The Year of Pleasures (19 page)

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re such a nice kid. Who taught you your wonderful manners?”

“My mom. Though she never liked the way I ate.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Too fast. She liked you to sit up straight and take your time. She—” He looked away for a long moment, then back at me. “She died when I was fourteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I really miss her. Especially sometimes.”

“Yes. I know.” I fastened my seat belt, adjusted my rearview.

“This friend of mine said that when his mom died, he felt like he’d been dropped onto a mirror planet. Like everything was still familiar, only kind of backwards. He said he felt completely disoriented.”

“I understand that, too.”

“For me, it didn’t feel like I was in a different place. It was the same place. Just way lonelier. Like a big chunk had been cut out of the best part.”

“Right.”

Matthew looked at me, deliberating. Then he said, “Hey, Betta? What are you going to do tonight?”

I pointed to myself, an old habit I would apparently never break. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t know.”

“Want me to take you to a really cool restaurant that nobody knows about?”

I laughed.

“No, I need something to do. And I’m not ready to go back to . . . I don’t know, dating.” He put his hands in his pockets, shrugged.

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I’ll go. But only if you let me pay.”

“No deal. Dutch treat.”

“All right. How’s seven o’clock?”

“Good. I’ll come and get you.”

“What about your piece-of-junk car?”

“I’ll have it running by then. I’ll fix it this afternoon.”

“Is there anything you can’t fix?”

He grinned. “Nope.”

I started backing out of the driveway and saw his mouth moving. I rolled down my window.

“Don’t forget to pick out your paint color,” he said. “And find brushes and a couple of good rollers that you like; I
might
let you help.”

“Okay, Tom.”

He stared at me blankly.

“Tom Sawyer?”

He looked worried. “No, it’s . . . Matthew O’Connor.”

“I meant Tom Sawyer like the character in the book.”

“The book.”

“The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.”

“Yeah, but what’s the name of the book?”

There was a message on the machine when I got home. Lorraine, saying,
Hey, Betta. I was thinking about some things you could do. To feel better. You’ve got the time and the resources, right? I mean, you really do have time and resources. I was thinking, there must be fifty ways to grieve your lover, ha ha. You know that song, right?

Wait. Is that funny? It was meant to be funny. But I’ll bet it’s not.

Okay, I hate when I do this. Disregard this message. It was meant to be funny. I hate that I said that. It’s . . . you know when someone’s in the hospital with something really serious and you think, Well, all those other people are weeping and moaning and being all serious and sensitive, I’ll just offer some comic relief? Did you ever feel that way?

Betta? You’re not standing there and listening to this, are you? Like, in horror? Betta? Oh, Jesus, delete, delete, delete. I just have never learned certain social graces, okay? I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I’m sorry.

Good God, how long does your machine let people talk? Okay, I’m going. Call me. Or I’ll call you. Though you can rest assured that if you’re not there, I—

At last, the beep cut her off.

Lorraine was right—she didn’t have many social graces. Her policy was to act first, think later—if at all. But such carelessness, such selfishness, seemed to be license of the glamorous. The really good-looking people I knew all capitalized on and benefited from their genetics in one way or another. In their defense, I believed some of this was forced on them by people eager to ingratiate themselves with such superior specimens. Still, there was something about Lorraine that made most people like her. I myself had responded immediately to her honesty and directness. I called her number and got her machine. “Hello,” I said. “I’m calling from Acme Charm School to tell you we’re running a special in your neighborhood. Call back for details.”

I showered, looked in the yellow pages for a paint store, then called for directions. “I’m new here,” I said, by way of explanation, and the man who answered said, “Well,
welcome,
” so warmly it brought tears to my eyes. When I opened the door to go out again, there was a package on the porch. The return address showed it was from Maddy, and I brought it to the kitchen table and opened it eagerly. On top was a letter.

Dear Betta,

Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry about your husband. I wish I’d known him, but I know you—I
do
feel like I still know you—and so he must have been wonderful. I’m sure you’ve been through hell and aren’t finished yet with the particular and very personal sorrow you must endure. But I want you to know I’m thrilled that we have connected again. I can’t wait to see you, but Lorraine told me you need time, and I’m happy to give you that. You take all the time you need. Do everything good and bad you feel like doing. But I wanted to at least write to you and to send you a few things. These are just for fun. And for love. Call me if you want. Otherwise, I’ll wait for our grand reunion.

I wonder what you look like. I’m so fat now. But I stopped caring about three months ago—it’s so nice to step up to a bakery case and not immediately self-flagellate. Call me anytime. Come visit anytime. I’ll send you a ticket, I’ll come to you, I’ll do anything you want. We all will.

I look upon this as the most profound of gifts, that we have found you again. Maybe Lorraine told you, but we have come to depend on each other even more than we used to. Welcome back to our little constellation. We’ve always saved a place for you.

Love,

Maddy

P.S. Susanna is fat, too. Only Lorraine isn’t. And maybe you, are you still skinny? Remember when we lay out on the roof of our house in our underwear and our stomachs were all FLAT? I can’t really remember. I think I made it up.

