Seven Minutes to Noon

were still here.” Julius Pollack smiled stiffly. A plastic smile to match his lacquer voice. He gave her the creeps. “And now I’m here. We’re here together.”
    Once again, he stared at her and waited.
    “Buying a house takes time,” she told him.
    The smile. He knew that; she felt foolish for having said it.
    “We have children,” she explained. “We need a certain kind of space. And as you know, the market right now is—”
    “I don’t want an explanation.” His syrupy tone had gone chokingly sweet. “Just a date, in writing, before the end of the month. Telling me when you’ll be gone.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “No you’re not.”
    Bloodsuckers, Alice heard the snap of Lauren’s voice. I’m starting to hate those bloodsuckers for putting us through this. A strong emotion curled through Alice’s mind, a hybrid feeling of deepening and unrequitable love for Lauren merged confusingly with loathing. Already she detested this man, this Julius Pollack, and they had only just met. This was the man who had signed the Thirty Day Notice. The man to whom she needed toexplain their situation; to politely ask — no, beg — for more time. What was their situation? A sealed-tight real estate market and now this, this, the unbearable loss of her beloved friend. Lauren’s loss was like a bag over her head, incapacitating her, heightening her senses. She wanted to tear off the bag, find herself somewhere in the mush of this last week, strip off every raw iota of pain and throw it at this awful man for insulting her. Scream at him, This is for Lauren. She would not have tolerated your arrogance. You wear the bag, you asshole.
    But Alice wasn’t Lauren; her words did not spark as nimbly off the flare of emotion. Alice stood in the hallway, struck dumb, unable to react, while Julius Pollack, owner, turned away from her and stepped into a slant of light at the front door. His voice cloyed at the movers: “Please be careful with my things!” As he walked onto the front stoop, Alice noticed the hulk of his back rising in two hairy flanks from the neck of his undershirt.
    She carried her bags into the apartment, where on the kitchen table she found a note from Mike. He had taken the kids to the movies. Without them the apartment felt empty. Hollow. She put the groceries away and sat in the quiet of her kitchen, only it didn’t feel like her kitchen anymore. After fifteen years, it suddenly didn’t even feel much like her home. It was Julius Pollack’s house. The Thirty Day Notice had made that perfectly clear, and now the man, in person, more than anything an owner, had owned his right to begin eviction proceedings if they weren’t out in, now, twenty days.
    Glancing at the notepad on the table, scribbled with notes and lists and phone messages, she thought of the appointment her mother had made for her to meet with that real estate broker. Alice peeled back the two top sheets and felt a pang of comfort at the sight of her mother’s rounded script: Monday, 10 a.m., Pam Short, Garden Hill Realty, meet @ office, see 3 houses. Pam Short was the one Sylvie claimed could find a house for anyone. Alice had not planned on keeping the appointment — the idea of house hunting in her emotionalfog had been impossible — but now she knew with certainty that she had no real choice.
    A date, in writing, before the end of the month. Telling me when you’ll be gone.
    Creep. Bloodsucker. But Alice knew she couldn’t fight him. They had no lease and it was his house. She picked up the phone and confirmed her appointment by leaving a message on Pam Short’s voice mail, deliberately making it harder for herself to change her mind.

Chapter 17
    Garden Hill Realty was on Court Street next to the monolithic Old St. Paul’s Church, where you could play bingo on Saturdays, pray on Sundays, attend AA meetings on weeknights and shop for organic produce on Tuesday afternoons in summer. Through Garden Hill’s gated storefront window, Alice could see a gold etching of the Brooklyn Bridge with trees blending into the words YOUR GATEWAY TO BROWNSTONE BROOKLYN. LICENSED BROKER: JUDITH GERSTEN. The window postings of house sales showed prices upward of two million dollars. They couldn’t possibly have something in Alice’s price range, she thought, but regained herself quickly; she wouldn’t let the high market deter her. There had to be something out there for them, even if it was just another rental.
    Alice looked at her