The Year of Pleasures (11 page)

I opened the door. “Did you knock? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“I didn’t knock. I didn’t want to wake you up if you were sleeping.”

“I was sitting right here at the table, reading the paper.”

He looked at the torn-out picture I held in my hand. “What’s that?”

I showed it to him. “You tell me.”

He shrugged, then grinned. “
I
don’t know!”

I looked at the picture again. “Well, where do you think he’s going? Maybe . . . to see his girlfriend?”

Benny looked again, then said, “Nah. He’s on the way to see the doctor. But it’s good news—he’s all better!”

I felt the cold now and pulled at the edges of my robe, tightening it across my chest. “So you were just standing there waiting? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, come on in.”

He glanced over at his house, where a car was backing out of the garage. “Uh-oh, too late, there’s my mom. I have to go to school.”

I came out onto the back porch and waved at Benny’s mother. She was pretty, a young-looking woman, her hair tastefully streaked. “Good morning!” I said. “I’m Betta Nolan. Thanks for the muffins!”

She shaded her eyes against the sun. “You’re welcome. I’m Carol Pacini. Has he been bugging you?”

“Not at all.”

She turned the car radio down, reached inside her blouse to hike up a bra strap. “Well, if he ever bothers you, just send him home.”

“He’s a pleasure. Really.”

“So are you able to come?”

I stared at her blankly.

“Didn’t Benny ask you to come to dinner tonight?”

“I didn’t have
time
!” Benny said.

“You’ve been there for ten minutes!”

“But she just now opened the door!”

“He didn’t knock,” I said, smiling.

She shook her head. “Get in the car, Benny.” And then, to me, “We’d like to have you over to dinner. Seven-thirty?”

“Yes, thanks. I’ll bring dessert.”

Benny hopped into the car, and as it rolled past, he gave me the thumbs-up sign. I returned the gesture, though, truth to tell, I didn’t know why.

The night before, I’d hung a calendar on the kitchen wall next to the phone. Now, on the square for today, I wrote:
Dinner, 7:30.
Then:
Carol.
Beneath that, in small print:
Cranberry/blueberry pie.
As though I could not be depended upon to remember anything.

But I did remember the phone number I’d been trying, and I dialed it again now. When a woman’s sleepy and highly irritated voice answered, I was so surprised I hung up. Then, gathering courage, I called right back.

“I’m going to kill you, whoever you are,” the woman said.

“Lorraine?”

“Yeeessss?”

“It’s . . . this is Betta Michaels.”

Silence.

“I think maybe we used to be roommates. Back in—”

“Where are you?”

“
Is
this the Lorraine Keaton who—”

“Betta. Where
are
you?”

“Well, I was in Boston forever, but I just moved to a little town outside Chicago. Because my husband died and I . . . just moved here. I’ve been calling and calling you!”

“Your husband died?”

“Yeah.”

“God. I’m sorry. Who did you marry? That guy you met right after you moved away?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. You guys seemed inseparable right away.”

“Yes, we were. So anyway, I’m Betta Nolan, now. What about you? Are you married?”

She laughed, that old familiar sound. “Are you kidding? Only to the theater. I was in Canada on a visiting directorship, and when I go away I only use my cell phone for messages—that’s why you couldn’t reach me.”

“Well, I . . . I’m so glad I found you! I was trying to call all of you—Maddy, Susanna . . .”

“We’re still friends; we see each other all the time. They live in California, in Mill Valley, about six blocks from each other. I stayed here. You got lost. What’s your address and phone number, give it to me.”

After we’d exchanged information, she said, “Listen, I’m really late for an appointment. I’ll call you back. What time is good for you?”

“Anytime. I’m just . . . I’m just . . .”

“Are you okay, Betta?”

Her at that kitchen table, leaning toward me, her strong heart-shaped face and clear eyes. “Betta? Are you okay? Just
tell
me.”

“No.”

“I’ll call you back.”

