Frog

20. Frog Fragments

How to start? Have a drink. How to start. Paper in and think. How-to start. Sit and type. Coffee and write. Kid and man. Fart and art. When I was a teen. Breakfast, dinner and dread. What’s he mean? What’s it seem? Done before. Start again.

Takes his daughter to school, goes home. Wife’s on the phone. “Yes, no, OK, maybe,” hangs up. “Oh, it’s you. I’m afraid I have bad news for you. I’m afraid I have sad news for you. I’m afraid I have mad dad news for you. Are you ready? Get set.” How about one about growing sick and old? Over again.

Takes his daughter home, goes to school. Student’s waiting at his office. “You said you’d be here by three-fifteen — that’s what the sign on your door says too — but I’ve never in my three years here known a teacher to keep his posted office hours.” “Not true. I was late for a good reason. Are you ready? Well get set. My daughter took seriously ill. Do you feel better now? We had to rush her to the doctor — I did. My wife’s also seriously ill. Besides that, my mother broke her hip yesterday and had to have a pin put in it today and my other daughter’s recovering from chicken pox. Add all that up plus my continuing inability to adjust to my brother’s drowning close to thirty years ago and my sister’s slow disease and death more than twenty years ago and taking care of my invalided dad the last six years of his life and probably also the loss of my one and only dog when I was around eight and the only tricycle or bike I ever owned stolen from in front of the candy store when I was inside buying a vanilla cone and what you got is hard knocks.” Over.

At home, daughters in school, in the basement typing, wife in their bedroom writing, hears a sound behind him, jumps, yells “Whoosh,” just his wife halfway downstairs barefoot, smile, untied bathrobe, towel over her shoulder, hair hung loose and in her hand shampoo, “I was about to shower when I thought…” “Why not, though you scared the hell out of me, as I was deep into doing a new scene, but I can always go back to it, and I usually gain more than I lose when I do — material, distance, be right there,” pushes the chair back, hands on the chair arms to stand up, she says “You don’t have to get up if you don’t have to. Just pull your pants down and we can do it in the chair, and it’s the right time of the month so though I might need some fiddling around with I don’t have to prepare.”

At home, daughter’s in school, wife away for the weekend with her folks, baby with her, cats in the attic, dog’s in the manger, horses in the stalls, pigs building brick shithouses, cows coming home. “Mumma, Dooda, plead bleed to me, you neber read to me, or I want you with me to clay.” Continues to read a book (she), dental journal (he). Goes to his room, lies on his bed, stares at the side wall of the brownstone right outside. City noises: garbage truck, street being dug up, when suddenly a plane, gets louder, seems lower than just overhead, runs to the window, sees it crashing through all the backyards before nosediving into their living room.

Home, he is, everybody’s left, school, work, cats are dead, no dog, farm animals, he’s trying to work, phone rings, rushes upstairs. “Yes,” he says. Picks up the receiver. “Yes,” says into it. “‘Ello, George?” man says. “No George here I’m afraid.” “You afraid? What for?” “Done that one. Say something else.” “George, George, that you there?” “Yes, George, everything’s George, I’m alone at home, for the next three hours completely free, so I can do what I want. But remember that expression from about twenty years back? Thirty perhaps? Are you as old as you sound, meaning my age? Everything’s George, meaning all’s OK.” “What’re you, coming apart, man?” “What number did you say you want? George did you want did you say?” New page.

Basement typing. Cats somewhere around the house biting. Children, wife, have none. Little fat dog jumped over the big bovine’s balls. Fiddle moon man leaped over the lilywhite dam. What’s that, dream? You believe in free thinking or free-associating or free living or love? Answer one or column four. Waiter, I’d like a Peking duck made in Beijing. Or the Beijing muck made sing-a-ling-ching. What’re yuh, green? But what a news day. Old evil eyes flies, Polish star dies, tangled tykes in mangled bikes, tanks over tents — rhythm and rhyme over reason — all that fall, break. Can you get all that in less than twelve hours’ notice? Picks up the typewriter and drops it. Read the other day that typewriter repairmen can fix anything but the carnage. The carriage. Once the carnage breaks, throw the machine away. Goes upstairs, stops halfway and stares at the wall.

At school, class comes in. They’re quiet, some smile, few shuffle their papers on the long oblong table. “Well, how are you all today?” ‘Just fine thanks, I guess,” young man says. “Don’t guess, say straight out.” “OK, just fine thanks… I guess.” Several laugh. “That’s the spirit. Well, now down to business, shall we say?” “Sure, what’s the first order?” young woman says. “Yes. Order. Give me three in column A and the rest of you get F’s.” All laugh. Lifts the table at his end. “Hey, my books, Doctor,” someone says. “Call me Howard, or Mr. Tetch, if you can’t call me by my first name. Or even Teach, or Mr. Teach, but I’ve told you — in my family my father was the doctor, though a dentist. ‘Open, open wide, wider, it won’t hurt but for an hour.’ I won’t even tell you how he took care of my teeth. Now that’s a story. No x-rays or novocaine, but he scrub-brushed his hands before — they always smelled of soap — and lots of pain.” Lifts it higher till it stands on its end. Everything on it slides off. “What the fuck he think he’s doing?” someone says. “What’s this, we’re supposed to write an exercise about it?” someone says. “One on professorial craziness,” someone says. “Pedagogical patheticness,” someone says. “Doctorial, if that’s what the word is, dottiness,” someone says. “No, just a man coming apart, or do one on teeth. Bring it in next week, three to five pages, class dismissed,” and he sits, hands over his face till he thinks they’ve all left, says to himself out loud “If this is what’s called having a fit, I’m having it.” “I’ll stay with you,” only student who stayed says, prettiest he’s ever had in a class, Lucy, Lisa, Lois, something, long blond this, strong lean that, tall, small, broad, flat. Another he’s stared at in the hallway from behind till she disappeared, then looked around to see if anyone caught him. “I’m certain you were only trying to tell us something by what you did, like our lack of basic writing skills and interest in serious culture, and our poor critical sense, and I love your work.” “Always?” “Hard to say, since I don’t know if it’ll always be as good.” “Heck with my work. I meant will you stay with me always, at least the way you and your contemporaries might understand that word.” “Line-byline edit me if you like, sir, but isn’t that what I just said?” “I don’t know. I can’t think. I’ve never been good at following conversations. People speak, I’m dreaming or wondering about something else. It even happens at movies — what’s being said on the screen — so imagine me in lecture halls. You can see now what I meant when I said in class I was such a lousy student. And to top it off, my folks argued bitterly when I was a boy, for years I thought they were going to divorce and all the kids would be split up, a brother died when he’d been my best pal for more than twenty years, my sister went through hell dying before she managed to pull it off while I was sitting there right by her bed, and my wife’s recently flown and I always have to be at home by the phone for my kids. Please,” his arms and lips out to kiss, but she shakes her head, “Nothing like an old fool,” she says and leaves the room. ‘That’s what my mother also used to say. Not about me, of course, since when she said it I was a kid, and her exact words were ‘No fool like an old fool,’ but OK. Though old fools can be good. Ones I’m thinking of know what to do, don’t ask for much, are thankful for whatever you give, have a little income, sense of humor, and nobody appreciates a young mind and body better, I’ll tell ya. But I can see it your way too.”

