Nicotine by Nell Zink Page A

twenty when she was born, and living in the Philippines. They hardly know each other. He can only be thinking of the last time he saw her, in this same house, eleven years ago. She doesn’t remember whether he ever saw her before that. “Let’s not talk,” she says. “I like the music. You want something to drink?”
    â€œNo, thanks.”
    Penny takes her bowl and spoon to the kitchen and fixes herself a hot toddy (cachaça, lemon, hot water). She rejoins Patrick on the rug and they sit in silence. She no longer tries to feel close. Visitors who glimpse them assume they are deep in intimate familial communion.
    Patrick takes out his phone and shows her photos of the beach near his house, his neighbors’ children, and their pets.
    MATT STANDS IN THE DOORWAY of what had been Norm and Amalia’s bedroom upstairs and says, “May I come in?”
    â€œPlease,” Amalia says. She is sitting up in bed, wearing a thick bathrobe over a flimsy nightgown. A Marlboro smolders in an ashtray. She stubs it out.
    He closes the door and says, “We need to talk.”
    â€œSit by me,” she says, patting the bed.
    â€œNo. You’re a fire hazard.”
    She laughs.
    â€œYou’re going to burn this house down. That’s what we need to talk about. Your notions of maintenance.”
    â€œHa-ha. Everybody says I look great, for an old lady.”
    He rolls his eyes and says, “Well, I’ve been noticing that you’ve been letting the house go to shit. Not just this place. Even the Morristown house.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt’s my fault for not hiring a yard service after Dad got sick. You can’t just let grass go to seed like that. Grass is supposed to be short. Those tall stems get like nylon fishing line. You can’t get through it with a regular mower. They’ll snag it up. You’re going to need a harvesting combine to mow that lawn, if you wait even one more day.”
    â€œThe lawn?”
    â€œNot just the lawn. The whole place needs a paint job. And the garage. If anybody could see it from the road, you’d be in violation of the covenant. But you don’t even get the yew trees trimmed, so thank God”—his sarcasm has a vicious edge and an anger that thoroughly dwarf his topic—“it’s our secret.”
    â€œWe have so few secrets anymore,” Amalia says wistfully, trying to be playful.
    â€œI just wanted to tell you,” he concludes.
    â€œCan I ask you something?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œAre you happy? Are you seeing anyone? I care about you a lot.”
    â€œCan’t you concentrate on one subject for even one minute? Yes, for your information, I get in. Maybe not at this party. Dad should have specialized in treating a disease that strikes the young and beautiful—chlamydia, maybe. Something curable, like pregnancy.”
    â€œSo you don’t have a girlfriend.”
    â€œAmalia. I can tell you’re working up a crying jag, so before you start—before you launch into your tantrum—allow me to inform you that I am not lonely. I’m rich enough to buy and sell these girls I ‘date,’ yet somehow they never think to ask me for a dime. Do not worry about me. Worry about starving children.”
    â€œYou’re exaggerating.”
    â€œI’m a businessman. That’s why I can’t look at our house in Morristown without thinking of the equity you’re throwing away every day you don’t get that lawn mowed!”
    â€œAnd I can’t look at you without thinking of the love you throw away—”
    â€œJesus fuck. Shut up! I’m sorry your husband died, but leave me out of it!”
    â€œHe was your father.”
    He pauses. He opens his mouth and closes it. He turns, stomps out of the room, and closes the door behind him.
    â€œLeave me out of it, too,” she calls to him through the door.
    She sniffles, listening to the