Matchmaking for Beginners
Page 54
Jeremy says it’s going to be amazing, having a big family Christmas for once, and not the tiny little twosome Christmas he and his mom usually endure. Already my mother has invited him to bring his mother over to be with my family. He’s actually been taking our two moms out for breakfast some weekend mornings, and he says it’s lovely, seeing them chatting so amiably about us. I cannot imagine.
“Us,” he says, and my nerve endings curdle with guilt when he utters that word. Then he says, “You know, maybe you should contact a real estate agent so that when the time comes to sell, everything will be in place.” He says, “I miss you so much that I’m going to have to be physically restrained from carting you off somewhere when you get off the plane.”
“Huh,” I say.
One morning I awaken because the entire building is banging and clanging, and then shuddering like the Huns have arrived and are pelting its bricks with iron bars. Noah is up, already taking a shower. The whole commotion seems to be originating from downstairs, so I grab my phone and start typing.
Patrick, are you okay?
Yes. Welcome to the heating system poltergeist. Harbinger of winter.
What does it want? Money? An animal sacrifice?
No, it’s friendly. It just has air in its pipes. Wants you to know about it. (By the way, curious that your thoughts go right to animal sacrifice. Things going okay, dog-wise?)
Why do you ask? I happen to LOVE wearing chewed-up shoes.
This is what gives dogs a bad name. And I’m not referring to the rather brilliant name of Bedford.
You think that’s a brilliant name? THANK YOU!
Oh, shucks. I think anything beyond Rover or Spot is brilliant. By the way, what does the Gentleman of the House think of your canine friend?
Um, he’s not the Gentleman of the House.
Could’ve fooled me. Could’ve fooled HIM, for that matter.
It takes me a little while to compose myself again. And then I type:
It’s complicated.
Is he planning on leaving anytime soon?
Good talk. Gotta go feed the dog.
A few days later I’m at Best Buds when an elderly man comes in. He has the pained appearance of a man who needs to ask somebody a huge question, and so I ask him if there’s anything I can do for him. He says no, looking around furtively like he’s sure I’m hiding something in the palm tree.
So I leave him to ramble with his thoughts. He drifts over to the orchids in the cooler and stands with his hands in his pockets, looking at the tight little roses, and then he moves along to gaze for a while at the feathered greenery, and then his eyes suddenly swerve over to me. I look down at the counter quickly.
He clears his throat, and I smile at him. Our eyes meet.
“I guess I’m not ready,” he says abruptly.
And, just like that, he leaves the store.
If I were a different sort of person—if I were, say, Blix—perhaps I would run to the door and call after him. Perhaps I would say, “Oh, but, sir, no one ever thinks of themselves as ready. From the look of you, you are ripe right this minute.”
But I am me, Marnie MacGraw. And so he slips away, down the street.
Two months ago today I was with her when she died.
I’m walking home from Best Buds, and it’s dark now that we’re back on Eastern Standard Time. I have to walk fast because it’s freaking cold. But this text stops me in my tracks. I lean against a mailbox and type:
I need to talk about her. Can I come down?
No. Well, maybe. Yes. OK.
That seems to cover all the possibilities. I tell you what: I’ll bring a chicken because I’m starving.
I wait to see what he’ll say, and when he doesn’t say anything, I stop at Paco’s and pick up a rotisserie chicken, some mashed potatoes, and broccoli rabe. Paco, standing behind the high counter near the front of the store, is almost giddy with happiness tonight, but he says he can’t tell me why. Not yet but soon. Still, he comes around the counter and hugs me when he gives me the bag of food.
“How many people you feeding tonight? Just you—or you and that . . . bandito?” He makes a face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that.”
“Who’s the bandito? Oh, you mean Noah? Noah is Blix’s grandnephew, Paco.”
“I don’t like him.” He turns to his assistant, George, who’s squatting down stocking the shelves, and George laughs.
“Nobody like him,” George says. “Even Blix didn’t like him.”
“Are you kidding me?” Paco says. “Blix for sure didn’t like him.” Then he says, “We gotta stop this kind of talk. Marnie—she like him fine. Sorry.”
“Well, it’s not him I’m eating with anyway,” I say. “It’s Patrick.”
“Ohhh, Patrick!” they say in unison and then they exchange glances.
“What? What about Patrick?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. You go see Patrick. Here, extra potatoes. Patrick need potatoes. And here’s a bone for your doggie. Tell Patrick I got the special almond flour he wants. And the Irish butter.”
“I’ll pay for them and take them over to him. It’ll save him a trip.”
George laughs a little. “You mean, it saves me a trip.”
“Patrick no comes here,” says Paco. “We take to him.”
“Oh,” I say. “Of course.”
