Nicotine by Nell Zink Read Free Book Online Page A

nicknamed (by Matt and Patrick) “the Last Resort.” Norm’s terminally ill clients were able to stay there in comfort, convenient to hospitals and air transport, while authentic shamans from the interior treated them using traditional rituals and herbal compounds.
    â€œNorm sold the clinic ten years ago. We pay rent to the new owner. We needed money for taxes. So much interest and penalties. You know the IRS. You can run, but you can’t hide! Unless you’re a criminal. Then it’s easy.”
    Instead of laughing at the joke, Penny says, “Oh. I thought I might inherit something.”
    â€œOur money is tied up,” Amalia says. “But you can take anything of Norm’s that you need.”
    â€œWhat do you mean? His orthotics? His didgeridoo? He didn’t have a lot of stuff I can use.”
    â€œNo, only real estate,” Amalia admits.
    â€œWhat real estate?”
    â€œOh, different real estate. You know.”
    Penny thinks of the summer place in the Palisades and hopes there are no plans to sell it. She hopes it stays in the family forever.
    She isn’t worried about money. She just wants a job and a place to stay so she doesn’t end up worrying about money.
    She doesn’t feel guilty for thinking about money. It’s the foundation of material existence, at least until the revolution comes andsweeps it away. Until then, we need to find our place in the money ecosystem, our niche in the money chain. You can’t understand the modern world if you can’t imagine selling what you love best. You’re under no obligation to take part, but you have to understand it. That’s what Norm taught her. It’s why she majored in business.
    THE MEMORIAL SERVICE TAKES PLACE thirteen days later, on a Saturday in May at the summer place, commencing at 7:00 P.M. —a potluck and drum circle.
    Matt brings Patrick, who is tired out after a twenty-two-hour flight to JFK and a night of drinking in Manhattan with an old girlfriend. He picks him up at Newark Penn Station. They listen to traffic and weather on the radio, and Patrick dozes off.
    They are among the first to arrive. Matt parks on top of the Palisades, in a field on the other side of the road, near the mailbox. They walk a quarter mile down to the house on hairpin turns.
    The gravel driveway is narrow and not well maintained. When other mourners drive past, Matt and Patrick hold still with their bodies pressed against the basalt.
    There is a breeze on the ridge, but down in the woods the hot, still air lets mosquitoes hover. The two men twitch at odd moments, reaching down to slap arms, legs, and their own faces as they talk.
    Patrick asks Matt how Amalia is holding up.
    â€œLike you’d expect,” he says. “Doing fine.”
    â€œAnd Penny?”
    â€œPoor kid’s a mess. She spent a month obsessing over Dad. I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. He looked like a zombie.”
    â€œWell, he was dying.”
    â€œHe wanted to be alone. You know how a cat will just creep away and die by itself? You were right not to come. I’m sorry now I bothered him.”
    Patrick wonders whether Matt is looking for a hug. It seems unlikely. He continues shuffling along next to his brother, hands in his jeans pockets.
    He is slightly shorter, lithe and weedy, more graceful in the way he moves, and all in all even handsomer, in a way that’s hard to put your finger on immediately; he looks kind. His eyes look concerned and sensitive. He can get any girl he wants, a power he exploits to make desirable women pursue him for five or ten years at a time. At age forty-four, a professional art photographer on a tropical island, he has slept with only nine women, and he has never been alone. His career likewise has never hit a snag. Patrick is all sweetness and decency. But not sweet and decent enough to hug Matt.
    â€œI miss Dad,” Matt says. “I really do.”
    Patrick turns