When I hung up, I pulled in a breath that seemed to break through a membrane and move down to where it had needed to be and could not, until now, go. I looked at the newspaper photo I was still holding, then went to tape it into the current suede scrapbook. It came to me to paste a penny beside the picture. Because . . . because the man on the bus was on his way to see old friends he’d recently rediscovered. In his pocket was a lucky penny, which he relied on in ways he would be embarrassed to admit to. Also in his pocket were the keys to his apartment in the retirement community where he lived. He was popular with the women for his waltzing skills, and he had a tiny garden in which he grew tomatoes and marigolds. Also in his pocket he carried butterscotch candies. And a wallet with the folding money neatly arranged in order of denomination, all the presidents’ faces facing up. Rudolph was the old man’s first name. I’d let Benny give him his last name. Rudolph was full of happiness; his heart was light with this unexpected gift that had come to him so late in life. Arthur and Douglas, there on the phone, after all these years, shouting to make themselves heard, but they were heard. He could hardly wait to see what his friends looked like now, though he knew he would also always see them as they were. Maybe they’d roll up their pant legs and try for some catfish. It would be harder, sitting on the bumpy riverbank now, but Rudolph thought they’d be able to do it. He thought they could.

After I ate breakfast—gingerbread with lemon sauce,
but!
properly seated at the kitchen table and therefore not disturbingly eccentric—I went upstairs, showered, and began to put linens away. I saw that they were getting worn; tomorrow I’d buy some new ones in a color that would coordinate better with my bathroom here. There was much to be said for the domestic high afforded by new towels and washcloths, folded and stacked in sybaritic readiness.

In the folds of one of the towels, I felt something. I lay the towel in my lap to open it carefully—I’d learned that the movers sometimes threw random things in places where they didn’t belong. I’d found the key to wind the mantel clock in with my underwear; and Benny had found a spatula nestled amid throw pillows for the sofa. What was here was a camera, with an unfinished roll of film in it.

I sat still for a moment, my heart racing, wondering if it was pictures I took or that John did. Neither of us was ever very good about taking photos, and we were even worse about getting film developed promptly; I think we’d both enjoyed the element of surprise that came from looking at pictures months—or even years—after we’d taken them. No matter who took the photographs, there was every possibility that there were some of the two of us together, hands linked casually. Unknowing. There was every possibility that I’d find a photo of a healthy and smiling John that I’d never seen before. Another gift of him, when I’d thought the gifts were through.

I walked to town and dropped the film off at a one-hour place that was part of a camera store, then looked again into the empty windows of the store for rent. Probably I should call; I might be able to afford it even with the apartment, and then I could use that part for an office and storage. I shielded my eyes to peer inside. The place was dirty; there were large, flat pieces of wood resting against one of the back walls. How did one go about this, really? What was the first step? Did you have to hire an architect, or could you draw up your own plans? It was overwhelming, all you had to think about. I wasn’t ready.

I shopped for the ingredients I needed to make the pie. After that, I went to Cuppa Java to wait the thirty minutes I had left. I was the only customer. The two employees, a young man and woman, stood in the back room talking in low, laughing voices. I ordered a cocoa, which was served in a mug that was to my way of thinking all wrong. A cocoa mug needed to be low and wide, easily able to accommodate the many marshmallows that should be floating around in there. In my store, I would have such mugs. I would have Dutch cocoa and long glass jars of vanilla beans. I would have chocolate-colored pajamas to go with the cocoa, brown flannel with red piping. To accompany this, I would have Joanne Harris’s book
Chocolat
as well as Leah Cohen’s most excellent
Glass, Paper, Beans,
because even though it talked about coffee, it also talked about mugs and therefore went with cocoa.

Enough! I read the
Chicago Tribune
someone had left behind and walked around reading descriptions of various kinds of coffee beans. Then I read again the signs posted on the window. The massage place was a little ways down the street, and the rates were much cheaper than in Boston; maybe I’d make an appointment. The last time I’d had a massage was shortly after John’s diagnosis, and I’d wept with huge, racking sobs that embarrassed me. The masseuse was a very short and peaceful-looking woman who wore chopsticks to hold up her long hair, black and shiny as crows’ feathers. She said, “It’s
good
for you to cry, don’t be shy, just let it out, let go.” She told me I had an aura that glowed, she could see it, and she promised that great joy would soon come back to me. But I felt terrible; I cut the massage short, gave the woman a huge tip, and fled.

No one had torn off a tab with the phone number for the room for rent, and I saw that the amount had been lowered to $275. The word
furnished
had been inserted before
bedroom.

