The Year of Pleasures (21 page)

“I can’t pay you. Right now, things are just so—”

“You don’t have to pay me. Really. I’d love to do it.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Wednesdays?”

She shrugged, then quickly hugged me. “Okay. Thanks.”

I watched her run over to her house, which was not so very different from my own. Two lonely women, doing what they had to to get by.

I turned out the porch lights and it suddenly came to me.
Japanese tea ceremony:
a way of honoring oneself by putting another’s needs first, the joy that could be found in intimate service. A conversation we’d had one night on the way home from a movie. I remembered how that night he’d put toothpaste on my brush before his own, then bowed. I’d smiled, but I’d understood too that such small gifts were one seed that blossomed in two hearts.

Sunday morning I slept late and then took myself out for breakfast to Sutton’s Pancake House, two blocks from the coffee shop. It looked good; it was a place I’d been meaning to try. I ate strawberry crêpes in the loud, bacon-scented restaurant and watched the people around me: a sleepy young couple dressed in sweatpants and flannel shirts reading the newspaper; a family of four dressed starchily for church; a young girl sitting on her knees, “eating
Mickey
Mouse! eating
Mickey
Mouse! eating
Mickey
Mouse!”; a group of six old ladies all wearing hats who laughed loudly and often. Over in the corner, a disheveled man muttered angrily while he ripped a piece of paper into small bits and sprinkled it over his uneaten eggs and bacon. And by the window, a man about my age in a nice leather jacket was nursing a cup of coffee and looking frequently at his watch. I wondered who he was waiting for. I checked his ring finger: nothing. I laid odds that if he were waiting for a woman, it would be someone thirty-five or under. But I couldn’t wait to find out.

When I got up to pay, he did, too. We smiled at each other, and then I paid and walked rapidly toward the coffee shop. As I turned to go in, I saw him again, a short distance behind me. I remembered a woman once telling about meeting her husband this way. “I thought he was following me,” she’d said. “I thought he was a psychopath.”

I smiled hesitantly, held the door, and yes, he was coming in, too. We nodded at each other, took our tables, and when he took off his jacket I saw that he was wearing a red sweater. I swallowed, removed my own coat, and stared pointedly in another direction.

The man stood and came to my table. “Betta Nolan?”

I looked up at him. “Tom Bartlett.”

“We meet again,” he said. “Hello.”

I cleared my throat. “Hello,” I said.

He pointed to the chair. “May I?”

“Of course. But should we . . . did you want to order something first?”

“How about
Mickey
Mouse pancakes?”

“I know,” I said, smiling.

“What would you like?” he asked.

“Tea, please. Any kind of herbal.” I reached for my wallet.

“I’ve got it. Be right back.”

I stared at the jacket he’d left hanging over the back of the chair, blew some air quietly out of my cheeks. Balding a bit, but still.

Hours later, I pulled a shortcake out of the oven and told Tom it would take a while to cool. “Why don’t we go into the living room?” I said.

He followed me to the couch and sat beside me. “I never thought a ten-minute meeting would turn into”—he looked at his watch—“a seven-hour one!”

“Me either.” I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed talking to a man. Disparate things had poured out of me, as unstoppable as a waterfall. But he had seemed not to mind. He had the ability to listen, and he was a wonderful conversationalist. He had been married for fourteen years; his wife died seven years ago, no children. He hadn’t really dated much, hadn’t met anyone he was interested in. But he had just taken an early retirement from a computer consulting service and was ready to start making some changes in his life. His call to me about writing had been the opening salvo—though truth be told, we hadn’t talked about writing much at all. We’d walked around town, gone to a movie, had a drink at a small bar connected to an Italian restaurant, and then I’d invited him home for a quick dinner. I’d made chicken breasts in a wine sauce with mushrooms, pasta, a huge salad, and then decided we needed a blackberry shortcake.

“You know, Betta,” he said, “it was an unusually brave thing you did, moving here. But I’m glad you did.”

“Okay. I mean, me too.” I laughed. “You know, I think I had way too much wine with dinner!”

He smiled. “That’s all right.” Seen from the proper angles, he really was a handsome man, quite fit, blue-eyed. This close, I could see the starlike design in his irises. “It’s all right, isn’t it?”

For a long time I said nothing, and then I leaned forward and closed my eyes. He kissed me and my stomach flipped. I pulled back, successfully converting my desire into annoyance. “You know what?” I said.

Tom nodded. “I understand. I really do.” He looked at his watch. “Listen, I’d love to have dessert, but the truth is, I’m stuffed.”

“Another time,” I said, and walked him stiffly to the door.

“I’ll see you,” he said, and I smiled, said nothing. I watched him walk down the sidewalk, his gait quick and purposeful, his breath rising up in the night air. I wanted him to be a toy man that I could bring upstairs with me, then store on a high shelf in the closet. But he was alive and complicated. He came with his own parts that had their own demands. I did not know him. He was a stranger who had breathed in too much air in my house. I kind of hated him.

