Infinite home, by Kathleen Alcott

Back before Brooklyn was trendy, landlady Edith still mourns her husband with whom she shared the brownstone apartment building. Her tenants are all a bit odd, but grateful for the shelter of their apartments, their kind landlady, and the many years in which the rent hasn’t been raised. All have been damaged one way or another, and Edith is increasingly showing signs of oncoming dementia. On the top floor lives an agoraphobic young woman who collects found objects and may be tending towards hoarding. Her across the hall neighbor was a successful artist but has suffered a stroke at a very young age and has put away his art materials. A stand-up comedian, who wrote a a treacly but now beloved holiday movie, despises his work and has become surly rather than funny. Despite this, he becomes close friends with the thirtyish man in the other second floor apartment who has Williams syndrome. Paulie’s sister is grateful to Edith that her brother is allowed to live almost independently there despite having the mind of a cheerful, loquacious eight-year old. Edith had two children. Her daughter disappeared around the time of the Summer of Love in San Francisco. Her son, a rigid and resentful professional, has decided it’s time to get his mother into care and sell the building. How this group of misfits rallies around their benefactor will lead to many surprises. Could have been depressing, but is actually uplifting, if a bit unbelievable. 336 pp.