On Turpentine Lane(75)

“Stuart? How old are you?”

“You know how old I am.”

“Is that what you learned from your aborted mission across the country wearing a sign that said FREE HUGS? That a hug means anything? Because everyone hugs now. It’s the new hello and good-bye and the new handshake. Meaningless! Is that what you were going to scold Nick about? Because I’m going to save you the indignity of being laughed at.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” he said. “And it makes me so sad.”

“Tell it to your memoir,” I said. “How’s that coming?”

“I’m working on it now, full-time.”

I knew what that meant. No more job.

I said, “Well, good luck with everything. I’ll give Nick your message.”

“Brooke needs a roommate,” he said. “I’m moving out.”

“To where?”

There was a long enough pause that I guessed the answer. “Back in with your mom and Rebecca?”

“My mom’s Rebecca. You mean Iona.”

“Okay, Iona. Is that a yes?”

“Temporarily. Until the baby’s born.”

I had a panicked few seconds thinking Brooke was pregnant with Nick’s baby until I remembered Stuart’s insemination contribution. “What happens then?” I asked.

“I’ll be watching the baby when the moms go back to work—in exchange for room and board.”

“What do you know about babies?”

“A lot, by the time he’s born. They have books, and I’m watching YouTube videos. We’re having a boy. That’s the whole idea: role modeling, a male influence, which I hope doesn’t sound like gender stereotyping.”

“You’d be the last person I’d accuse of gender stereotyping.”

“It was their idea. Well, Rebecca’s idea: first to consider me as the sperm donor and then as their governor.”

I coughed out, “Governor?”

“That’s the masculine form of governess. I think it has more dignity than manny.”

“Will this little boy know you’re his father? Is he going to call you Daddy?”

“To be negotiated. Besides, don’t babies take several months before they start talking?”

“Oh, brother.”

“Where did you say Nick had gone?”

“Nowhere. But I’ll tell him that it was unforgivable that he didn’t give Brooke a hug before she stormed out”—which produced a snicker from Nick, now stretched out on the couch and listening to every word.

“Also, if he knows anyone who needs a place to crash,” Stuart continued. “Well, more than that. Someone who could take my place at Brooke’s.”

I told him I was surprised Brooke would want to stay in Everton without a real job and—not to be unkind—any friends.

He told me I was sounding judgmental. Brooke considered online retailing very much a real job. “As for friends, she’s in a book group. And she considers Nick a friend even if it’s officially over.”

I said, “It’s been officially over long before today.”

“You’d know that, of course, being an expert on ‘officially over,’ as if there’s no continuum. No second chances.”

I knew what he meant: our breakup. I didn’t acknowledge that, hating to admit I once tolerated him and wore his mangy red thread around my finger.

Stuart said, “Let’s face it. Brooke needs a man.”

“Other than you, I take it.”

“I offered. But we both get that our values are incompatible. Maybe you know someone?”

“Seriously? Who are the two least likely people in all of Everton and possibly the wide world to find Brooke a man? What could I say to recommend her to anyone?”

“That she has a two-bedroom apartment, a car—”

“Plus a nasty streak and no manners. I can’t believe you even asked.”

“You guys work outside the home. You interact with people. I don’t know why you’d feel like it’s a weird request.”

“Because Nick is her ex-boyfriend and because she’s never been anything but rude to me. How’s that?”

“You’d be doing me a favor. She can’t make the whole rent herself. It’s kinda up to me to find my replacement. Apparently, I signed something.”

“Is that so? You ‘signed something.’ Would that be a quaint document known as a lease?”

“I guess so.”

Just to get him off the phone, I said, “Okay. I’ll think about it. But it’s a big ask: to find Brooke a date-slash-roommate. Even if I knew someone . . . oh, never mind. It’s never going to happen.”

“You do know someone. Who is it? Your brother? A friend of your brother’s?”

“No one. Forget it.”

“Give me his name and I’ll make it happen.”

Whom did I know who was downsizing, single, male, deserving of Brooke, and vice versa? Not Reggie O’Sullivan. I swear I didn’t mean to speak that name.





45





Poor Chagall


AFTER ONLY ONE vague hint by me, my wonderful brother drove to Newton on a snow-free Saturday morning in late March, rang Tracy’s bell, told the preteen who answered that he needed to speak to Henry Frankel.