I leaned against the door and closed my eyes, full of confusion and a piercing regret. What?
What?
I was sorry. I was wrong and mean-spirited. I wished he’d come back. I wished I hadn’t met him. I didn’t want to want anyone. I wanted to want only John; I wanted for that not to be hopeless.

I slammed my fist against the door, once, twice, three times, turned out the lights, and went to bed without washing, without brushing my teeth, without putting on pajamas. I lay naked under the covers staring at the ceiling, then moved my hand slowly downward. Inside was undeniable need mixed with bowed-head humiliation. Inside was a weary kind of vacancy. I thought of strippers with their flat eyes, prostitutes leaning against cars. Sex that couldn’t come close to satisfying any real desire.

Three
A.M
. A man’s voice. That voice again. I sat up in bed, pulled my covers around me. “Come out!” I said. “I can see you!” Of course I could not. And of course if I could see a man hiding in my room, the last thing I would do is invite him to come out. I turned on the light, reached for the phone, and dialed Matthew’s number. He answered immediately.

“It’s Betta,” I said. “Are you still awake?”

“Yeah! Uh-huh . . . what’s up?”

“You’re not up. I’m sorry I woke you, but can I come over there? Can I rent your room? Just to sleep in at night?”

“Well . . . yeah. But I’d feel bad charging you.”

“It’s no problem. I just need another place to sleep for a while. I’m having a lot of trouble sleeping here. Maybe I could just rent the room for a month or so.”

“Sure, Betta.”

“Okay, so . . . I’ll just come over.”

“You mean . . . now?”

“Yeah. Is that okay?”

“Well,
yeah,
I mean . . . yeah!” He yawned. “It’ll be fun.”

“Yes. It’ll be fun.” I hung up and sat still for a long moment, willing my muscles to unfreeze and start working. Then I dressed and went to gather blankets and pillows, towels and washcloths, a change of clothes for the morning.

The streets were empty of traffic, and I drove through a red light, almost wanting a cop to pull me over. I wouldn’t have minded the presence of an authoritative figure about now. I still felt frightened, my back was stiff with it, and I wiped away tears of frustration. When would that voice stop?

When I arrived at Matthew’s and he opened the door, I lunged at him, hugging him. “Whoa!” he said. “What happened?”

“I keep
hearing
things,” I said. “I keep hearing a voice in my bedroom. I can’t be there. I can’t sleep.”

A light came on in the upstairs hall, and Jovani came to peer over the stair railing. He was wrapped in a ratty maroon blanket, and his hair stuck straight up in the back. “Hi,” he said, squinting.

“I’m renting the room,” I said.

“Oh. Good. Good night.”

“Good night.” I turned to Matthew. “I’m sorry I woke you up. You must be exhausted. Me too! So I’ll just—”

“Wait just a minute, okay?” he said. “I’ve . . . got someone here.”

“Oh!” I lowered my voice. “Melanie?” He wouldn’t look at me. “That’s okay,” I said. I started up the stairs. “I’ll be quiet.”

“Well . . . hold on. See, she’s sleeping in your room.”

I stopped, turned to him. “Oh, Matthew. You should have told me.”

“Well, she’s . . . I mean, she’s staying with
me,
but . . . I don’t know, she always leaves. But anyway, I’ll tell her to come back to my bed.”

“No, I’ll go home.” I’d sleep in my guest room, on my sofa. What was I thinking, to come here?

“Don’t leave,” Matthew said. “I’d love to have you rent the room, it would really help, it would be great. I just didn’t tell Melanie yet. I’m sorry, I fell right back asleep again after you called. But really, it’s no problem. Let me just go get her out of there. It’ll be no problem at all.”

He headed up while I waited on the stairs. I heard him knock softly on the door, and call her name. He said something in a low voice, and then I heard her yelling, “NO! NO WAY!!!”

“Melanie,” he said.

“NO! Now get out, I’m
sleeping
!”

“Shut up, Melanie!” Jovani said.

“Fuck you, Jovani! Loser! And get
out,
Matthew!”

I started for the front door. Matthew came quickly down the stairs, saying, “Betta? Don’t go. I’ll sleep on the sofa. You can have my bed.”

“It’s okay.” I went outside, threw my suitcase into the backseat, and drove home. When I arrived, I went into my bedroom and stood there. Nothing. I left the lights on, pulled back the bedclothes, and climbed in. I closed my eyes and listened carefully: nothing. I turned out the light and listened again. A car going by, my alarm clock ticking. I took off my coat and boots, then lay back down. Some nights lasted weeks.

Delores had had to break the first lunch date we’d planned. “Doctor’s appointment too close to the time,” she’d explained. “You know, they can keep us waiting so long we need to change the age on our chart by the time we get seen. But if we’re so much as five minutes late, they want to see us in small-claims court.”

But now on this sunny Friday afternoon Delores and I were at a small Italian place near her office. I’d told her my friends were coming late this afternoon for the weekend.

“I wish my best friends could come and visit me,” Delores said. “Unfortunately, we’d have to exhume two of them.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Oh, well. Death, the major design flaw. What can you do?”

I picked up a sugar packet and stared at it. “Delores? When did you start dating again after your husband died?”