Free The Year of Pleasures by Elizabeth Berg Page B

of Massachusetts.”
    “That’s right.”
    He looked around politely, his gaze not wandering beyond the confines of the kitchen. “I’ve never been in this house before. The lady who lived here was mean!”
    “Yes, I met her.”
    “You did?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “A lot of people said she was a real witch. Grown-ups said that. Where did she go, anyway?”
    “To a nursing home.” I opened another box and began searching there: funnels, a colander, measuring cups, nesting bowls. “It’s called the Rose McNair Home.”
    “We went there in second grade, at Christmastime. We had to sing ‘O Holy Night’ to them.” He sang a few words of the song in a way so distracted and utterly unself-conscious I felt certain he wasn’t aware of doing it. He was taking in his surroundings in a very concentrated way.
    “Was it fun, singing to them?” I asked.
    He snapped his attention back to me and contemplated the question like a politician hedging his bets. “No. They were mostly sleeping. I meant to ask you, do you have any kids?”
    “I do not.”
    “Do you have a husband?”
    Ah. I stood still for a moment, holding the small strainer I’d just picked up over my heart. Then I said, “He’s dead.”
    Benny’s legs stopped swinging. “He is?”
    “Yes.” I dug past pot holders, kitchen magnets, cheesecloth.
    “Oh. I know how you feel ’cause my favorite grandpa died last month, two days after my tenth birthday, Grandpa Will.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Yeah. He knew magic tricks. One thing he could do was chop off his finger.”
    “My goodness!”
    “Yup. And then he could heal it back.”
    “That’s quite a trick.” I reached the bottom of the second box without success. Where
were
those filters?
    “He didn’t really chop it off,” Benny said. “But it sure looked like he did.”
    “Yes. I guess that was the trick part, that he made it look so real.” I opened yet another box, lifted some kitchen towels, and uncovered a roll of paper towels. I could use one of those for a filter. Once, on a cold winter morning when we were out of both filters and paper towels, John had tried to use toilet paper. Then he’d used a strainer to try to separate the coffee grounds and disintegrating paper from the liquid. Then he’d tasted it.
Then
he’d gone to the store. And since the windchill was forty below, he’d bought lox and capers and beautiful bagels and gourmet cream cheese and roses and a type of wild rice we’d been wanting to try. That’s the way he operated. Use errors to your advantage. “Your grandfather sounds like he was an interesting guy,” I told Benny.
    He sighed. “Sometimes I get mad that I can’t ask him things anymore.”
    “Yes. I know what you mean.” I lifted some boxes of tea.
There
were the filters! I brought them over to the coffeemaker and measured coffee, dumped in water, flicked the switch. “I feel that way, too.”
    “About your husband?”
    “Yes.” A satisfying aroma immediately filled the air, and I felt a reflexive lift in spirits. I’d once asked John, “Why do you think a simple ritual like coffee in the morning makes us so happy?” “Maybe because it’s not simple,” he’d said.
    “What was your husband’s name?”
    “His name was John.” I opened the refrigerator and took out a small carton of milk, brought it to the table, and sat down. “So.”
    “You don’t have so much in your refrigerator, huh?” Benny said.
    “No, I haven’t been to the grocery store to stock up yet.”
    “Do you like Dr Pepper?”
    “I think Dr Pepper’s all right.”
    “It’s my favorite. My mom always forgets to buy it.”
    “I’ll get some for the next time you come to visit. How would that be?”
    “Good.” He smiled shyly, then said, “This guy in my class? Matt Lederman? He said I was gay.”
    “Did he.”
    “Gay is when you like boys if you’re a boy.”
    “Right. Or girls if you’re a girl.”
    “But I’m not that.”
    “It wouldn’t be bad if you