Olivia: Alright Jackson, I'm going to say a phrase, and you tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Ready? "Middle-class New York artist." Jackson: Oh, easy. "Can quote Proust, but pays rent with a credit card." Probably lives on artisanal toast and anxiety. Olivia: You've just perfectly summarized the soul of the book we're talking about today: Morningside Heights by Cheryl Mendelson. It’s a novel that absolutely nails that specific cultural moment. Jackson: I’m so glad we’re covering this one. It’s got this quiet, devoted following. Readers who love it really, really love it. It often gets compared to Jane Austen or Anthony Trollope for its deep social observation, but set in 1999 Manhattan. Olivia: That comparison makes so much sense when you learn about the author. Cheryl Mendelson isn't your typical novelist; she holds a Ph.D. in philosophy and a law degree from Harvard. You can feel that sharp, analytical eye in every sentence, dissecting the social fabric of this one New York neighborhood. Jackson: And she’s not just dissecting it from afar. She lives in New York City, and you can tell. The book feels so grounded in the reality of that time—the dot-com boom, the beginning of that massive gentrification wave that was about to change everything. Olivia: Exactly. And Mendelson throws us right into the deep end of this world with a story that feels like a perfect microcosm of the whole neighborhood's crisis: the death of a 103-year-old woman.

Jackson: Right, let's start there. Because the story of Lizzie Miller is both heartbreaking and a perfect allegory for what's happening to the entire community. Olivia: It really is. So, Lizzie Miller has lived in the same apartment in this grand old building, 635 West 117th Street, since it was built in 1906. She’s 103, and her entire world is this apartment and the four women, her attendants, who care for her. She calls them "my girls." Her one desire, which she tells her neighbor Anne Braithwaite, is simple: "I just want to stay in my own apartment and keep my girls." Jackson: That’s so poignant. It’s the fundamental human desire for home and connection. But I have a feeling the world has other plans for her apartment. Olivia: The world, and specifically, her trustee. The moment Lizzie dies peacefully in her sleep, the story shifts from human loss to financial opportunity. The trustee, the son of a deceased friend, immediately shows up. He doesn't grieve; he calculates. He dismisses the attendants, Monique and Claire, with their final paychecks and tells them to clear the place out. Jackson: Wait, he just... fires the women who were basically her family for years? That's brutal. Olivia: It's incredibly cold. The next morning, these women are sorting through a century of a life, putting a few things in bags for thrift stores and piling up mountains of trash. Then a truck arrives to haul away the silver, the china, the paintings. Monique, who’s been with Lizzie for years, is furious. She tells Anne, the neighbor, that the trustee is a "cheap man" who "grudged every mouthful that old lady ate." And now, he plans to rent the apartment for "ten times Miss Miller's rent" to line his own pockets. Jackson: Wow. So Lizzie's life is literally being thrown in a dumpster while everyone else is thinking about the real estate. That's a powerful metaphor for gentrification right there. Her home has ceased to be a home and has instantly become an asset. Olivia: Precisely. And the novel makes it clear this isn't just about one greedy trustee. It's the story of the whole building, and the whole neighborhood. Mendelson gives us this brilliant history of the building. It was built in 1906 for prosperous families, with huge apartments and maids' rooms. During the Depression, landlords couldn't find wealthy tenants, so they carved those sprawling apartments into ten or twelve tiny units per floor. Jackson: Ah, so the building adapted to the economic reality of the time. It became more democratic, in a way. Olivia: It did. But by the late 90s, the pendulum swings back, hard. Prosperity returns, but not for the long-term residents. The lobbies get "spiffed up," rental buildings "go co-op," and prices skyrocket. The elderly residents who moved in during the Depression are now struggling to hold on. Many are forced out, and their apartments are immediately sold for "astonishing profits" to what the book calls "moneyed transients." Jackson: "Moneyed transients." I love that phrase. It perfectly captures that class of people who treat a city not as a home, but as a temporary playground or a stepping stone. Olivia: And the book gives this one perfect, devastating detail about them. It says these new, wealthy residents who work long hours and dine out expensively are complete strangers to their neighbors. And then it delivers the killer line: "They didn't say 'good morning' or 'good night' or hold the elevator for a straggler." Jackson: That quote about not holding the elevator... it's so small but it says everything. It's the death of the social contract, one awkward elevator ride at a time. The physical space is shared, but the community is gone. Olivia: It's the erosion of the unspoken rules that make city living bearable. And that's the environment our central family, the Braithwaites, are trying to survive in.