On the street, walking the dog. Has no dog but imagines he’s one. Has one. Woman passes. “Nice dog you have there,” he says. “Nice dog you have too. What’s its name?” “Airedale,” he says. “But he’s no Airedale.” “I always wanted one, my father would never let me have one, now that I’m old enough and on my own to have one I have no money to buy one, so decided to call him that. Actually, I did have an Airedale once. Part. Do you have time to listen? We lost him when I was a boy. It’s a sad bad mad dad story. Actually, he lost him. Wanted to get rid of him so gave him to a friend to get rid of but told us he’d run away. The dog did. I shared him with my two brothers and sister, you see, but he was really me. Mine. Since I took care of him for the most part. The hind part. What’s your daddy’s name?” “My doggy’s? Scott.” “For Scottie? But he’s no Scottie. Course he is. Only kissing. Kidding. Excuse me.” Puts his lips and arms out. “You wouldn’t want to, would you?” “Won’t your doggy run away?” she says. “Right. So what happens? Happened? Just that for a moment he looked big for a Scottie, that’s what I meant when I said he wasn’t one. I have a Scottie too, so to speak. A nephew named one. Scott. He’s not a Scot though. He’s a Litvak, or would be one if he’d been born where all his great-grandparents were born, or is that the other thing?” “What other thing?” “Litvaks always go with something else. One steals horses, the other owns them. That’s what my dad used to say and sometimes used to say his dad used to say it. People who have heard it would know what I mean and which one does what and possibly what’s the other’s name. I was also never very good in school at explaining what I mean. What’s your name?” “Scott.” “Come on.” “Sarah.” “With two t’s or one?” “Sarah. Two t’s.” “I did have a dog. We all shared my dad. But you can’t say — I know you’re not saying — that losing a dog at the time you lose it would have to take second place to losing a dad, that is, if you’re a kid. But I had to do the dirty work the last six years with him. Not had to. Did. Holding his prick inside the urinal for his piss, cleaning up his shit, taking his anger because he hated being so helpless and sick. Those things can scare. Scar. But you’re going. Gone. I’ve probably nothing more to say anyway and if you do I’m sure it’s not to me. Story of my life? And how could we, since you’re already down the street. Say, nice dog you have there, lady. What’s its breed? Is it on special formula diet? Has it been spayed or fixed? Does it get enough exercise a day and at least fifteen minutes of it free run? Is there a Scottie newsletter as there is for Airedales? Quite the society we live in, right? More news than noses. Everything you never wanted and then some and not only what money can’t buy. And I didn’t even get to ask its name. His.”

He’s walking his cat. Cat walks beside him. He stops, cat does. His wife used to do that when they had four cats. Before she was his wife. When she could still walk like that. Long walks with the four cats, all originally hers. They’d take them to Maine for the summer in two pet carriers, mother and son in one, sisters of these triplets in the other. They’d meow the whole way if a window was open or the side vents were opened wide or vent blower was on high or when a big truck or bus passed. Then they’d howl. “Can’t you shut them up?” he’d periodically say. “It’s disturbing my driving.” And under his breath, sometimes she heard or some of it and would say “What?” or “Speak up,” he’d say “Gas them, for Christsakes,” or “If it was up to me I’d throw the dumb assholes out the window.” They had to stop every two hours or so so the cats could use the litter box. Siamese. She walked them to the beach and along it and back. Up there, shore. They walked single file. Wife first, before she was his wife, when she was able to walk like that. Son second, sisters after him, mother last. He’d watch them go and come back from his workroom window. Sometimes when she saw him she held up the mother cat and waved her paw at him. He waved back once, another time stood up and made a sweeping bow to the cat, but usually he just sat there looking at them, no expression change. He wonders what she thought of that then. If any of the cats lagged behind, she’d whistle and they’d run, mother not so fast, and if the son stopped short and quickly turned around in a crouch to hiss at the others, one of the sisters — one who wasn’t going blind and was always second in line — would race straight toward him and at the last instant leap over him, sending him scurrying. She also walked to the top of their road, they’d follow, single file, and sometimes along the town road a short while. When a car came they dashed into the bushes, only came out when she called them by name and they’d resume walking, same single file. Then she walked three of them, when the son died. Two, when the mother died. But much slower now, not so far, not down to the water, up to the road, but just around the grounds. Sometimes she fell or couldn’t go any farther or was too tired to and she’d call him and he’d run out and help her back to the house, cats behind or beside them, no particular order. A few times he heard her but didn’t want to lose what he was working on so didn’t respond. She later said she fell before, couldn’t get up for a while, or couldn’t move another inch — her legs suddenly stiffened or collapsed on her or there were these terrific spasms — and called him, several times, she supposed he didn’t hear because he was in the toilet or showering or out back or down by the water, managed to get herself up, but it was a struggle, and back to the house, which took all the energy she had left and so much time. He’d say he was at one of those places she mentioned, or would make up another one — the heat, so without even knowing it he fell asleep at his desk, or stomach cramps, he heard her but was flat on his back in bed and couldn’t for the life of him get up or even yell — and was sorry he hadn’t been there to help. There’s only one cat now. One walking beside him. She’s blind, walks into things a lot, they step on her tail or push the chair back on it more often than they used to, so maybe her hearing’s also bad, uses its whiskers and bumping head to tell where it is and what’s in front of it when it wants to get around. His wife doesn’t walk with it much anymore and when she does it’s with two canes or a walker. ‘The lame leading the blind,” she’s said, “or the crippled or impotent or useless or whatever you want to call it. The washout.” But she’s glad he walks with the cat, since it’s getting some exercise and fresh air and she doesn’t like it outside unless someone’s with her. There are coyotes, bears, hawks.

