Free The Year of Pleasures by Elizabeth Berg Page A

down. And now, let it go, let your breath rise up along your backbone in a continuous flow, and let it all, all, all out.
    I recalled the charged air in that yoga studio, the smell of sandalwood, the soothing periwinkle color of the walls, the way the dust motes glittered in the sun that streamed in from the high windows. I recalled too the luxury of seeing such calm and comfort and rejecting it on the grounds of not needing it. It was like seeing a platterful of food go by when your belly is full. At such times, it does not occur to you that you might someday be starving.
    I would find another yoga class, and this time I would go. I would buy books on gardening so that, come spring, I would know how to care for my extraordinary backyard. I would honor John’s request in a most deliberate way: I would try to find joy despite the necessary work of grieving, and I knew full well that
work
was exactly the right word to describe it. It was John’s life that was over, not mine. I had to remember that recognizing the distinction was not disloyalty. I had to remember that I was still a young woman! Well, I was not an old woman.
    I smoothed the top of the sheet over my blanket, folded my hands on top of my chest, and felt with relief the veil-like prelude to sleep, that falling away inside one’s chest, the unsticking of self from self. And I felt a familiar hope, too: In dreams, I was sometimes with him still.

    The doorbell awakened me, and I looked bleary-eyed at my watch. Ten-thirty. I went to the window to see if there was a delivery truck of some sort. The CDs I’d ordered, perhaps. One night in the motel I’d sat before my laptop and ordered thirty CDs from Amazon. I didn’t even remember what they were.
    But there was no truck out front. There was nothing. I put on my robe, went into the bathroom to quickly brush my hair and splash water on my face, then went downstairs to open the door. It was the boy from next door, standing there with a basket full of muffins.
    “These are for you,” he said. “From my mom. They’re blueberry.”
    “Oh, well, thank you,” I said. “Thank
her.
”
    He pushed his glasses snug against the bridge of his nose and looked up at me through lenses that magnified his blue eyes in a way just short of comical. “I’m Benny Pacini. Did you get my note?”
    “I did. I’m Betta Nolan.”
    “Betta?”
    I smiled in spite of myself. “Yes. My mother couldn’t choose between Betty and Anna. I do have some work for you, if you’d like to help me unpack boxes.”
    “I could help you tomorrow. I already have two jobs for today: walking dogs, and sweeping out a garage.” He eyed my robe and pajamas. “Were you still sleeping?”
    “I was, yes. I sleep late. Sometimes.”
    “Oh. Sorry.”
    “It’s all right.” I opened the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”
    “Okay.” He stepped just inside the door, shrugged off his jacket. “Do I have to take my shoes off?”
    “No. No need. Why don’t you come in the kitchen? I’ll make some coffee, and maybe you’d like to have a muffin with me.”
    “They’re just for you. I’m not allowed to have one.”
    “But if they’re for me, I can decide what to do with them, right? And what I want to do is share them with you.”
    He shrugged in the exaggerated way of children, grimacing, shoulders practically reaching his earlobes. Then he followed me to the kitchen table, where he stood stiffly beside a chair. “At ease,” I told him.
    He stared at me. “Huh?”
    “Have a
seat,
” I said.
    He pulled out a chair and sat on the edge of it, his legs swinging, while I rummaged around a moving box, looking for coffee filters.
    “Wow,” Benny said, “you were on the
Mayflower
?”
    I looked up at him. He pointed to the box. “Oh!” I said. “No. No, that’s the name of the moving company I used.”
Maybe,
I thought,
I should give in and color my gray.
    “Where did you come here from?”
    “Boston.”
    “That’s the capital