Read Online Two-Part Inventions by Lynne Sharon Schwartz - Free Book Online
Authors: Lynne Sharon Schwartz
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houses were adjacent, so that when the husbands returned from work at the end of the day, cars were lined up in pairs between the houses, as if preparing to dance an automotive quadrille.
Richard Penzer had the requisite porch and stairs, shrubs, driveway and car. But he didnât resemble the other drivers, the husbands in baggy gabardine trousers and wilted shirts, who trudged up the stairs after parking the cars, jackets slung over their shoulders on one finger, a puny stab at the debonair, past the hydrangea bushes, to read the paper while waiting for their dinner. He dressed more carefully, more crisply, and stood up straight and strode more nonchalantly. He was rumored to be some kind of music teacherâthis from the Grubers, his next-door neighborsâbut he didnât leave early in the morning and return home in the late afternoon. His hours were erratic and unpredictable.
Richard Penzer, who was thirty years old on the evening of the March of Dimes collection, had occasional visits from other young men, and sometimes slightly older men, all of them well dressed, well built, with noticeably erect posture, often but not always carrying black casesâthe Grubers said they contained musical instruments; they could hear little concerts through the walls by the men who parked in front of his house and walked up the steps, looking neither left nor right, and then disappeared inside. If it was a single visitor, after a while the two of them, Richard and the guest, might come out and get into one of the cars and drive off. Sometimes Richard Penzer returned quite late at night, and sometimes he and his car, a red Pontiac convertible, were gone for days at a time.
Little else was known about him, barely enough to supply material for gossip. He had moved in two years ago, after the house had stood vacant for several months. The previous occupants had been renting, the Grubers reported, and when the owner died, Richard Penzer, his nephew, inherited it. It was
odd, the Grubers agreed with their neighbors, that a young single man who worked in the city (âthe cityâ meant Manhattan), teaching music somewhere, would choose to live on their quiet block, but on the other hand it was an inheritance, rent-free. Most likely he wouldnât stay long; he must be saving money for a move to the city. He wrote music, too, they said, though they werenât sure what kind, and he played the bassoon. From time to time they had to phone him when his practicing continued too far into the night. The bassoon, the Grubers said, was a strange-sounding instrument, deep, low, it was hard to explain the otherworldly mournful feeling it induced. Richard Penzer always apologized after playing too late and stopped immediately; heâd lost track of the time, heâd say. Apart from that he was a good neighbor, but the Grubersâ endorsement couldnât stop the general distrust.
Despite his difference, on warm spring and summer evenings he might be seen sitting out on his porch like everyone else, reading the newspaper or chatting with the Grubers next door. He seemed to enjoy talking to their grown and marriageable daughter, Francine, who worked as a secretary at a publishing firm in the city, in the hope of being promoted to editor someday, and at night didnât change into a cotton sundress or jeans, like the other working girls on the block, but remained in her citygoing outfit, a print dress or a suit with high heels and nylons, leafing through magazines on the porch, waiting for a date to pick her up. Lately it had been the same young man for several months, so naturally there was speculation, but the Grubers were noncommittal on the subject.
The four girls were on the Grubersâ porchâMr. Gruber had dropped a few coins in each canisterâwhen Eva suggested they
knock on Richard Penzerâs door. (Later on, at moments when Evaâs behavior was loathsome, Suzanne strove to be grateful for her
Richard Penzer had the requisite porch and stairs, shrubs, driveway and car. But he didnât resemble the other drivers, the husbands in baggy gabardine trousers and wilted shirts, who trudged up the stairs after parking the cars, jackets slung over their shoulders on one finger, a puny stab at the debonair, past the hydrangea bushes, to read the paper while waiting for their dinner. He dressed more carefully, more crisply, and stood up straight and strode more nonchalantly. He was rumored to be some kind of music teacherâthis from the Grubers, his next-door neighborsâbut he didnât leave early in the morning and return home in the late afternoon. His hours were erratic and unpredictable.
Richard Penzer, who was thirty years old on the evening of the March of Dimes collection, had occasional visits from other young men, and sometimes slightly older men, all of them well dressed, well built, with noticeably erect posture, often but not always carrying black casesâthe Grubers said they contained musical instruments; they could hear little concerts through the walls by the men who parked in front of his house and walked up the steps, looking neither left nor right, and then disappeared inside. If it was a single visitor, after a while the two of them, Richard and the guest, might come out and get into one of the cars and drive off. Sometimes Richard Penzer returned quite late at night, and sometimes he and his car, a red Pontiac convertible, were gone for days at a time.
Little else was known about him, barely enough to supply material for gossip. He had moved in two years ago, after the house had stood vacant for several months. The previous occupants had been renting, the Grubers reported, and when the owner died, Richard Penzer, his nephew, inherited it. It was
odd, the Grubers agreed with their neighbors, that a young single man who worked in the city (âthe cityâ meant Manhattan), teaching music somewhere, would choose to live on their quiet block, but on the other hand it was an inheritance, rent-free. Most likely he wouldnât stay long; he must be saving money for a move to the city. He wrote music, too, they said, though they werenât sure what kind, and he played the bassoon. From time to time they had to phone him when his practicing continued too far into the night. The bassoon, the Grubers said, was a strange-sounding instrument, deep, low, it was hard to explain the otherworldly mournful feeling it induced. Richard Penzer always apologized after playing too late and stopped immediately; heâd lost track of the time, heâd say. Apart from that he was a good neighbor, but the Grubersâ endorsement couldnât stop the general distrust.
Despite his difference, on warm spring and summer evenings he might be seen sitting out on his porch like everyone else, reading the newspaper or chatting with the Grubers next door. He seemed to enjoy talking to their grown and marriageable daughter, Francine, who worked as a secretary at a publishing firm in the city, in the hope of being promoted to editor someday, and at night didnât change into a cotton sundress or jeans, like the other working girls on the block, but remained in her citygoing outfit, a print dress or a suit with high heels and nylons, leafing through magazines on the porch, waiting for a date to pick her up. Lately it had been the same young man for several months, so naturally there was speculation, but the Grubers were noncommittal on the subject.
The four girls were on the Grubersâ porchâMr. Gruber had dropped a few coins in each canisterâwhen Eva suggested they
knock on Richard Penzerâs door. (Later on, at moments when Evaâs behavior was loathsome, Suzanne strove to be grateful for her
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