Hey, Patrick! You around? I’m on your steps. With cookies.
Enticing. But I’m not my best self today, as Oprah would say.
Did I mention that they are CHOCOLATE CHIP cookies? And that I made them with my bare hands?
Marnie . . .
And they’re HOT and JUST OUT OF THE OVEN.
Marnie, has anyone explained to you that I am hideously ugly? Disfigured and curmudgeonly and introvertish and possibly malodorous. Hard to know since it’s just me and the cat down here, but one of us is definitely NOT FRESH.
Patrick, has anyone explained to YOU that chocolate chip cookies transcend all that and more?
All right. I am opening the door. But you have been warned. Also, spoiler alert: I am much better in texts than I am in person. So adjust your expectations accordingly.
And then there he is. He’s slightly built, with a black Mets hoodie on—with the hood up, even in the house—and sweatpants. His face is partially obscured by the hood, but I can see blue eyes. Some scars. Dark hair.
“Hi,” I say. “Cookies.” I hold out the platter.
“Hi, cookies,” he says. “Patrick.”
Then we stand there. Finally he says, “Oh, I’m guessing you want to come in, even though I am doing everything I can to make you feel unwelcome.”
“Well . . .” I laugh a little bit. “Um, I thought I would. I mean, if it’s okay. I don’t have to stay long.”
“Sure. Enter the palace. You do now own this place, I believe.” Before I can protest that I’m not there as the building owner, he steps aside with a flourish, and I go into a little tiled hallway that leads into his living room, which smells amazing—like cinnamon and sugar and apples.
The place looks more like a computer library than a home. Along one wall is a plywood desk that has three computer monitors blinking away, with various keyboards and a desk chair on wheels. The monitors all have lines and lines of writing on them. Across the room, over an expanse of tan carpeting, is a black leather couch with some books and magazines piled at right angles. And a coffee table. There are pole lamps and intriguing sculptures everywhere.
“You have such amazing artwork!” I say idiotically. “And so many computers!”
“Yep. I work at home so I don’t have to inflict myself on the American citizenry. It’s a public service I perform, and it seems to require electronics. The sculptures are from a previous life.”
I turn and look at him. Even with his hood up, I can see that he’s smiling—and yes, it’s a crooked, damaged smile in a face with a ruined nose. He looks craggy and roughed up. I feel myself take in a deep breath, which might have sounded to him like a gasp, but which wasn’t that at all.
“Oh! What kind of work do you do?” I say. My voice sounds fake even to myself, probably because I am worried that he thinks I was shocked by his appearance, when I was not. I was just taking a breath, but how do I explain that to him without sounding like it’s a lie? I look at him helplessly, hoping he’ll rescue me.
He looks right at me, and he lets the awkwardness be there in the room with us before he answers. “Actually, I scare people by telling them what disease they probably have, based on their symptoms. Like, if you go to the website and type in that your back hurts, I’m the guy who asks you to click on further symptoms until eventually I tell you that you might have back cancer or that your kidneys are exploding.”
“Actually, this is amazing because I may be one of your best customers,” I say. “I’m often up in the middle of the night reading about brain tumors and stuff.”
“Thanks,” he says. “It’s good that I’m here to help you with your light reading.” He lets out a sigh, and I worry that I am boring him. Really, this is so difficult, and I so want him to like me. “And you?” he says politely. “Blix told me that you’re something of a matchmaker.”
“Oh my God. Has she told everyone that I’m a matchmaker? I am so not a matchmaker.”
“Well. That’s what she said. ‘I’m leaving my house to Marnie, and she’s a matchmaker, so I think she’ll be very happy here.’ Exact quote.”
“Wow. Did she tell you the part about how she actually only laid eyes on me two times? Did she tell you that she didn’t even really know me?”
He gives me a mild look. “It’s okay. I know better than anyone that Blix had her ways. I’m not going to ask you for your matchmaking union card or anything.”
“It’s just so crazy. I have no idea why I’m even here. I keep explaining to people that I didn’t really even know her, that I feel like I’m some kind of imposter getting this house from her. My parents are aghast. Like, who is this old lady and why couldn’t she have left this house to her own family? Why did she pick me? They seem to think it’s some kind of punishment and that I need to be very, very careful!”
He is looking at me with a little half smile, or what seems like it might be a half smile. Hard to tell with the hoodie he’s wearing and the fact that his face isn’t quite like other people’s faces. “And are you?” he says. “Being very, very careful?”
“Not by their standards, I’m sure. Also, what if she left me the place so I could do matchmaking, and it turns out I’m no good at it? She should have left it to Noah.”
“I think—well, do you want to know my true, uncensored thoughts?”
“Do I? Yes, I do. Tell me. Uncensored thoughts.”
“Well, my first thought is that Blix didn’t ever do anything she didn’t want to do, and when she met you, I can tell you this: you made a huge impression on her. I don’t know if you were demonstrating your abundant matchmakery skills in front of her, or if she was just discerning them—but she was taken with you, and that was that. End of story. When she decided you needed the house, you were getting it, and nobody else could have it.”
“But it’s so . . . surprising. Who does that?”
“Blix Holliday does that. Also, she did not think that Noah should end up with her house, nor should any of her relatives from Virginia. She told me that over and over. And now I’m really not going to say any more.”
“I’ve been here less than a week, and yet every single person I’ve talked to has made sure to tell me how little she thought of Noah. Even he tells me that. It must have been epic. Maybe you’re the one who could tell me why?”
“No more. I’ve taken a vow.”
“A vow?”