He walks his horse. Once rode a horse. Or the horse rode him. In summer camp. His folks gave the camp extra money to teach him to ride. It’s what he’d wanted to do for years. Saw himself as a future Canadian Mountie or a cowboy shooting a rifle in the air while leading the last great cattle drives, but both where he ends up marrying a beautiful pinchwaisted lady who knows how to ride. Horse was big but he wasn’t afraid to get on it. When he was told to mount, he said to the riding instructor, a young wily-looking guy, tight Levis, no shirt, tatoos, huge arm muscles, bandanna around his neck, no fat, “Left side you get on it, right? Or right side, maybe I forgot.” He either had it right or he didn’t, right now he couldn’t say which side the rider’s supposed to get on or why, but he needed no assistance. Foot in the stirrup, grabbed the part that sticks out of the Western saddle, hoisted himself on. It was so high up. Why’d it seem so high? Or why didn’t he think it’d be so high? Already knew the horse was big, and he was a little guy. He supposes, for some reason, he saw himself sitting at the horse’s eye level — and maybe when its head was bent over a little — rather than his own. It was scary up there but he didn’t show it. “Try not to fall,” the instructor said. “You can break your neck and be paralyzed for life. It’s happened but was never my fault. If you do fall, try sliding down the horse’s side but away from the hooves, as one kick from that mother and he can squash your head for good. That’s what happened with a few of my people learning too. I didn’t feel too bad because I told them not to and they thought they knew more than me, so they got what they deserved.” Now he didn’t want to ride. Afraid of the horse and being up so high and didn’t trust this guy. But the money was paid, couldn’t be returned, his father would give his mother hell over it, since he felt they were paying too much for this camp as it was, and word would get back to his bunk he’s a sissy, so he stayed. Was also afraid to get off and be hit by a hoof and this guy seemed so tough and mean he didn’t want to ask him how to. “Giddyup,” the instructor said. “What?” “Best way to learn is to start galloping right away, I say. Same like tossing you into a pool. That’s what I’d do if I was teaching you how to swim. Hold your head down under water, even, so you know what it is to hold your breath. You learn riding instincts right away, how to hold yourself in the saddle, use the reins right so the horse knows you’re not scared and the boss, so he tells the other horses in the stable — I’m not kidding you; they speak. You might get thrown but you’ll at least have that out of the way and if you don’t give your horse some fun like that he’s going to get angry at you. But if you want—” “I do, thank you.” “Sounds pretty chickenshit to me, but OK, we’ll go at a walking pace first. I’ll follow you. Give him a couple of heel kicks to get him started.” Howard kicked it gently. “Harder, harder, what do you think it’s got horse hide for? — like this,” and kicked the horse’s rear. Horse sort of snorted and grunted and then bolted off, galloping or cantering. Just going very fast. He pulled the reins and horse went faster. Yelled “Grab him, call him, I can’t stop him.” Horse went off the path, down between some trees, branch slapping Howard’s face, up onto another path, instructor behind him somewhere yelling “Pull the fucking reins, you stupid shit; the straps — pull them with all your might and then hold on tight.” “Did.” “Hard.” Pulled them very hard and horse stopped, stood almost straight up, his front legs sort of making a boxer’s jabbing motions at that bag they practice timing and maybe punching with, a punching bag, then came down hard on his front hoofs twice and Howard fell off, immediately scooting away on his hands and knees, but the horse was already some thirty feet away, eating grass. “You stupid idiot, you OK?” the instructor said from his horse right above him, slapping at some bugs on his chest. “Why’d you run off like that?” “Me? Why’d you swat my horse?” “What I swat?” “Swat, kick, like it was a football you were booting.” “What are you, fucking nuts? It was you. But go around lying like that to anyone and I’ll come take your dumb face and stick it in the freshest horseshit.” “All right; I kicked, you didn’t.” “You still saying I did?” and he threw one leg over the horse as if he was getting off. “No, I’m saying that’s what I did and you didn’t; kicked. But too hard — not the way you told me to — I mean.” “That’s because you don’t belong on a horse. You could’ve broken its leg, run him into a tree or rock and your pop would have paid plenty for it, enough for ten pansy campers at your camp for a month. I’m taking your horse in before you kill him. You get to the stable any way you find and tell them you don’t want lessons anymore, if I was you. I know I’m through teaching you.” “Truth is, I don’t want to ride anymore. Just not for me.” Instructor rode off pulling Howard’s horse. Look at those stupid muscles, he thought. I hope the mosquitoes kill him, no shirt. He sat in the grass, ripped out a blade and chewed on it, ripped out handfuls and yelled “Fucking pig. I’d like to tear your head off. I would. Give me a fucking chance. Give me a gun. I’d sneak up on you at night, even if you were sleeping like a baby in bed, and blow your fucking dumb head off.”

A whore rode him. A friend came over, waited till his mother was out of the kitchen, said “I had a great lay yesterday; best in my life. Biggest tits you ever saw; nipples as fat as your thumbs. Great body. Almost no bush. Nice lady too. Young; pretty good looks. Small nose and nice breath and so clean the whole place smelled of soap. When I was on top of her I got my nose in her armpit and not a whiff. She made it so nice it was like screwing your own girl friend. And she told me to bring my best friends. If I get her five guys, shell give me a lay free. Ten, and she’ll throw in the works, anything but up the ass. Make sure you tell her I said to call.” He phoned from the corner candy store, she said “Yeah, sweetheart, I know Fred; a funny guy,” and he should come by tonight seven sharp. Fred sat on the stoop outside. She wasn’t that young, sort of plump, plain looking, through her bathrobe she looked like she might have big breasts, told him to take off his clothes, but if he wants leave on the socks, and let her wash his dick, he stripped, put his penis over the bathroom sink while she sat on the toilet seat lid, he got hard in her hand while she washed him with soap and she said “Jesus, I don’t know how I’m going to stuff this thing in me, big as I am down there. I just feel a little tight today, but we’ll give it a try.” She patted him dry, led him into the bedroom, opened her bathrobe, let him feel her breasts—“You like them, huh? You younger guys go ape over big ones but to me they’re a pain in the ass”—took off her robe, got on the bed, said “You too, come here,” he sat on it, squeezed her her nipples, tried kissing her, she said “Come on, I don’t want to seem grouchy but I only got so much time, just stick it in,” she did, pulled him down almost flat on her, they went up and down awhile, she said “Hold it, pull out, will you? That thing of yours is killing me — it’s too farther in than feels good. Maybe I am a little tight like I said or you’re too big. How old are you? Usually I can take anyone your age — even dicks bigger and fatter than yours — for as long as it takes them to make it. Here, let’s try something different,” and slapped his behind, he said “What is it?” she said “That’s the signal to get off, sweetheart; haven’t you ever been laid before?” he got off her, she motioned with her hand for him to get on his back, he said “I’m sorry again but what are we doing?” she said “I’m getting on top of you, dummy, something I don’t do for everyone and for sure not for what I charged you,” got on top, put it in, leaned over him and began moving up and down, he tried moving with her and she said “You don’t have to; leave it all to me this time, OK?” sat straight up and went up and down on him, he closed his eyes, she said “You like it like this, right? I can see by your expression,” it felt so good he couldn’t speak, “Like ride-em-cowboy, right?” he kept his eyes shut, nodded, also didn’t want to look up at her because last time he did she had this ugly grin, maybe it was the light and shadows doing it, but which might take something out of it, felt himself coming, still had some time, saw himself as a boy on a horse bareback, nude with no pubic hair, lots of curly head hair waving behind him, riding in a field and then into the sky and the horse, with him sitting straight up on it, jumping right into the flaming sun, came, “Felt good for me too,” she said when she stopped bouncing on him. “Didn’t hurt and where I finally got slipperier. So, worth the switch all around, right? Now let’s get off and cleaned up.” Went to her once after that but she said that last time was special because she wasn’t feeling good but wanted him to get what he paid for. If he wants her on top again it’ll cost double because the guy usually holds in twice as long and sometimes goes dead limp on her and she’s doing all the work. For the next few years with whores he’d ask them to do it that way and they’d always ask for more and he’d think it too much or would never have enough. He’d argue, saying it usually took him half the time that way, but not one ever gave in.

