Lifted by the Great Nothing: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

something—qualified. Though Rasheed said a boy Max’s age shouldn’t behave like a domestic wife, he looked pleased to come home to dinner, a Pine-Sol’d kitchen floor, and folded laundry, kissing Max without stating what he was thanking him for. As long as Rasheed didn’t see Max doing the work, he appreciated the outcome.
    While Max prepped the beef, oxtail, and veal for the pot au feu, he tried to anticipate what their guest would be like, thinking about women he’d just seen at the grocery store: a gray-haired lady in spandex who inspected her produce with a frowny face of deep concentration; another woman who spoke loudly into her cellular phone as she clomped up and down the aisles, starting her sentences with drawn-out maybe s, perhaps es,and I feel like s, wrapping up her thoughts with a philosophy of fatalism where everything is precisely as it should be, and happens for a reason.
    He put all the meat into a pot of cold water—followed by the leeks, celery roots, and carrots he’d peeled and cubed—before turning the heat on. Then there was the checkout lady who had dry yellow hair that sat like a triangle of foam on her head, and the kind of heavy glasses that seemed responsible for her nasal voice as she commented on the items she scanned with superlative enthusiasm: “These are just the best ever … Isn’t this the most amazing … Oh my God, these are my favorite in the entire universe.” She leaned in close to thank Max before handing him his receipt. Her breath smelled of a mixture of white wine, rot, and babies’ heads.
    He pushed two cloves into each onion half and added them to the water when it started to boil. As he cut the potatoes and cored a head of cabbage, his mind made a collage of the tabloids that documented famous women’s stretch marks, inner arms and thighs, creases, pigmentation scoured by whitening creams, sun-mottled skin, makeup, pregnancy, warped and bunioned feet.
    He brought the pot to a slow simmer. Older women were richer, layered, bordering on mythical. They had a substance Max had studied from a distance: schoolteachers, Mrs. Yang, weatherwomen and newscasters, the female chefs on the Food Network who taught him new dishes and gave him the idea to make vodka cranberry drinks (careful not to overdo it with his father’s stash), and some neighbors he’d seen around, chiefly Nadine, the attractive black woman who had recently moved into the yellow house across the street. He liked to watch her work in her yard from the living room window.
    Putting the cornichons, sea salt, and hot mustard into separate ramekins and setting them on the kitchen table, he thought of women he’d seen moving about with a pleased expression,and others with a silent pain. Some exuded sexuality, some self-preservation, wisdom, courage, and others creativity and brilliance.
    He slid the potatoes and cabbage into the pot of water. What were women really? He knew there was much more to them than what he’d seen. How did they stand and sit and talk at home, when away from the roles work and social expectations imposed? What did the ones whose voices he’d never heard sound like? What about when they spoke to the person they loved most? What did their faces and armpits smell like? Why did the breathtaking ones become even more stunning when distressed, when they squinted, bit their lips, brought their hands to their mouths? He wanted to know everything about them. The little he did know suggested something epic, of great importance. He intuited that they had the capacity to show him a more authentic version of himself, able to see all sides of him with a simple glance.
    He removed the beef and cut it into pieces, then used a marrow spoon to dig out the inside of the veal bone.

    Her name was Kelly, a secretary at the warehouse where Rasheed worked. She had a long mess of champagne-colored hair that sat bunned on top of her head, stringy and frayed. Twenty-two years old, thin-lipped, with a narrow