The Year of Pleasures Read Online Free PDF Page B

spilling down my face.
    “I’ll tell you something, Betta. I’m not going to worry about you. You know why?”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’ll be fine. That’s why. You can’t see it yet, but I can.” He tapped the side of his head with his middle finger. “Psychic. Seriously.”
    “Okay, Bert. So long. Take care of yourself.” I dug in my purse for my wallet and held out a twenty-dollar bill. “Here you go.”
    He looked at the bill, sadness in his eyes. “Betta. Don’t insult me.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Put that away.”
    “We’ve always given you money!”
    “Yeah, a five, that’s all right, buys me a coffee and a Danish. A twenty, you’re saying you feel sorry for me.”
    “Would you like a five?” I asked.
    He lifted his chin and pooched out his lips, considering. Then, “Yeah, sure,” he said. And when I gave him the money, he shoved it in his pocket without looking at me.
    “Goodbye, Bert.” I turned to go.
    “Hold on.” He put his hat back on. “Good luck to you, Betta. And . . . I just wanted to say that I sure liked him a lot. He was a rare man. You know. Just . . . a rare man.”
    “Yes. Thank you.” I walked quickly away. Some analytical and oddly interested part of me noticed the specific characteristics of my pain: centered in the middle, making for a weight that felt like someone was sitting on me. I squeezed my hands into fists and thought,
I’ll go home and make some scrambled eggs. Maybe I’ll put some cream cheese in there.
After that, a hot bath. Jasmine-scented oils.
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
in the background, silk pajamas. I looked up into the night sky, at the shrouded stars. “How’s that?” I asked.

    The service for John near the end of October had been a small but elegant affair involving the usual mix of humorous and poignant homages. Everyone who attended—a few friends and a large number of people from the hospital where John practiced—knew of my plans to move right away, and everyone advised me not to. But their advice about staying had not seemed as right as the immediate acceptance I’d gotten from Bert about leaving. And it was not what John had advised.
    After the service, I drove to the ocean to scatter John’s ashes. But I didn’t put them all in the water—I hoped he wouldn’t mind a few alterations. I buried a pinch of him in the earth. I released a bit of him to the air. Some of him I put fire to again—I lit a match to a small pile of ashes. A little bit of him I swallowed. Then, weeping, I took off my shoes and walked to the shoreline to let the rest of him go. I stood shivering for a while, watching the water take him—despite the odd warmth of the day, the sand was ice-cold. I put my hand over my heart and said, “I love you.” I said, “My sweet, sweet, sweetheart.” Then I said, “I’ll see you,” and started back for the car. Behind me, I heard the raucous and eager cries of the gulls. I didn’t turn around to see if they were near him. The ashes had not really been him, after all. And I understood, too, that he was right in asking to be cremated. For if he was nowhere, he could be everywhere. As in, with me.
    On November first I listed the house with the agency John and I had called, and it sold immediately, without advertising. The real estate market in Boston was crazy; there were waiting lists of people wanting brownstones. I received seven offers over my asking price, and all of the bidders seemed willing to try to top one another forever. One of the couples was in their late twenties. “Where did they get this kind money?” I asked Victoria, the Realtor, and she shrugged. Which I assumed meant none of my business.
    By the end of the week, the house went to a late-thirtyish couple with a young child. One point nine million, a cash deal, when John and I had paid a hundred forty thousand. I didn’t meet the people; for many reasons, I didn’t want to. I arranged for the lawyer to represent me at the closing only