He walks the car. Got the keys out of his brother’s dish on the boys’ room dresser. It was their dad’s car but mostly Alex who drove it. Afternoon, Saturday, he supposes, because at that age, sixteen or seventeen, he was always working after school weekdays till around six. Stick shift, he feels good behind the wheel and would like to start reading the book in his back pocket so people who see him will think it’s his car, starts it up, knows he’s not supposed to, his dad’s at his office downtown, Alex off somewhere so not likely to catch him and if he does but he sees him in time he’ll just say he’s sitting in the car, car’s parked down the street from their brownstone, so his mother and sister won’t see him from the front bedroom windows if they happen to look, hopes no neighbors or tenants of his parents will see him and if they do, don’t tell, releases the handbrake, knows how to do that all right — with his foot on the foot brake — shifts to first, feet now on what he thinks are the right pedals, starts raising both feet, car stalls. Let’s see: clutch for this foot, gas and brake for that one — makes sense — but if the pedal’s no longer being used, how long’s the foot supposed to stay on it and how quick should it move to the other pedal if it has to get there? Pulls up the handbrake, practices on the pedals a few times, opens the window, spits out of it as his father’s done a lot, though nothing much had collected in his mouth, releases the handbrake, starts it up, car jumps forward, stalls, forgot from before to put the stick into neutral. Does, starts it up, go reverse first so there’ll be plenty of room coming out, but how to shift to reverse? It’s a tricky movement, Alex said when he taught him how to park for about five minutes, where you have to go down from third but with a little detour, tries where he thinks reverse is, car stalls. Spits, starts, stalls, starts, stalls, gets it to creep in first, feet very light on the clutch and gas pedals, then in jerky back-and-forth movements, out into the street, quickly shifts to neutral and pulls up the handbrake. What he’ll do is drive around the block, and if he gets the hang of it, then a couple of times around, in first and maybe second and if nothing’s in front of him when he comes down this block, in third and park here and if the space is filled by then, in one of the other spots on this side but as close to this one as he can get so Alex won’t think the car’s been moved. Shifts to first, gases it, car won’t move, releases the handbrake, car stalls. Starts it up, shifts to first, honks from an oil truck a few feet up the street, it can’t get past the way his car’s sticking out, he doesn’t know if he should creep and jerk farther and pull up alongside one of the cars across the street, or go back. Turns the key to start it, buzz-saw-through-steel sound, pulls key out, won’t come, shifts to neutral, car stalls. Truck honks, starts the car, shifts to what he thinks is reverse, car stalls. Spits, starts, stalls. Maybe he should go around the block only in first and come into the spot frontways, seems to be enough room and if not then a larger one a few spots down, lock up, put the keys back in Alex’s dish and forget about doing anything like this till Alex is in the car with him teaching him to drive. If Alex notices the car’s been driven or moved, he’ll just say he was trying out parking but will never do it alone again. Truck honks, so do about five cars and a truck behind it, he gets out, “Something seems to have conked out in the car,” yells to the truckdriver, “maybe the battery; I’ll have to push it in,” tries steering it with his hand through the driver’s window while pushing the car back, it doesn’t budge, leans in and releases the handbrake, car starts inching back on its own, he tries stopping it by pulling on the window frame, then runs around the back to stop it, its back wheels bump against the curb, car’s now jutting out at a right angle to the street. Honks, beeps, air horn from the truck, scaring him, someone yells “Hey, move it or I’ll pick up the fucking thing myself and put it on the sidewalk,” gets in, starts it up, wonders if he should try reverse again to go over the curb enough so the trucks and cars can pass, or go forward and down the street and around the block. Maybe he should ask one of these drivers to help him park it, saying it’s a friend’s car he borrowed, he knows how to drive automatic shift but not manual. “You crazy dickhead!” Alex, running up to his window. “What the hell? Get out of there, turn the ignition off. Leave the key in. Just give them to me. What are you doing with them anyway? They mine? Where’re the brains you’re born with? Just move over.” Does, Alex gets in, truck horn, car beeps, “Hold your horses, why don’t you?” Alex yells out the window. “Don’t you see I’m taking care of it? — Ass schmucks. And you, you putz. Boy, if I told Dad would yours be in a sling.” Drives the car out, stops parallel to the next car, smoothly parks it in two moves.

In a car with Dora. Hers, she’s driving, they’re arguing. They argued on and off for their five years. The first few weeks were great, maybe a couple of months, love, when they walked they stopped to kiss on almost every block, after that, intermittently nice, now-and-then passion, but lots of fights, always reconciling. Lived with her for two years, wanted to marry her and have a child, she didn’t want to have another baby but he thought if she married him he’d eventually convince her to, she got pregnant, wanted an abortion, he didn’t want her to, reasoned with her, begged her, threatened to hole her up in their apartment for months, tether her to the bed when he went out, keep her tied up and gagged in a closet if he had to, releasing her only when it was too late for her to abort and too dangerous for her to induce a miscarriage. He wanted a child, he wanted their child — all this was taking place in the car on the Taconic Parkway to her parents’ home upstate — and he’d do anything for her if she had it and married him, or she didn’t have to marry him (when she gave him a look), just have it but continue living with him, or not even that, have it but also have her own apartment if she wants, one they have now or a smaller one, don’t ask where he’ll come up with the money for two flats but he’ll get it, he’ll work doubly hard, doing any kind of job, more bartending, waiting on tables when he wasn’t bartending, cleaning up the restaurant’s kitchen after closing for more pay, plus living like a slob to keep his own expenses down, so long as she’d let him see his kid whenever he wanted, or just weekends, month in the summer, during the week a little, he’d never leave the city while his kid was in it and if she moved away he’d follow her just to be near it though he’d never be a nuisance to her, he’d even babysit it while she went out with men, here or in any other city, while she even stayed out all night with them, that is if she was absolutely adamant about not marrying him or continuing to live with him or even seeing and sleeping with him after she had the baby. She said “Really, that’s nice of you, and all that might be a great deal for someone else, but it’s simply not the right time for me to have a baby.” “It’s never the right time for you with anything,” he said. “That could be true, and try to hold your voice down; you know it distracts my driving. Anyway, unlike you, I already have a child, so there’s no urgency for me to have this one, and now that she’s in school I can finally find some time for myself. I want to get a good-paying profession, not these pimply demeaning jobs all my life where I can’t save a dollar.” “You can have all the time you want if you have the baby. I’ll keep us just fine, in one place or two, for a couple of years. Then, go