Jackson: And that brings us to the heart of the novel. The Braithwaites are the living embodiment of that artist I described—they have the cultural capital, but not the actual capital. Olivia: Exactly. Charles is a "solidly second-rank baritone at the Met"—respected, talented, but not a superstar. Anne is a former concert pianist who gave up her career to raise their three, soon to be four, children. They are drowning in the financial and spatial pressures of New York. And their coping mechanism is what Mendelson brilliantly calls "conscientious extravagance." Jackson: Okay, hold on. "Conscientious extravagance." That sounds like a term I'd invent to justify buying an expensive coffee. What does Mendelson mean by that? Olivia: It means they believe "nothing is too good for her children and husband." So while their clothes are hand-me-downs and their furniture is worn, they spare no expense on things for the "bodies and souls." We're talking private schools, music lessons, expensive instruments, concert tickets, and the best organic food, chosen without a glance at the price tag. They are nurturing their family's inner lives while their bank account hemorrhages. Jackson: So they're investing in culture and spirit, but the material world is catching up with them. They have these annual financial crises, right? Olivia: Yes, huge arguments where Charles threatens to move the family to Cleveland. But they never change their ways. And this all comes to a head when Anne has an unexpected fourth pregnancy. The financial pressure becomes unbearable, leading to this absolutely brutal argument. Charles finally explodes and blames Anne for their situation. He says, "If you hadn't had the baby, you could have started making some money. We could've had one less tuition bill, one less mouth to feed... But you had to have another baby." Jackson: Oof. That's a low blow. He's basically blaming her for their entire financial collapse, and for a child that isn't even born yet. Olivia: It's devastating. But Anne pushes back. She reminds him that she wasn't on birth control, and that preventing a pregnancy was, in that moment, his responsibility. Charles furiously denies it, sarcastically saying she has "incredible" control and always gets pregnant exactly when she wants. It's this ugly, circular fight. Jackson: This is the heart of it, right? He's blaming her, but the book hints it's more complicated. What's the real story? Olivia: The real story is what Charles finally admits, after Anne pushes him. He lets out a laugh, and the truth comes out. He characterizes their situation as a 'folie à deux'—a madness for two. Jackson: A shared madness? What does he mean? Olivia: He admits he knew Anne desperately wanted another baby. And he had a personal "superstition" about denying her something she wanted that badly. So, he let it happen. He was willing to give her the baby, as long as she was willing to "take the rap" for it. He was complicit in the decision, but he made her the designated scapegoat for the financial consequences. Jackson: Wow. So it's not just about money. It's about unacknowledged desires and shared responsibility. They were both complicit in a decision they couldn't afford, and then let the resentment fester. That's incredibly insightful and feels so true to how long-term relationships can get tangled. He wanted to be the good guy who gave her what she wanted, but also the victim of her choice. Olivia: He wanted it both ways. And this is where the novel is so brilliant. It shows how the external pressure—the gentrification, the cost of living—doesn't just exist outside. It seeps into the most intimate spaces and forces you to confront the psychological bargains and self-deceptions you've been living with for years.

Jackson: That's the connection I was feeling. The story of Lizzie Miller's apartment becoming a commodity and the story of the Braithwaites' marriage cracking under financial strain are two sides of the same coin. Olivia: And that's the genius of this novel, I think. It connects the huge, impersonal force of gentrification—the death of a neighborhood—to these deeply personal, psychological battles happening behind closed doors. The financial pressure from the outside world cracks open the unexamined parts of their lives. Jackson: Right. The book argues that you can't separate the two. The loss of community, the anonymity, the sheer cost of living—it's not just background noise. It becomes the reason a marriage frays, the reason a talented artist feels like a failure, the reason people are forced to confront the lies they've been telling themselves. Olivia: Exactly. Like with the Braithwaites, their 'neurotic misery' is transformed into 'ordinary unhappiness' once they finally admit their shared role. They're still broke and moving, but at least they're honest. The truth doesn't fix the external problem, but it heals the internal one. Jackson: It makes you wonder, in our own lives, how many of our personal anxieties are really just the symptom of a larger economic or social pressure we haven't named. What 'folie à deux' are we all participating in? Olivia: That's a powerful question. And it’s what makes this book, which is set over two decades ago, feel so incredibly relevant today. We'd love to hear what you think. Join the conversation on our social channels and let us know if this resonates with your own experiences in a changing city. Jackson: This is Aibrary, signing off.