The Year of Pleasures by Elizabeth Berg Page B

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Cranberry/blueberry pie.
As though I could not be depended upon to remember anything.
    But I did remember the phone number I’d been trying, and I dialed it again now. When a woman’s sleepy and highly irritated voice answered, I was so surprised I hung up. Then, gathering courage, I called right back.
    “I’m going to kill you, whoever you are,” the woman said.
    “Lorraine?”
    “Yeeessss?”
    “It’s . . . this is Betta Michaels.”
    Silence.
    “I think maybe we used to be roommates. Back in—”
    “Where are you?”
    “
Is
this the Lorraine Keaton who—”
    “Betta. Where
are
you?”
    “Well, I was in Boston forever, but I just moved to a little town outside Chicago. Because my husband died and I . . . just moved here. I’ve been calling and calling you!”
    “Your husband died?”
    “Yeah.”
    “God. I’m sorry. Who did you marry? That guy you met right after you moved away?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. You guys seemed inseparable right away.”
    “Yes, we were. So anyway, I’m Betta Nolan, now. What about you? Are you married?”
    She laughed, that old familiar sound. “Are you kidding? Only to the theater. I was in Canada on a visiting directorship, and when I go away I only use my cell phone for messages—that’s why you couldn’t reach me.”
    “Well, I . . . I’m so glad I found you! I was trying to call all of you—Maddy, Susanna . . .”
    “We’re still friends; we see each other all the time. They live in California, in Mill Valley, about six blocks from each other. I stayed here. You got lost. What’s your address and phone number, give it to me.”
    After we’d exchanged information, she said, “Listen, I’m really late for an appointment. I’ll call you back. What time is good for you?”
    “Anytime. I’m just . . . I’m just . . .”
    “Are you okay, Betta?”
    Her at that kitchen table, leaning toward me, her strong heart-shaped face and clear eyes. “Betta? Are you okay? Just
tell
me.”
    “No.”
    “I’ll call you back.”
    When I hung up, I pulled in a breath that seemed to break through a membrane and move down to where it had needed to be and could not, until now, go. I looked at the newspaper photo I was still holding, then went to tape it into the current suede scrapbook. It came to me to paste a penny beside the picture. Because . . . because the man on the bus was on his way to see old friends he’d recently rediscovered. In his pocket was a lucky penny, which he relied on in ways he would be embarrassed to admit to. Also in his pocket were the keys to his apartment in the retirement community where he lived. He was popular with the women for his waltzing skills, and he had a tiny garden in which he grew tomatoes and marigolds. Also in his pocket he carried butterscotch candies. And a wallet with the folding money neatly arranged in order of denomination, all the presidents’ faces facing up. Rudolph was the old man’s first name. I’d let Benny give him his last name. Rudolph was full of happiness; his heart was light with this unexpected gift that had come to him so late in life. Arthur and Douglas, there on the phone, after all these years, shouting to make themselves heard, but they were heard. He could hardly wait to see what his friends looked like now, though he knew he would also always see them as they were. Maybe they’d roll up their pant legs and try for some catfish. It would be harder, sitting on the bumpy riverbank now, but Rudolph thought they’d be able to do it. He thought they could.
             
    After I ate breakfast—gingerbread with lemon sauce,
but!
properly seated at the kitchen table and therefore not disturbingly eccentric—I went upstairs, showered, and began to put linens away. I saw that they were getting worn; tomorrow I’d buy some new ones in a color that would coordinate better with my bathroom here. There was much to be said for the domestic high afforded by new towels and