertrude “isn’t all there.” Compared with “batty,” “deranged,” “a scare,” “bad for real estate value,” and “disruptive,” it was one of the nicer ways Rebecca had heard Gertrude described. As it was, the carpenter disliked her fellow tenants more. How many times had she explained to Rebecca that in 1974, when she’d first moved in, people like herself had occupied half the apartments, but that time had long since passed. That now you had to be a millionaire and have a second house even to get an interview. That they wouldn’t let people of color or queers buy. That they were afraid of them, and that they were also afraid of her. And that Gertrude thought that they should be, because she despised them. It seemed she brought it up during every visit.
    Gertrude handed Rebecca a wine screw. “Do the honors, please.”
    Rebecca uncorked the bottle. There were two glasses on a small table beside her. She poured the wine, and they touched glasses.
    â€œYou know, before you showed up, Rebecca, I was working on a chair, and I became so distracted by the word ‘fornicate’ I almost took off another finger.” She held up her left hand. Half the middle finger was missing. She had accidentally sliced it off with a saw years before. “It’s one of my favorite words in the whole English language. Don’t you just love it? Say it, Rebecca. Fornicate. ”
    Rebecca indulged her neighbor. “Fornicate.”
    â€œIt makes the whole mouth come alive, doesn’t it? God, I love that word. You know, you’re very pretty. You’re very pretty!” She was like a cuckoo clock when she said it, her eyes and mouth convulsing, and her voice reaching up two octaves. Suddenly, Gertrude got up from her seat and went back into her shop. When she returned, she handed Rebecca a footstool made of a dark wood. This wasn’t a breezily nailed together object. Hard work was evident in the details.
    â€œIt’s beautiful, Gertrude.”
    â€œYou said you had nothing to elevate your feet at work.”
    Mother of pearl was embedded over the screwheads. Rebecca’s initials were monogrammed on top. She said, “You made this for me?”
    â€œI hope it serves you well. Now, give me more wine!”
    Rebecca raised the bottle and poured. Gertrude took the cork and pushed it back in the bottle. She said, “I can’t stand it when people don’t put the cork back in. Maybe that makes me anal. But what reason do I have to be that? Am I holding shit up there?” She rose from her seat and tapped her posterior. “Must be, you know?”
    All of a sudden, Rebecca said, “I got a strange call from my father today. His sister, she’s suing him. She’s suing the whole family, actually. My dad was telling me all about it. He seemed out of his mind.”
    Gertrude’s eyelids fluttered. She said, “Describe your father.”
    â€œMy dad? Oh, well, he’s sensitive and prone to instability. He’s not weak exactly, not a coward. But when faced with adversity, he tends to run the other way. He lost his mind once before.”
    â€œDid he ever find it?”
    â€œMost of it.”
    â€œBut not all?”
    Rebecca shook her head.
    â€œYou expect he’ll band together with his parents?”
    â€œMaybe,” Rebecca said. “But probably not. With these people, it’s all irrationality and destruction. It was so hard for him to break free of his family. It took him fifty-eight years to do it. Working with his sisters all his life, and with his parents part owners in the company controlling everyone and everything, and my father being so susceptible to their influence. They rode him hard. His sisters, too. Being in business with these people meant getting hammered down on every day for thirty-five years straight. The screaming, the violence.