“A vow of silence when it comes to criticizing other people, particularly ones who were married to the person I’m talking to. And who are currently also living with that individual. It’s my policy.”
“Well, we’re not doing that kind of living with,” I say. And when he keeps looking at me, I say, “It’s not that way at all. Believe me. He’s only staying here because he’s enrolled in classes and also we’re doing some experiment to show that we can live together for the three months without killing each other. It’s so that when we’re old, we can look back and see that we were kind to each other. A different sort of breakup.”
He smiles at me. “I am so not going to comment on any of that.” He leads the way into the kitchen, which is really nothing more than a tiny stove, sink, and refrigerator all jammed into a little closet-sized room off the living room. An apple pie is sitting on the counter, with one piece missing.
“Let’s eat cookies, shall we? Or would you like some pie? Or maybe both?”
“The cookies are for you,” I say, and he laughs. “So that’s a vote for both, then!”
He cuts us each a slice of pie and piles some cookies onto some paper plates, and we stand in the kitchen, eating them. The pie is exquisitely buttery and sweet, with tart apples and a flaky crust. Kind of amazing actually. I can’t stop exclaiming over it.
“Yes, I’ve been experimenting with crusts lately. The old lard or butter question, you know? This time I went with butter. Flakier with lard, I think, but . . .”
“Oh my God. I vote for this pie. Butter all the way.”
“I’ll make a note of it,”
he says.
We’re quiet, devouring our pie, when I say, “Have you lived here a long time?”
He frowns. In the greenish cast of the fluorescent light from the ceiling, I can now see more of his face. It’s a shock, a little, to see that the skin on his face is pulled taut around his left eye, leaving it extra pink and smooth like the inside of a shell. The other eye is fine, looking back at me with some attitude to it.
“Well, three and a half years, I guess it is now. Are you thirsty? Are you the kind of person who wants milk with your pie?”
“No that’s okay,” I say. “So . . . did you know Blix before that?”
“Nope. Met her outside the art museum one day. I was having, shall we say, a rather unfortunate moment, and suddenly, there she was, bossing me around even though I was a stranger. Talked to me for a while and then said I had to come live in her building.”
“Really? And so you did? You just moved in here because she told you to?”
“And didn’t you come here because she told you to?”
“Well. I mean, I guess I did, when you put it that way.”
“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.”
That brought Jessica charging right down the stairs, banging on the door, and holding up her phone and laughing. “Has no one ever said the word bodega to you?” she said.
“I thought a bodega was kind of a bar and possible whorehouse,” I said, and that made her come over and hug me, she was laughing so hard.
“Okay. What’s the cheese they put on pies? And by pie, I mean pizza.”
“Pies are pizza?”
“No. Pizzas are pies. Come on. What’s the cheese?”
“Mozzarella.”
“No! Oh my God. It’s muzzarell. You can call it moots if you want. Do not say moz-za-rella in a restaurant around here. Promise me. And do not ever let anyone see you eating pizza with a fork, no matter how hot it is or how hungry you are. The ridicule and shame will be everlasting.”
So today, her day off, we ride on the subway—where you use a MetroCard but God forbid you call the whole enterprise the metro.
“I still like driving a car the best,” I tell her. “Except here, where I’d probably go insane and start driving on the sidewalk.”
“You’re such a Californian and Floridian. Subways are much better for people- watching, although it’s very important that you do not make direct eye contact. The best part is that you get to learn gymnastics routines on the subway when the school kids get on.”
The gold shimmers so much I am nearly blinded.
I know what that means. It means that Jessica is going to start talking about Andrew again. She thinks she’s complaining about him, but as I watch her speak, all I can see is the pink aura around her, and the way her face lights up when she talks
about him. Oh, but there is such a wounded heart underneath that light.
It’s okay. She’ll be okay.
Later I give money to a homeless man, who tells me he has a secret for me. He was once president of the United States, he whispers, but they made him sleep outside the White House in the park, so he resigned. He says that there are some things people should not have to put up with, especially when they’re too hungry, and so I go into Brooklyn Muffin and buy him a sandwich, and when I come out and give it to him, Jessica shakes her head and says I am just like Blix.
Walking home, we’re on Bedford Avenue when I see an adorable little flower shop, with pots of chrysanthemums and other greenery outside on the sidewalk. The name, scrawled on the door, in white script, is BEST BUDS. And I know I have to go in there.
“You know what? You can head home if you want, but I need to get Patrick some flowers.”
Jessica’s eyebrows go up in little peaks. “You have to get Patrick some flowers?”
“Yes. I took him some cookies the other day, and—”
“Wait. You took him some cookies?”
“Will you stop it? Yes, I took him some chocolate chip cookies because I wanted to meet him, and we were having a conversation, and things got a little animated, and I knocked one of his sculptures off the table and smashed it.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes. It was kind of horrible actually. So I’ve been trying to think of how to make it up to him. And maybe flowers would be nice. It’s kind of drab in his apartment.”
“Is it? He’s never invited me in.”
“Besides the smashing of his artwork, I think I made at least five hundred other mistakes with him.”
“He’s tough. Only Blix had the magic touch with him. I’ve never been able to get so much as a conversation going.” She shifts her bag to her other shoulder. “Listen,” she says. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to head straight home. Sammy’s going to be getting off the school bus soon, and I should meet him. Good luck with your Patrick project, though.” She wrinkles her nose. “You’re kind of sweet, you know that?” She starts down the street and then turns and points at me. “The cheese on the pizza! Go!”
Matchmaking for Beginners Page 21