I sat at a nearby table and looked at my watch again. I wondered if I’d be able to wait until I got home to look at the photos—probably it would be better if I did. The door to the coffee shop opened, and the young man I’d seen arguing with his girlfriend came in. He nodded at me, a bit embarrassed, and I nodded back. He ordered an espresso and then walked toward me, his hands in his pockets. “How you doing?” he asked, and I said, “I was about to ask the same of you.”

“I’m good.
Really.
” He smiled, then looked behind me at the ad for a room. “No takers yet, huh?”

“No. I see they’ve lowered the rent, though.”

“Yeah, we did. It’s my house; my roommate and I are the ones looking. We’ve got a place a couple of blocks from here. We’re kind of desperate because . . . well, one of the guys we started out with didn’t work out. And now, the girl you saw me with? She moved out, too. You need a room?” He laughed.

“I’m tempted!” I said, and then, when he looked hopefully over at me, I said, “No, no, I’m just . . . well, I had a bad night. I just moved here, my husband just died, and I’ve never . . . I think I need a big dog. Or an alarm system. Or something.” Too much information. Like a woman I once met in an airport bookstore. We were talking about one of the bestsellers when she suddenly said, “My husband just died. I’m carrying his sweater in my suitcase. I take it everywhere. I sleep with it.” I had no idea what to say, and finally managed, “I’m sorry.” She became flustered and said, “I don’t know why I told you that.” I said it was fine. But then we moved apart, unable, anymore, to talk about books or even to stand comfortably next to each other. I was newly married, the rings still a miracle on my hand.

I smiled brightly at the young man. “
Any
way, just . . . you know, a lot to get adjusted to!” I felt like a falsely cheerful host on a children’s show: Can you say
mourning
?

“Yeah,” he said, “I know how that can be.”
No, you don’t,
I thought.
You have no idea. We are geological ages apart.

“Espresso!”
the woman behind the counter said, and he went up for his drink. Then, coming back to me, he held out his hand. “I’m Matthew. O’Connor.”

I told him my name and then shook his hand. There was a deep scratch on one of his knuckles. “Cat?” I asked, pointing to it.

He looked at it as though seeing it for the first time. “This? Nah. My roommate tried to put a bone down the garbage disposal, messed it all up. I must have cut myself fixing it.”

“You’re lucky you know how to do that!”

He blew on his espresso, then took a sip. “Pretty easy.”

“Easy for you, maybe. My husband was very handy; I don’t know how to do anything. If I can’t repair it with duct tape, I’m out of luck. I don’t even know how to hang pictures properly.”

“You live near here?”

I nodded.

He took a napkin from the dispenser and wrote down a phone number. “If you ever want some help, just call me—this is my cell phone. I’m pretty good, and God knows I could use some cash at the moment. I’ll charge you fifteen dollars an hour to fix almost anything. If that’s not too much.”

“No, that’s not too much at all.” I put the napkin in my pocket, looked at my watch. “I’ve got to go—I’ll see you again, I’m sure.”

“Okay.” He sat down and pulled a book out of his backpack. Just before I was out the door, he said, “Excuse me? I just wanted to tell you, you can call anytime, even late at night. I’m always up. So . . .” The top of his ears turned red. Last puppy in the cage. I nearly hired him on the spot to carry my purse. Instead, I said, “I’ll definitely call you.”

On the way to get the pictures, I felt for the presence of the napkin in my pocket. Neighbors who seemed nice. A good-priced handyman—apparently available twenty-four hours a day. Lorraine. Into my looming empty basket, I laid these gifts. There was the sun, shining through the bare limbs of the trees, making it warmer than I’d thought. I wondered if Matthew could do carpentry. In my mind’s eye, we lifted up the pieces of wood resting in the corner of the store and began crafting a perfume bar, where you could use essential oils to create your own scent.

Though I had decided to wait until I got home to look at the photos, I found it impossible to do so. I paid for the film, then tore eagerly at the envelope to look at the first offering before I was even out of the store. But the shot was only one I had taken of laundry. Laundry hanging in Paris, I remembered, so the film was over two years old. There were bedclothes, lingerie, colorful little bits of children’s clothing. I remembered telling John when I took that picture that I would love to have a big fat coffee-table book of laundry on the line. I loved looking at laundry on the line. There was a kind of romance to it, a comfort, I’d said. And then I’d told him to move so that he wouldn’t block anything.