Patrick lets me in when I ring the bell. I notice he’s not wearing his hoodie tonight, which gives him a welcoming look, much less ominous than usual. Also, Roy runs right over to say hi—a function of the chicken I’m carrying, no doubt. Still, I feel as though they’re both happy to see me for once. The lobster incident must have been forgiven.
The place smells like something amazing is about to come out of the oven.
“Vanilla cheesecake,” he tells me. “My old standard.”
I give him the almond flour and the butter, and he looks like a kid at Christmas. “This butter is the best! Let me pay you for these,” he says, but I wave him off and take everything into the kitchen.
Then, as happens sometimes, I suddenly remember that I am a dog owner. And that you have to let dogs out. Often. I’ve learned this the hard way. Also, he needs company. He gets lonely.
I look at Patrick apologetically. “I need to go take Bedford for a little walk, and then I’ll come right back. You can start eating if you want. I know it’s late.”
“No, no. I’ll wait for you.”
“Well, thanks. I’ll hurry!”
Bedford is frantically happy to see me, way happier than anything I can imagine Roy doing, even at his best. I take him out of the crate and he races to the front door, his ears flying. So I clip the leash onto his collar, and we go sailing down the front steps—the stoop—and he tears over to the little patch of dirt near the gingko tree and lets loose a long stream of pee. Then he has about fifty things that require sniffing and some items he has to stop and chew, like a candy wrapper and a piece of somebody’s shoe. I take these things away from him and he briefly considers whether we know each other well enough for me to take those kinds of liberties. But I win because I know the secret phrase, and I’m not afraid to use it: “Do you want to EAT? Do you want to go inside and EAT? Eat??”
And boy, does he ever! We go racing up the stairs and back into the house, and I feed him in the kitchen. Some dry kibble mixed with a little meaty wet food that smells awful. I clock his eating time at thirty-six seconds, and then I tell him the bad news.
“You have to go back in the crate, my dear friend.”
He lies down with his head on his paws and makes his eyes look round and innocent.
“I know. But it’s only for a little while. It’s because Patrick is worried you would eat his cat.”
He wags his tail. Which is probably a yes.
When I get back downstairs, Patrick has put food on our plates, and we sit down at his table, which I notice he has cleared of papers and books. He’s using a nice yellow tablecloth, and there is even music coming from one of the computer monitors. Bach fugues. Very tinkly pianos. He’s poured us glasses of wine, and made an incredible salad with walnuts and seeds and butter lettuce.
I unfold my napkin in my lap and look across at him.
“Us,” he says, and my nerve endings curdle with guilt when he utters that word. Then he says, “You know, maybe you should contact a real estate agent so that when the time comes to sell, everything will be in place.” He says, “I miss you so much that I’m going to have to be physically restrained from carting you off somewhere when you get off the plane.”
“Huh,” I say.
One morning I awaken because the entire building is banging and clanging, and then shuddering like the Huns have arrived and are pelting its bricks with iron bars. Noah is up, already taking a shower. The whole commotion seems to be originating from downstairs, so I grab my phone and start typing.
Patrick, are you okay?
Yes. Welcome to the heating system poltergeist. Harbinger of winter.
What does it want? Money? An animal sacrifice?
No, it’s friendly. It just has air in its pipes. Wants you to know about it. (By the way, curious that your thoughts go right to animal sacrifice. Things going okay, dog-wise?)
Why do you ask? I happen to LOVE wearing chewed-up shoes.
This is what gives dogs a bad name. And I’m not referring to the rather brilliant name of Bedford.
You think that’s a brilliant name? THANK YOU!
Oh, shucks. I think anything beyond Rover or Spot is brilliant. By the way, what does the Gentleman of the House think of your canine friend?
Um, he’s not the Gentleman of the House.
Could’ve fooled me. Could’ve fooled HIM, for that matter.
It takes me a little while to compose myself again. And then I type:
It’s complicated.
Is he planning on leaving anytime soon?
Good talk. Gotta go feed the dog.
A few days later I’m at Best Buds when an elderly man comes in. He has the pained appearance of a man who needs to ask somebody a huge question, and so I ask him if there’s anything I can do for him. He says no, looking around furtively like he’s sure I’m hiding something in the palm tree.
So I leave him to ramble with his thoughts. He drifts over to the orchids in the cooler and stands with his hands in his pockets, looking at the tight little roses, and then he moves along to gaze for a while at the feathered greenery, and then his eyes suddenly swerve over to me. I look down at the counter quickly.
He clears his throat, and I smile at him. Our eyes meet.
“I guess I’m not ready,” he says abruptly.
And, just like that, he leaves the store.