XXXXXXOOOOOO

There were four wrapped packages beneath the letter. I picked up the first one, the smallest, and opened it. It was a bar of wonderfully scented soap, cushioned on a thick white washcloth. The second was silk long johns. The third was a tin of toffee, the smell of which nearly lifted me right out of my chair. And the fourth, a large package, held a thirties-style dressing gown, a beautiful apricot color, with ostrich feathers at the ends of the sleeves. I smiled at it, thinking it lacked only cha-cha shoes. And then, when I lifted the gown out of the box, there they were. Little backless heels, dyed to match. If I ever opened What a Woman Wants, Maddy could be in charge of the whimsey department.

I reread the letter, sat back in the chair, took another long drink of coffee. And noticed a specific and breathtaking absence. At the moment, nothing hurt. What I felt was only hope, that internal sunrise. The image of John’s face came into my head, and I felt only my great luck at having had him for as long as I did. I’d learned enough about grieving to know that other ways of feeling would come back soon enough. But it seemed to me that this was the way we all lived: full to the brim with gratitude and joy one day, wrecked on the rocks the next. Finding the balance between the two was the art and the salvation.

On the way to get paint, I drove to the empty storefront. I’d lost the number, and I had promised myself that today I really would call it. I’d make an appointment and take a good look at the place. But the store was no longer for rent. The sign was down, and brown paper had been put up so that you couldn’t see in. I sat idling for a long time, trying to put things into perspective. Because although this was only a space that I had been interested in and could no longer rent, what it felt like was another death. I tried to remind myself of my great fortune at not having to work at all. At being able to take plenty of time before I decided on anything definite. But I did not feel fortunate. I felt bitter. And I felt foolish for not following through on an impulse I’d known full well was a good one.

I arrived home in the late afternoon, walked in the door to a ringing phone, and dropped my packages to answer. It was a man, saying, “Oh, hi! Ms. Nolan, this is Tom Bartlett. I’m just trying you back. I called the other day; I don’t know if you got the message.”

“I did,” I said. “I just . . . I haven’t gotten a chance to call you back yet.” I looked with sudden longing at all the things I needed to put away. And I wanted to cook something to have ready for Matthew to take home so that those boys would have something to eat in the house. “Actually, this isn’t the best time, either.”

“Okay. I’m sorry to disturb you. Thanks anyway.”

His voice was so kind I felt ashamed of myself. “Well, wait,” I said. “I have a few minutes. Maybe we can just . . . you wanted to talk to someone about writing, is that it?”

“In all candor, I called in the heat of the moment. I heard you on the radio and thought, Well, why not? I’ve always been interested in writing, but I’ve never tried it. But now that I’m retired, I’m going to take the plunge. I thought if I could just take a few moments of your time, I’d get some idea of how to get started.”

“Well, there are many books on the subject,” I said.

“Are there?”

A true innocent! I’d expected him to say the usual: “Yes, and I’ve read a lot, but there are just some things I’d like to talk to
you
about.”

How bad could it be? A grandfatherly type, trying to finally scratch an itch. An image came to me: blue eyes, thick white hair, a cardigan sweater with leather buttons. I could talk to him. I could tell him about the value of writing for oneself, or of passing on his life story to his grandchildren, if nothing else. “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “How about if we meet at Cuppa Java, on Main Street?”

“That would be wonderful. What time would be good for you?”

“Sunday? About eleven?”

“Perfect. And shall I bring . . . well, how much will this cost?”

I laughed. “Nothing.”

“Oh. Well, thanks very much. I’ll look forward to seeing you. I’m tall, and . . . I’ll wear a red sweater.”

“I will too,” I said, smiling. The old cutie. I always liked being around old guys. Their chivalry. Old Spice cologne. Their suspenders and tie shoes. The way their experience showed and the way their opinions seemed well considered. The way their hands still seemed so strong. I hung up the phone and started putting the groceries away. Next I’d make Jovani and Matthew a spinach lasagna. And a chocolate cake that would make them both my slaves. Buttermilk and
good
coffee in the batter, cream cheese frosting, strawberry fans for the top.

After Matthew dropped me off from our dinner, I came into the front entry and hung up my coat, then walked over to the sofa and sat numbly staring straight ahead. I felt terrible. Some of it was because of Matthew’s sweetness, his vulnerability, and the way he continued to endure abuse from Melanie. She’d called on our way to the restaurant, and he’d agreed to build her some bookcases in her new place right after she told him all about her new boyfriend. He’d asked if he could delay painting my bedroom for a while.

“Of course,” I’d said, “but are you sure you want to do this?” He’d stared straight ahead, then nodded. “Yeah. She can be rough. But I want to do this for her because I want to see her again. I guess it’s dumb, but I . . .” He’d sighed. “I still love her. It sucks. I think about her all the time. I can’t get interested in anyone else. She’s not all bad—I mean, I know I made some mistakes. I’d really like another chance. I guess I could make some changes or something. I could make some changes.”

But mostly my sorrow was for myself. For one thing, I’d felt so odd sitting across a restaurant table from a man who was not my husband. I kept seeing the way John used to put on his half-glasses to study the menu, the elegant and discreet way he signaled for the check, the way he helped me on and off with my coat, the steadiness of his affection. In our house, he loved me. At a restaurant, he loved me. While I slept, while I worked, even when we argued, he loved me. It was a second heartbeat, as vital in its own way as the first. Now there was only a sticky Formica table and a young man across from me in harsh light bobbing his knee and asking who was Huey Newton after I happened to mention him. (And then, after I’d answered, who were the Black
Pan
thers?)