Matchmaking for Beginners(69)

“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.”