out, study, work, anything — I’ll help cover whatever education or babysitting you think you need. Or start studying while you’re still at home, taking breaks from baby work. Or stay with the baby for just a year after it’s born — half a year if that’s all you want. It’s not what I’d choose for it but I’ll spring for the day care too. I’ll borrow from my mother, even, or my brother — they’ll give for something I want or think as important as this. Or I’ll both work and take care of the kid whenever you need me to so you can study and work and get jobs and go out with men and do whatever you feel like. I’ll even keep the baby myself — I’d love to. Bring it up from day one if I have to — all alone; you can be anywhere you want. Visit it or be with it whenever you like too. Weekends, month in the summer; two months — I won’t need long stretches in the summer with it since I’ll have been with it the rest of the year.” “Stop talking crazy. My decision’s final. Abortion’s on Tuesday. I’m not putting if off for anything. I can’t put it off — it can only be done the first trimester and I’m coming to the end of mine.” “I want the baby. It’s mine as much as yours. Just because it’s in you doesn’t mean you own it. I love you and I’ll love it and I want our baby. Please,” crying, “please,” banging his lap, the car seat, she said “No tantrums, talk calmly, you’ll knock us off the road.” “Listen, I’ll be a good father—” “I know, I know, you’ve been wonderful to Gretchen. We both love you for it but I don’t personally love you enough to marry you now and I’d only have another baby if I were married and I’ll probably never marry you. We should in fact probably end this thing of ours for good, because it won’t work out. It’s not. We knew it almost from the start so why were we so stupid to carry it this far? It simply wasn’t the right time for it, no matter how much you hate that word, and with marriage and babies timing and right moves based on rational and right decisions are everything, and you got me two weeks after I left my husband.” ‘Two months.” “A month then. But on the rebound. Not the first man I slept with after him but first I got serious with. But now we’ve got to believe all that’s finished. That’s almost a must. Better you get your own place and move out and I’ll take care of myself.” “Please, I’ll change. Whatever you might think wrong with me and us — a total transformation. I know I’ve said that before, but being parents this time will do it.” “Oh shit, shut up about that already.” “But it will. Your attitude and feelings to one another — your mate, your wife, everything’s strengthened.” “Or weakened. Or they kill each other.” “Not us. And you’ll never see a father like me. You think all men will be fathers like Lewis was to Gretchen.” “Not true. I’ve met lots of wonderful ones, and he wasn’t that bad. Maybe I painted him unfairly; I was wrong if I did.” “Then I’ll be different. I’ll cook and clean up for us, I’ll change all its diapers, do everything — please don’t laugh, I’m not being silly; I’m giving examples. I’m saying I’ll do everything there is or you want me to or just make if fifty-fifty if that’s what you want, and not because you want it but because that’s fair. You deserve to finish school and get a job you like and which pays well and do what you want outside the home for a change. And I’ve the energy for it all, work outside and in the home and work on my own work—” “No and that’s final.” “Please reconsider.” “No and that’s final, the end, finished, we, the matter, talking about it, whatever we’re talking about, everything, done, finito.” “Then let me out. I don’t want to ride with you anymore. I don’t want to see your face anymore.” “Hey, if that’s how you feel, ditto, but I can’t let you out on the highway.” “You can. Just pull over and leave me on the shoulder. I’ll walk to the next town or to a gas station on the highway and get a hitch to a town from there. I can use the time to walk — to think, I mean. I need to think a lot about it all and walking to the town or gas station if they’re far enough will do it. And then I’ll take the bus back to the city and you can explain to your folks why I’m not with you when I started out with you and you’ll be glad to be rid of me, so let me out, now. Now. I want to get out,” and he opened his door, she said “Stop it, don’t be insane, close it, put your seat belt on, close the door, you stupid idiot, and lock it,” and he said “Then stop the car and let me out,” and she slowed down, he closed the door, she picked up speed, he opened the door, she slowed down and signaled right, he closed the door, she pulled over and stopped along the highway. He got out, was crying again, sat down on the embankment with his back to the highway, “Go, don’t worry about me, if that’s what you’re doing, which I’m sure you’re not. I’ve got good shoes on. It could even turn into an experience — it’s a nice day — I used to do a lot of this, walking, hitching, here, Europe, years ago, before I knew you, so just go,” and she said “Fine, you were a daredevil those carefree days, but at least let me drive you to a town with a bus station. The one you walk to might not have one,” but he waved her away, under his breath said “Eat shit, you fucking witch,” she said, his back always facing her, “You have enough money on you?” and he said yes, though he didn’t know, and she said “OK, then I’m going,” dropped his book beside him, draped his sweater over his shoulder and drove off. He sat awhile, heard a bird but didn’t feel like looking for it, saw an ant and smashed it with his fist, ripped grass out around him, tore some of it up and flung it around him shouting “Bitch, bitch, bitch, and I don’t care who the fuck hears me,” looked around, cars and trucks passing, all the drivers looking at him, got up, wondered which way to go — back? should he cross the highway? — he didn’t remember the last time he saw a sign for a town or an exit though that didn’t mean there hadn’t been one a minute or two back, he just hadn’t been looking, go forward, something tells him an exit’s coming up, so maybe he did see something and if he gets tired he’ll stick his thumb out. But then he should cross the highway, for if he does get a ride maybe it’ll be going all the way to the city. Crossed it, didn’t get the equivalent of two city blocks when a car honked behind him, recognized it as hers. She pulled over. “I was coming back to go around for you. Really, come with me, my parents will be disappointed. And maybe while we drive we can talk some more about it if you promise not to make any more demands.” “Then you haven’t changed your mind about the abortion?” “Please not again — promise not to — literally — or I’ll drive off and this time not come back nor be home whenever you get there, or anything.” “At least kiss me.” “I can’t now. It’s the last thing on my mind. Please get in so we can go. My mother worries.” He opened his door. “But you’ll promise before you get in?” “I’ll try not to talk about it.” “Not enough.” “I won’t talk, no demands.” He sat with her in the hospital, holding her hand while she was in bed waiting to be wheeled in, not saying anything, book opened on his lap but not reading it. If only she’d say “I’m making a mistake, let’s get out of here before it’s too late.” Then the nurse came in and said “You’re next,” and he said “Last chance to change your mind. I still want it very much and I’ll do everything in the world for you and the baby and you wouldn’t be, I’m sure of it, the first one to change her mind here like that.” “I’ll see you later, sweetheart. You’ll be here?” He drove her home after, she fell asleep against his shoulder as they were crossing the George Washington Bridge and he was about to point out the huge spotlit American flag spanning the two main supports on the New Jersey side.

