Matchmaking for Beginners

“A vow of silence when it comes to criticizing other people, particularly ones who were married to the person I’m talking to. And who are currently also living with that individual. It’s my policy.”

“Well, we’re not doing that kind of living with,” I say. And when he keeps looking at me, I say, “It’s not that way at all. Believe me. He’s only staying here because he’s enrolled in classes and also we’re doing some experiment to show that we can live together for the three months without killing each other. It’s so that when we’re old, we can look back and see that we were kind to each other. A different sort of breakup.”

He smiles at me. “I am so not going to comment on any of that.” He leads the way into the kitchen, which is really nothing more than a tiny stove, sink, and refrigerator all jammed into a little closet-sized room off the living room. An apple pie is sitting on the counter, with one piece missing.

“Let’s eat cookies, shall we? Or would you like some pie? Or maybe both?”

“The cookies are for you,” I say, and he laughs. “So that’s a vote for both, then!”

He cuts us each a slice of pie and piles some cookies onto some paper plates, and we stand in the kitchen, eating them. The pie is exquisitely buttery and sweet, with tart apples and a flaky crust. Kind of amazing actually. I can’t stop exclaiming over it.

“Yes, I’ve been experimenting with crusts lately. The old lard or butter question, you know? This time I went with butter. Flakier with lard, I think, but . . .”

“Oh my God. I vote for this pie. Butter all the way.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” he says.

We’re quiet, devouring our pie, when I say, “Have you lived here a long time?”

He frowns. In the greenish cast of the fluorescent light from the ceiling, I can now see more of his face. It’s a shock, a little, to see that the skin on his face is pulled taut around his left eye, leaving it extra pink and smooth like the inside of a shell. The other eye is fine, looking back at me with some attitude to it.

“Well, three and a half years, I guess it is now. Are you thirsty? Are you the kind of person who wants milk with your pie?”

“No that’s okay,” I say. “So . . . did you know Blix before that?”

“Nope. Met her outside the art museum one day. I was having, shall we say, a rather unfortunate moment, and suddenly, there she was, bossing me around even though I was a stranger. Talked to me for a while and then said I had to come live in her building.”

“Really? And so you did? You just moved in here because she told you to?”

“And didn’t you come here because she told you to?”

“Well. I mean, I guess I did, when you put it that way.”

“Yeah. She knows things about where people are supposed to be. So, am I allowed to ask the big question? Now that you’ve purchased a coat, may I assume this means you’re intending to become a Brooklynista for good? Are you staying?”

This is when it hits me, really, that my decision to sell the place actually affects his life. What if he has to move?

I put down my plate on the counter. “I feel weird about saying this, but I don’t think I’m staying, really. I’ve kind of got a life to get back to. And I’m not really a city person, you know? Blix wrote into the deal that I need to stay for three months, so of course I’ll do that—”

“Yeah. I knew about the three months.”

“Really? Did she tell everyone everything?”

“Everyone? I’m not sure everyone in Brooklyn knows about it, but we, her closest friends, certainly do.”

“So people are going to be upset if I don’t stay here. I’ll be abandoning her plan. Is that right?”

“It’s not like we all expected everything to stay the same forever. If this isn’t the life you want, then you shouldn’t feel you have to have it. I don’t think Blix ever intended that you should be a prisoner here.”

“But, oh man, I feel guilty. She obviously believed I’d keep it.”

“Oh, Marnie, for heaven’s sake, don’t put that on yourself. Maybe she gave you first dibs on the house, but if you don’t want it, then we just have to know that she’s operating in the unseen realm and will bring around the next person who should get it. How’s that?”

I stare at him until he asks me to stop looking at him. He says he can’t bear it when people stare at him. Then he says, “Anyway, the very last thing Blix would have ever wanted from you is guilt. Either keep the house or pass it along to someone else. Suit yourself. That’s what she would have wanted. Do what makes you happy.”

“But what will you do if I sell it?”

