Nicotine by Nell Zink Read Free Book Online

modern building. There are many tall buildings like it on every side, most built in the nineteen-fifties. The street outside slopes to the black river. Pale green trees are visible in the park. The mosaic in the long, narrow lobby shows abstract fish and seashells suspended in blue waves.
    The building is rent-controlled, with a very stable population. The apartment—Norm’s old bachelor pad—has been the family’s Manhattan pied-à-terre for many years. It even housed Amalia during her college years.
    The doorman, not an immigrant but a local man whose father and grandfather were doormen at the same address, wears a too-large suit with a matching cap, like a limo driver. Penny says hello and picks up her mail. She has not been home since Norm’s first weekend in the hospice. She drops the thick bundle of junk mail and bills into her tote and steps into the elevator with an elderly woman.
    On the third floor, as her neighbor is leaving the elevator, Penny tells her that her father has died.
    â€œI knew him only in passing, but my condolences,” the woman says. “I’m sure he was a dear soul.”
    Penny laughs awkwardly and says, “Yes.”
    â€œNever stop smiling,” the neighbor advises her. “Laughter is the best medicine.”
    The apartment is a small one-bedroom with a balcony off thekitchen where Penny keeps her bicycle. The mahogany-stained bedroom suite remains from Norm’s days as a grad student at Columbia: a low desk and dresser, a high wardrobe, and a twin bed with a tall headboard upholstered in brown vinyl with gold buttons. The kitchen table and chairs are chrome, vinyl, and yellow Formica. A framed Ph.D. degree in psychology hangs on the wall. The fridge whirs softly in harvest gold. The cabinets are avocado.
    She sits down at the table to sort the mail. One envelope lacks a stamp. Inside it is a letter from the landlord, instructing her to vacate the apartment by the end of the following month due to the termination of the lease of Mr. Norman Baker, occasioned by his death the day before .
    She calls Amalia.
    â€œI can’t believe it!” she cries into the phone. “How in the world did they know?”
    â€œOh my god,” Amalia says. “I told no one. I was too grieving. But Facebook maybe? I updated my status to single. Maybe I am friends with somebody in your building?”
    A brief silence, then Penny says, “They would have found out anyway because I told the neighbor. But you’re not single. You’re widowed! People are going to think you broke up with him because he was too old for you or something. You have to call and tell people he’s dead. Nobody’s going to notice an announcement on Facebook. It’s going to get crowded out by other stuff.”
    â€œHe was too old for me, nena . He died of old age. I’m forty-three, maybe younger. He was so old he didn’t even have Facebook. How else can I tell people he’s gone? I have to invite them to the funeral. I can’t call them all. Oh my god, that would take forever.”
    The two women stop conversing and tap their phones until Amalia’s Facebook page appears.
    â€œOh, so many consoling words,” Amalia says. “People are very sympathetic.”
    â€œYes, they love you,” Penny says.
    They scroll for a moment in silence.
    Seeing condolence messages from coworkers, Amalia remarks to Penny that she hopes to retire young so she doesn’t end up like Norm. “He worked until he fell down dead. I want to retire at fifty, fifty-five, tops. Maybe I won’t live so long. I never saw old Kogi people.”
    â€œHow would that work moneywise?” Penny asks. The question feels heartless, even to her, but she feels no connection between her heart and her mouth. “Do you plan to sell the house, or the clinic?”
    The clinic is a sprawling international-style bungalow in an upscale residential section of Manaus,