Drives his daughter to school, parks, holds her backpack, walks her into class, does this all year. Last week of school he says “Want to go in on your own today?” She says no. Next day he asks the same. She says “I think so.” “Do if you want to, don’t if you don’t want to; it’s all up to you. I think you’re ready.” “Yes, I do.” “Good, because someday this is how I’ll leave you off every time. I’ll pull up, kiss you good-bye, open the door for you from the inside or if it’s raining, from the out, you’ll leave and wave to me and I’ll wave back and probably blow you a kiss and if you’re real nice to me you’ll blow me back one and then run into school. If it’s raining I’ll get you inside with an umbrella unless you’re dressed for it.” “OK, I’ll go by myself.” Comes around her side, opens the door, takes her backpack out, puts it on her shoulders, kisses her head, her hands, she says “Bye, Dada,” he says “Bye, my sweetheart,” she starts for school, up the steps, waves to him from the landing railing, looks sad, he says “What is it?” she says “I want you to come in with me.” Drives his daughter to school. “Bye, darling,” “Bye, Daddy.” Opens her door from the inside, she gets out, he hands her her backpack, kisses her cheek, says “Be careful of your fingers closing the door, or want me to do it?” she says “You always tell me that and I’m always careful,” shuts the door carefully, starts for the steps, turns to wave at him, he’s waiting for her to turn, smiles, waves, blows a kiss, leans out her window, “Have a great day, sweetheart, good-bye,” and she goes up the steps. Drives his daughter to school, glances at her, something’s different about her, looks at the road, glances back, missing or changed, “Your glasses, they’re not on you. Damn, what the hell, can’t you remember any bloody thing?” she says “They’re not bloody,” “I know they’re not bloody, I’m just saying, goddamnit,” makes a turn at the next street, backs up, goes back up the hill to their house, “Fucking stupid kid,” he mumbles low, looks at her, she’s about to cry, did she hear? why’d he do that again? now she’ll be sad for hours unless he apologizes, parks in front of the house, runs in, “What’s wrong?” his wife says, “Glasses,” “They’re on your face,” “Hers; where the hell are they? that fucking dimwit kid,” “On the dining room table, but don’t make it awful for her, don’t scold her,” “I won’t; it’s what I feel like doing but I know what it does to her too,” runs out, she’s still sad he sees through her window, gives them to her, she puts them on, he drives down the hill, says “I’m sorry, very sorry, I was wrong, not you. Because what am I expecting from you? You’re only six and you already do more intelligent and helpful things than kids twice your age.” “No I don’t.” “You do, take it from me. I should have made sure you had your glasses just as I do your backpack and lunch and quarter for milk and so on.” “No, I should.” “Then both of us, but I was all wrong and am sorry. Forgive me?” “It was only a mistake,” looking straight ahead, never at him. “What, my yelling, mumbling those awful things under my breath with the stupid hope you’d hear them?” “I didn’t hear them. What did you say?” “Just stupid things. Your daddy’s an ass. But what did you mean a mistake?” “Leaving my glasses home. But everybody makes mistakes.” “That’s right. That’s why I’m saying I’m so sorry.” Pulls up in front of her school. “We’re late. Want me to write a note to Mrs. Barish saying why?” “No, it’s only a few minutes.” “I wouldn’t say I yelled at you or about the glasses, just that I lost track of time or something.” “You’d be lying.” “A little lie, what’s that? So she doesn’t have to know everything that goes on with us. And look at me, sweetheart.” “She says you don’t have to every time. I’ll get in trouble if you do,” and doesn’t look at him. “Please say you’re sorry then. I mean that you know I am and you forgive me.” “You always get so angry. You scare me when you do. I think it’s something I’ve done.” “You’re right. I’m sorry. You’re right.” Puts his hand out to turn her face to his so she’ll look at him and he can kiss her. She opens her door. He barely pecks the back of her head as she’s getting out. “Your backpack.” She comes back for it and he hands her it through her window. “And your glasses. I must’ve smudged them when I got them for you because I know I cleaned them this morning.” Takes them off her, wipes them with the front of his shirt, gives them back. She puts them on, blinks a few times through them as if testing them out, turns without looking at him and goes up the steps. “Sweetheart,” he yells out her window. She doesn’t come to the railing. He waits for about a minute. What he deserves, he thinks. What’s he doing to the poor kid?