He stiffens. “What will I do? I’ll either stay here or I’ll go someplace else. And so will Jessica and Sammy. We’re all very portable humans, you know. I realize I look like a guy who doesn’t have any options, but even I can find another place to live.”

I feel my face reddening. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“No more sorry or guilt for this conversation. It’s met its quota.”

Just then a tabby cat comes running into the room, meowing like he’s in midconversation and needs to tell Patrick something immediately.

“And who is this? Are you the guy who steals Patrick’s wallet and orders cans of tuna on the Internet?” I lean down to pet him, and he runs right over and brushes against my hands.

“This is Roy. He’s the real tenant here, and he’s after your cookies. I’m the one who misses Blix, and he’s the one who thinks we should have cookies and possibly fry up some fish and clean the litter box more often.”

I straighten myself up. “You miss her. I’m sorry. It must feel like a huge loss.”

He turns away a bit, looks toward the living room. “I do. Very much. And although it’s been great to meet you, I’m afraid I really do have to get back to alarming the population about rheumatoid arthritis.”

“Oh! Of course,” I say. “And, Patrick, thank you. It—it really is so nice to meet you.” I want to say to him that he is far from hideous, that the light that shines out from his eyes knocks me right out—but how do you say those things? So I stick out my hand, and after only a flicker of hesitation, he takes it. His hand is leathery and I can feel the rough ridge where new tissues were probably grafted on. I feel an involuntary shiver go through me, and Patrick looks right into my eyes.

“You see?” he says. “I warn people, but it gets them every time just the same.”

And then the very worst thing happens, which is that as I’m backing out of the room, I turn too quickly toward the front door and trip on a piece of carpet and bonk myself into a sculpture that’s sitting on the bookshelf, and it goes toppling over into the bank of computers, bouncing once and then smashing on the floor.

“Oh, no! Oh my God! Oh, I’m so sorry!” I say, but even as he’s shrugging his shoulders and telling me I shouldn’t worry about it, I notice he’s heading for the kitchen, probably looking for paper towels or a broom. I say that I’ll sweep things up, but he keeps saying, “I shouldn’t have left that piece there, it could have happened to anyone.”

“No, it’s me, I’m far too clumsy!” I tell him. “I’m so, so very sorry!”

I feel like I’m about to cry. I am over-the-top sad and crazy, and finally there is nothing to do but leave. The quota of sorries has been said for the whole day, and I have to leave this sad, funny man sweeping up shards of a sculpture that he probably made with his whole heart and soul and that I have now broken forever.



TWENTY-EIGHT



MARNIE



The next week, Jessica takes me out for Brooklyn Lessons. Apparently I have not been doing well at Brooklynizing myself.

It’s all because I referred to the subway as the metro. I mean, I knew it was the subway, but I figured the words metro and subway were interchangeable. Same thing, right? Wrong! Then I said that Lola was sweeping the steps, not the stoop. Then later I called Paco’s store down the street “a convenience store.”

That brought Jessica charging right down the stairs, banging on the door, and holding up her phone and laughing. “Has no one ever said the word bodega to you?” she said.

“I thought a bodega was kind of a bar and possible whorehouse,” I said, and that made her come over and hug me, she was laughing so hard.

“Okay. What’s the cheese they put on pies? And by pie, I mean pizza.”

“Pies are pizza?”

“No. Pizzas are pies. Come on. What’s the cheese?”

“Mozzarella.”

“No! Oh my God. It’s muzzarell. You can call it moots if you want. Do not say moz-za-rella in a restaurant around here. Promise me. And do not ever let anyone see you eating pizza with a fork, no matter how hot it is or how hungry you are. The ridicule and shame will be everlasting.”

So today, her day off, we ride on the subway—where you use a MetroCard but God forbid you call the whole enterprise the metro.

“I still like driving a car the best,” I tell her. “Except here, where I’d probably go insane and start driving on the sidewalk.”