If I were a different sort of person—if I were, say, Blix—perhaps I would run to the door and call after him. Perhaps I would say, “Oh, but, sir, no one ever thinks of themselves as ready. From the look of you, you are ripe right this minute.”
But I am me, Marnie MacGraw. And so he slips away, down the street.
Two months ago today I was with her when she died.
I’m walking home from Best Buds, and it’s dark now that we’re back on Eastern Standard Time. I have to walk fast because it’s freaking cold. But this text stops me in my tracks. I lean against a mailbox and type:
I need to talk about her. Can I come down?
No. Well, maybe. Yes. OK.
That seems to cover all the possibilities. I tell you what: I’ll bring a chicken because I’m starving.
I wait to see what he’ll say, and when he doesn’t say anything, I stop at Paco’s and pick up a rotisserie chicken, some mashed potatoes, and broccoli rabe. Paco, standing behind the high counter near the front of the store, is almost giddy with happiness tonight, but he says he can’t tell me why. Not yet but soon. Still, he comes around the counter and hugs me when he gives me the bag of food.
“How many people you feeding tonight? Just you—or you and that . . . bandito?” He makes a face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t say that.”
“Who’s the bandito? Oh, you mean Noah? Noah is Blix’s grandnephew, Paco.”
“I don’t like him.” He turns to his assistant, George, who’s squatting down stocking the shelves, and George laughs.
“Nobody like him,” George says. “Even Blix didn’t like him.”
“Are you kidding me?” Paco says. “Blix for sure didn’t like him.” Then he says, “We gotta stop this kind of talk. Marnie—she like him fine. Sorry.”
“Well, it’s not him I’m eating with anyway,” I say. “It’s Patrick.”
“Ohhh, Patrick!” they say in unison and then they exchange glances.
“What? What about Patrick?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. You go see Patrick. Here, extra potatoes. Patrick need potatoes. And here’s a bone for your doggie. Tell Patrick I got the special almond flour he wants. And the Irish butter.”
“I’ll pay for them and take them over to him. It’ll save him a trip.”
George laughs a little. “You mean, it saves me a trip.”
“Patrick no comes here,” says Paco. “We take to him.”
“Oh,” I say. “Of course.”
Patrick lets me in when I ring the bell. I notice he’s not wearing his hoodie tonight, which gives him a welcoming look, much less ominous than usual. Also, Roy runs right over to say hi—a function of the chicken I’m carrying, no doubt. Still, I feel as though they’re both happy to see me for once. The lobster incident must have been forgiven.
The place smells like something amazing is about to come out of the oven.
“Vanilla cheesecake,” he tells me. “My old standard.”
I give him the almond flour and the butter, and he looks like a kid at Christmas. “This butter is the best! Let me pay you for these,” he says, but I wave him off and take everything into the kitchen.
Then, as happens sometimes, I suddenly remember that I am a dog owner. And that you have to let dogs out. Often. I’ve learned this the hard way. Also, he needs company. He gets lonely.
I look at Patrick apologetically. “I need to go take Bedford for a little walk, and then I’ll come right back. You can start eating if you want. I know it’s late.”
“No, no. I’ll wait for you.”
“Well, thanks. I’ll hurry!”
Bedford is frantically happy to see me, way happier than anything I can imagine Roy doing, even at his best. I take him out of the crate and he races to the front door, his ears flying. So I clip the leash onto his collar, and we go sailing down the front steps—the stoop—and he tears over to the little patch of dirt near the gingko tree and lets loose a long stream of pee. Then he has about fifty things that require sniffing and some items he has to stop and chew, like a candy wrapper and a piece of somebody’s shoe. I take these things away from him and he briefly considers whether we know each other well enough for me to take those kinds of liberties. But I win because I know the secret phrase, and I’m not afraid to use it: “Do you want to EAT? Do you want to go inside and EAT? Eat??”
And boy, does he ever! We go racing up the stairs and back into the house, and I feed him in the kitchen. Some dry kibble mixed with a little meaty wet food that smells awful. I clock his eating time at thirty-six seconds, and then I tell him the bad news.
“You have to go back in the crate, my dear friend.”
He lies down with his head on his paws and makes his eyes look round and innocent.
“I know. But it’s only for a little while. It’s because Patrick is worried you would eat his cat.”
He wags his tail. Which is probably a yes.
When I get back downstairs, Patrick has put food on our plates, and we sit down at his table, which I notice he has cleared of papers and books. He’s using a nice yellow tablecloth, and there is even music coming from one of the computer monitors. Bach fugues. Very tinkly pianos. He’s poured us glasses of wine, and made an incredible salad with walnuts and seeds and butter lettuce.
I unfold my napkin in my lap and look across at him.