Thought several times what he’d do if a policeman stopped his car when he was on his way to pick up his oldest daughter at school. He’d explain he was picking her up, he’d meet him at any spot he wanted right after he gets her but he didn’t want her waiting alone too long in front of her school. The policeman probably wouldn’t go for it, would think it another excuse, one he might not have heard but another one, would make him wait while he looked at his car registration and driver’s license and perhaps put both through to some central police checkup. What would he do then? He’d say “Listen, I’m sorry, but I really have to go, my daughter, I’m frightened for her, please, I’ve never asked a thing from an officer before, but this is too important,” and if the policeman said he couldn’t go, he’d say “Fine, I’ll wait it out then, but please don’t take too long,” and when the policeman looked back at his registration and license or was doing something else like that, he’d drive away, no doubt the policeman chasing after him, but speed to the school, through red lights if there were any and it was safe — he wouldn’t care by now, he’d be in about as much trouble as he could get into with the police — and after he picked up his daughter he’d take the consequences. Or he’d ask the policeman to call the school from his car if he could or have his precinct house call the school to have someone there bring his daughter to the school office where he’d pick her up. He’s told her what to do in a situation like this but he doesn’t know if she’d remember what he told her. She’s five — smart but only five — or maybe the policeman would let him off almost immediately, say he understands, admonish him briefly for driving over the speed limit or whatever offense he might have made to have the policeman go after him. He’s thought about this a lot when he’s driven from his job to her school to pick her up. He’s driving from his job to her school to pick her up, not thinking about what he’d do if a police car stopped him, when he sees through the rear view mirror lights flashing behind him. Police car, wants him to pull over. Or maybe it wants to get past, and he pulls into the right lane and slows down, but the police car stays behind him, lights flashing. What was he going, five, maybe eight miles over the limit at the most? He’ll already be five minutes late picking up his daugher. Should he speed up? What did he decide to do if this happened? Oh, dope, dope. He’s told himself he doesn’t know how often not to speed along this stretch, and not just when he’s picking her up but anytime he’s on it. It’s a speed trap — he’s seen police cars hiding in side lanes, cars being ticketed on the road, sometimes two and three at a time. Pulls over, gets out of the car as the policeman’s getting out of his. “Why didn’t you stop sooner?” the policeman says, approaching him. “I’m sorry, officer, I didn’t see you.” “You saw me enough to pull into the slow lane.” “When I finally saw you I thought you wanted to get past me, since I didn’t think it was me you were after. If I was doing anything over the speed limit, it was three, maybe five—” “I clocked you at twelve over it.” “Twelve? I don’t see how, but I’ll take your word. I’m sure your speedometer’s in much better shape than mine.” “My radar.” “Your radar. But I’m very sorry. I know no excuse makes it right, but I was in a hurry to get my daughter at school. Number 122, on Endicott, in Mt. Bradley.” “What’s she, sick?” “No, I’m just picking her up. Maybe I should have said she was sick, but I’m not like that, and they get out at 2:45 on the dot. I don’t like her standing there waiting for me.” “Then you shouldn’t have been speeding.” Sticks his hand out. “Driver’s license and car registration please.” “I can’t give them now. I mean I’ll give them, of course, and you check them, but please let me get back in my car to pick her up. I’ll do it and drive right back here with her — it shouldn’t take ten minutes. Because you see, sometimes there have been strange guys hanging around the playground there — the schoolyard after school so maybe in front of the school too. There have been complaints — a couple of the girls touched — and you know, in this city or around, every now and then a kid gets picked up by a stranger and is never seen again. And I consciously made an effort not to speed, but I suppose I was so eager to get there so she wouldn’t wait that I went over the limit. And I’m already,” looking at his watch, “almost five minutes late.” “No can do. And five minutes or so will be all right. Lots of kids coming out, school buses taking their time, lots of parents picking up their kids.” “But it takes a minimum of five minutes from here. So that’ll make me ten minutes late at least if I even leave right now. And around ten minutes after she’s let out, the place is almost cleared.” “I’m sure your little girl knows what to do. She goes to the office. You must have told her.” “I have, but she’s in kindergarten, is only five. A young five. She’s the second youngest in her class. I mean she’s smart but she forgets my instructions.” “Kids often do. Your license and registration? This shouldn’t take long if you don’t force me to send a check through on you and your car.” “Don’t send a check through. I teach at Wilma. I live on Bradley. When I get a ticket, and I can’t remember the last time I did, I send a check for it the same day. All my papers are in order. There’s nothing wrong with my life. Be a nice guy, really. Whatever fine I’m supposed to pay for speeding, I’ll pay. I’ll meet you — at your police station, my house, this same spot — in ten minutes: five to get there, five to get back — or any place and at any time you want.” Hand’s still out, fingers motioning for his papers. “Here,” and he gets out the license and registration, car insurance form, gives them to him, “but please let me leave now. By the time you go through these, check me through your precinct, write up a ticket and so forth, I’ll be back.” “I can’t let you go without your license and registration, and I don’t need this,” giving him back the insurance form. “Look, it’s already been eight minutes — more. Theoretically — on paper, let’s say — she’s been there thirteen minutes — maybe fifteen to sixteen minutes, if there’s traffic at the Kealy Avenue bridge and an unusually long light from here to her school — and how do I know my watch is right? I could be slow.” Policeman looks at his watch. “I’ve got 2:43.” “That’s about what I have. But by that time — fifteen minutes after her school breaks — all the buses have gone, the principal and teachers have gone back in or got in their cars and are driving home.” “I’m sure her principal or teacher, seeing her out there waiting, will take her back to the office or your daughter’s homeroom.” “The principal doesn’t come out every day — maybe every other or every third day — and her teacher just brings the class to the exit door, goes back to her room a few minutes later and then out the back way to the staff parking lot to get her car to go home. Nobody will be there. Strangers might. If I’m lucky a mother or two in the schoolyard with their kids. But they won’t be watching my daughter, and if they happen to and see a man they’ll think he was her father. Or maybe one of the fourth or fifth graders will be there. They sometimes hang around outside because nobody picks them up and they can walk home when they want and if they normally take the bus, today they might decide to stay. Some of those kids can be tough. At least too tough for my daughter, who’s shy, easily cowed and afraid. Some of them don’t live in the neighborhood so think they can get away doing anything in it once school’s over.” “Then those kids wouldn’t walk home. It’d be too far, as you have to live a minimum of a mile from school to take the bus. As for the others you mentioned”—looking at the driver’s license and then staring at him—“chances are slim they’d hang around, and who’s to say they might not be nice kids. You’ve no glasses in the photo.” “I didn’t need them when I got the license.” “But you wear them when you drive, so you should have them on in the photo and noted on the license that you use them when driving. The photo and what you look like driving have to match. Wait here. Let me put in a quick check on you,” and heads back to his car. “For what,” following him, “my no-glasses? I’ll get a new license. But everything else is OK. The car’s mine. The insurance is paid up. We haven’t had a ticket in years. Please,” through the car window now, “can’t you see the importance I’m talking of? Call my wife then. Not my wife — my kid’s school. I don’t have the phone number but it’s P.S. 122 on Endicott Street, and my daughter’s Olivia.” “I can’t reach anything on this but my base unit and other patrol cars.” “Then have your unit call. I don’t know why I didn’t say this before. But immediately, because it’s getting late. Eighteen, nineteen minutes. To bring her to the school office and have her wait for me there.” “They don’t like me making arrangements like that for anyone, and she’ll be OK; I know it. I’ll put the check through, and if everything’s all right, give you a warning and let you go.” “But she’ll also be scared something’s happened to me. Or she might start walking home herself, if nobody comes out for her and I don’t come and she’s all alone for so long. I’ve told her not to but she could. It’s up a long hill. A car could stop and say ‘Give you a lift, kid?’ and she might fall for it. Adults can convince kids. Or the guy might stop at her school and say her mommy or daddy told him to pick her up — that he’s someone who works with me and my car got a flat or I’m very sick and her mommy wants him to take her to the hospital where I am — and she wouldn’t question that. What kid would? I’ve warned her but not gone into details so as not to frighten her. Or she could be dragged into the car. It happens all the time. You know that. Come on, don’t you have kids?” “Two, in first grade — twins, and my wife picks them up.” “But if she didn’t? If she was stopped by a cop—” “Then the teacher stays with them. And if it’s for too long, then they’d stick them with the after-school-program kids till one of us showed up. But nothing will happen. Like your kid, they know to go inside the school.” “Well, they’re at least a year older than mine, and there’s two of them, so they think better together. But one kid—” “Stay with me, will you? I don’t want you scooting away,” and calls in, says “Reardon, yes,” gives some lettered code, reads off the license plate and driver’s license numbers. Howard runs for his car, gets in, policeman yells “Hey, what the—,” drives off, policeman after him, siren on, red light up ahead, what the hell, too late now, goes through it, is doing seventy-five in a forty-five zone, he’ll explain all that later, policeman right behind him, his hat on now, another light at the bridge but this one cars in both forward lanes waiting for it to change and cars pulling off the bridge into the lanes next to his, policeman pulls up behind him, gets out, gun in his hand, points it at him, says “That’s enough, I’m taking you in. Get out and keep your hands up and spread.” Gets out, runs, doesn’t look back, the policeman won’t shoot him for trying to get his kid, across the bridge, up the hill, cuts through some houses’ yards, gets to school, she’s sitting against the wall in front of the school, looking at a book. “Suppose I ran for my car now, drove to her school, what would you do?” “Put a report in on you.” “Please tell them to phone her school.” “You’re making me take longer than I should, and I can’t hear both them and what you say. If you want to get away from here sooner, you’re ruining it for yourself.” Howard stands there, looks around him, the road. Cab’s passing, empty. Signals it, cab stops, he gets in, cop yells “Hey, don’t go,” he says to the cabby “Pretend you didn’t hear. I’m picking my kid up at school. I’ll give you fifty bucks up front and take all the blame for your driving away, saying I threatened your life if you wouldn’t drive. That I even pretended to have a gun,” and shows him the inside of his wallet with the bills in it. Cabby grabs for it; he pulls it back. “Go first, and you don’t want him seeing you take the money.” Cab goes, he drops the money on the front seat, policeman’s in his car now and following them. No red lights, tie-ups, cab’s there in less than five minutes, she’s standing out front, crying. He jumps out and hugs her. Looks at his watch. Twenty-three minutes late, theoretically. She probably went back into school. Though she could have started up the hill and even be home by now. Or a stranger might have picked her up in front of the school or while she was going up the hill or even a few steps from their house. She could be in some room, park, basement, abandoned building, being beaten, fondled, raped. She could be in a car, on the floor, driver’s free foot pressed down on her neck, going to Washington, Delaware, some other neighborhood here. She could be frightened out of her head, screaming, fighting back, dead. What if she isn’t at school when he gets there? Or walking up the hill, at home or at any of her friends’ homes? If she were at one, friend’s parent would have phoned his wife saying she was there and also probably told the school office she was going to be taken there. Her teacher would have told the office to call or called herself if she took her back to her homeroom. Or maybe a friend’s parent saw her waiting in front — friend of theirs or parent of one of her friends — and said she’d wait with her out front or in the office till her mother or father came. Or this parent could have driven her to her home or his daughter’s home without telling the office but got a flat on the way in an area without a nearby phone. “OK,” policeman says, handing him his license and registration, “everything checks out fine. I’m not going to ticket you this time but if I catch you driving as much as two miles over the limit I’ll stop and ticket you for that time and this. So you’ve been warned.” “I can go?” “Yeah, sure, go.” Runs to his car, drives the maximum speed limit to her school, she’s not outside. Runs inside. She’s sitting in front of the office, books on her lap. “Where were you? They called home for me and Mommy didn’t answer too.” “You came in here by yourself?” “Yes. That’s what I was to do; you and Mommy said.” “Boy, that’s a relief, knowing you knew. You’re so smart. Ooh, what a darling,” and kisses her hands, puts the books on the floor and picks her up. “I was so worried. I got held up in traffic. Long lines of cars. Couldn’t get past them and couldn’t call here because I couldn’t get to a phone. And where’d Mommy go if she didn’t answer the school calling? They call a lot?” “Lots. Five, ten times.” “Then she can’t be in the garden. At first, maybe, but then she would have heard the phone the second or third time they called and knew someone was trying to reach her badly, especially that we weren’t home yet, and come in just to be there for the next time they called. It worries me. It could be something with her or maybe Sister. Let’s get home quickly and see.”

