Free The Pursuit of Alice Thrift by Elinor Lipman

demonstrates your high self-esteem as well as your ability to think on your feet.”
    â€œMy street smarts, you mean?”
    â€œThat, too. Definitely. And your pluck.”
    â€œGee, thanks. That’s what I want people to think: That guy has pluck.”
    â€œAre you mad?”
    â€œNope. Not mad. Discouraged, maybe. And still lonely, but don’t you worry. That’s my cross to bear.” He walked to the door and said, barely mounting a wave, “See ya.”
    â€œSee ya,” I said.
    He opened the door, but hesitated on the threshold. “Good luck with everything, Doc. I hope you have a great life and you get to fix, like, every harelip along the Amazon.”
    â€œI appreciate that,” I said.
    LEO’S BEDROOM DOOR was closed. His voice and that of an unidentified female’s could be heard in what sounded like playful conversation. As a courtesy, I knocked on his door and said, “I’m home,” to save all of us the embarrassment of louder noises or their spilling into the hallway in any state of undress.
    I should have been thinking of my deceased grandmother as I fell asleep, or agitating over my most recent evaluation, but instead I was puzzling over how I’d thrown cold water on Ray’s torch. Was there a book I could read on the subject:
How to Restore
a Man You’ve Rejected to His Previous Station as Platonic Friend?
On Your Own Terms, Without Leading Him On?
    Did I owe Ray an apology? Should I be thinking, Fruit? A gift certificate? A presidential biography on tape?
    Leo would know. I’d ask him in the morning.
    HE KNOCKED ON my door at 5:45 A.M. “Aren’t you supposed to be across the street in fifteen minutes?” he yelled.
    I groaned. I had hit the snooze button twice and fallen back into a deep REM sleep, stuck in a dream filled with cousins and stained glass. “Coffee’s on,” said Leo. “I think if you take three minutes for a shower, two minutes to get dressed, five minutes to eat your cereal, you’ll have another five minutes to cross the street and get up to the floor.
If
you get your ass in gear this second.”
    None of this—reveille or raisin bran—was typical of our arrangement. Immediately I grasped what was happening: He was playing the solicitous and thoughtful roommate because he had an adoring audience.
    â€œIs your guest still here?” I asked. When he didn’t answer I said, “I thought I heard a woman’s voice coming from your room last night.”
    I was sitting on the edge of my mattress now, staring dully at my feet. There were specks of mauve polish left on a few toe-nails, remnants of a summer spruce-up. I probably had some nail-polish remover somewhere. “I’m up,” I called. Then louder, “Leo? You still there?”
    â€œIn the kitchen.”
    â€œAlone?”
    â€œShe didn’t stay over, if that’s what you mean.”
    I put my robe on, a souvenir in thin yellow cotton from a VA rotation, over surgical scrubs and took a seat at the kitchen table. I said, “I think I’ll have that coffee before my shower.” I shook a cupful of flakes into a bowl. “Was it someone nice?” I asked. “Someone new and exciting?”
    He shook his head. “Just someone to watch a movie with.”
    â€œWas it a funny movie?”
    â€œIn places,” said Leo.
    â€œBecause I heard laughter.”
    He was at my elbow, holding our phone and dialing a number. He handed me the receiver and said, “Here. It’s ringing. Tell them you came back by train this morning and you’ll get there as fast as you can. Mention the word
funeral
so they’ll remember it wasn’t a vacation day.”
    Yolanda answered. I told her I was doing my best to get there for rounds but would undoubtedly be late.
    â€œFuneral,” Leo whispered.
    I nodded. “I think you probably remember that I was at my