He’s on the toilet. Lulu yells from the living room where they sleep “I smell gas. I mean the kitchen kind — no joke — you?” “Yeah, I smelled it too. It’s probably one of the oven’s pilot lights. I meant to light it but had to rush in here to crap.” He hears her go into the kitchen, light a match, an explosion. He’s quickly wiping himself when she rushes into the bathroom, nightgown and hair on fire. “Howard,” she yells and he gets up quickly and wipes himself with the toilet paper he had in his hand and she rushes into the bathroom, hair and nightgown on fire. “No, I understand you meant the stove’s gas. I smelled it too but had to come in here to crap. Probably just the oven or stove’s pilot light. Wait a second and I’ll do it.” Half minute later an explosion. He’s still shitting but jumps up, sits down a couple of seconds to finish, is wiping himself quickly with the paper he had bunched in his hand when she yells “Howard” and runs into the bathroom, hair and nightgown on fire. Explosion, “Howard!” he jumps up, sits down to finish shitting, “Wait,” he yells, jumps up, wipes himself quickly with the paper he already had in his hand when she runs in, nightgown and hair on fire. What to do? Fire in the hair seems out. Drops the paper into the toilet, rips at the nightgown till it’s off, stamps on the pieces on the floor till the fire’s out. “My hair’s still on fire.” “No it’s not.” Pats it, she screams, he feels around for fire, feels warm but not hot, pushes her head into the shower curtain and smothers her head with it till he’s sure the fire’s out. She’s screaming, her son from his bedroom’s screaming—“Stop it, Carl,” he yells; “it’s all right; your mommy’s going to be all right”—opens the shower curtain so he can see her, fire’s definitely out. “What should we do?” he says. Looking at him but not looking at him, mouth open wide trying to scream now it seems but nothing coming out. Wraps her head gently in a towel, more to soothe her that he knows what he’s doing than for any known purpose, says “Let’s go in the other room,” to get out of the smells of this one and change the scenery for her. Holds her elbow tip and the fingers of her other hand and starts to walk with her; she falls to the floor. Carl’s crying from the bathroom door now. “I said go to your room, for Christsakes; don’t watch this,” but Carl stays there. He tries to pick her up and she yells “No, it’s killing me where you touch.” “Well you can’t stay on the floor.” “Sit her on the potty,” Carl says. He flushes the toilet, flushes it several times thinking maybe lots of rushing water sounds will make her feel cooler, puts the seat cover down, “I’m going to sit you here for the time being,” pulls a towel off the shower curtain rod and spreads it over the seat cover. “Got to be careful of infections. Now, I’m going to help you up very gently, very very gently. You’re all right. You’re just a little burned and it was terrible what you went through but you’ll be all right.” She opens her eyes on him, still doesn’t seem to see him, smiles at Carl. He lifts her up by two places that don’t seem burned, some of the burned nightgown’s stuck to her and he’d like to pull it off but thinks some skin would come with it, her head hair stinks, underarm hair where it’s been burned, little blisters in some places already forming, she’s peeing now but he lets her do it on the floor though he moves his feet and tells Carl to step out of the way, sits her on the seat cover when she’s done, says “Does it hurt much?” “Everywhere.” “I don’t know what to do for burns,” bending down and wiping up the pee with the towel he used for her head. “Just sit here. Carl, try not to let her fall over. Your son will stay with you, Lu, but don’t fall because I doubt he’ll be able to stop you. I’ll call the police,” and in the kitchen shuts the oven off, dumps the towel in the trash, opens the window all the way, calls, woman gives him the number for an emergency ambulance, calls, man says “Want me to send one right over? Usually gas-oven-fire people don’t need us by the time we get there.” “Just a second — Lu, do we want the ambulance to come over or if we have to, should we go to the hospital in a cab?” No answer and he says “Hold it” and runs into the bathroom and repeats the question and she says “I want the hospital, I want the ambulance, what do you think!” Goes back and says “She says she wants to go to the hospital in an ambulance. She’s badly burned, acting irrationally. I think she could also go into shock.” “Just if we come we’ll have to take her to the hospital or charge you for it if you decide not to go. It’s just that sometimes all you need, if you need anything more than over-the-counter remedies by the time we get there, is your own doctor, which we don’t drive people to.” “He says are we sure we need to go to the hospital, Lu? He’s saying — ambulance man on the phone now is — we could go straight to a doctor by cab.” No answer. “Lulu? — Listen, she’s badly hurt, not responding. Only doctor we know of is some pediatrician’s name someone gave us in case her son gets sick. And I’m sure we have enough money around or can borrow it to cover the ambulance if that’s what it is, so come quick.” They come. He’s put a clean sheet around her and his heavy bathrobe over her, got a neighbor to take Carl to nursery school. She stays the night at the hospital. They cut most of her head hair off. He says he likes it, makes her look younger and athletic, that she has a pretty forehead that should have been exposed like this long ago. She says it’s the first time since she was four or five that she didn’t have long hair and bangs down to her eyes. “What was left of my pubic and underarm hair I shaved off myself since some of the aides here who do it look like your typical New York creeps. I was always too hairy. Now I’ll even be hairier when it grows in.” “Won’t bother me. Blacker and bushier the better.” They talk about how the accident could have happened. They had a couple over for dinner, smoked some drugs and drank a lot of wine, must have left the oven on, she says. Or one of them turned the oven on when the pilot was out but never used the oven — is that possible? He doesn’t see how. “We cooked a meatloaf, baked potatoes and heated the bread in the oven too, if I remember. Also a strudel. To warm.” “Then I don’t know how it happened,” she says. “For how could the oven go out if it had been turned on for the meatloaf and the other stuff? And how could the pilot light go out too, since if the oven was turned on and the pilot light was on at the time, the oven would have lit and stayed lit and so the gas wouldn’t have accumulated for the explosion. Was the window open?” “No. That was one of the first things I did after the accident — opened it. Even if it had been open, the wind from it wouldn’t have blown out the oven flame since the oven door was also closed.” “Maybe there’s a draft coming into the oven we don’t know of. It’s an ancient one, and this is New York — capital of the world — so nothing works.” “Then how?” he says. “How?” “How! Maybe before I went to bed I was so, let’s admit it, stoned, that instead of turning the oven off, since it might have already been off, I turned it on thinking I was turning it off, but while the oven pilot light was out. But I was high, not stoned, but stupid and tired as I also was I still could have made that mistake.” “That’s it with drugs and booze for me,” she says, “since if I hadn’t been so groggy from sleep and all that shit we took, I would have opened the window before I lit the match. I would have in fact shut the gas off and opened the oven door and the window before I lit it, since the way things were the oven was bound to explode.” When she gets home she won’t let him raise the blinds during the day or even open them more than a crack. She stays in bed or in an easy chair most of the day, not saying or doing much, mostly just thinking about things, she says, and wanting the room as quiet and dark as he can tolerate it. Whenever he wants to talk about what’s disturbing her she says she doesn’t want to go into it yet. “If you think it was all my fault what happened, tell me,” and she says best thing now is for him to just shut up. Week after she comes home she says she wants to go back to California. They came to New York so she could take an accelerated course in interior design and get a diploma from it. He says they spent almost all their money getting here, paying the first month’s rent and giving a month’s security with it, winter clothes for her and Carl, things they couldn’t borrow for the apartment, so they can’t leave yet. If she’s that depressed, which she obviously is — not reading or wanting to see anybody and barely eating and the silent treatment and no sex she’s been giving him — well, they can’t afford a regular psychiatrist but maybe there’s a free or very cheap one, subsidized by the city or some religious organization or something. He was subbing every day in local junior high schools and doing a little art school modeling at night, not making much but keeping them going. No, she wants to go back right away; tomorrow if they can. Impossible, he says. “And you sublet your house for six months.” “I’ll tell them it’s an emergency — there must be a legal loophole for situations like this — and get them out. Fuck them; they’re nice people but I’m sick and a mess and need my house back now and the warmth and good smells and companionship of California. I’ll camp out on my front yard if I have to; they’ll just have to understand.” She leaves the next day with Carl, will stay with friends till she gets her tenants out. They speak on the phone and write letters and she always says she’s eager to see him, Carl misses him so much he’s begun to wet his bed again, she doesn’t know why he can’t pick up and leave right now. Money, he says. He’s living cheap, stashing a lot of cash away, replenishing what they lost moving to New York, still looking for someone to take over their apartment lease so they can get back their security. He stays till the end of the school year. When he gets to California she says she’s been with someone the last three months, “a beautiful new dude in the area who, maybe because he never saw the originals, doesn’t mind my butch cut and hairy cunt”—“I don’t either; let me see it; because I told you I’d probably prefer it to the way it was”—“and who I thought I’d stop seeing when you got here but now know I can’t and that I’m more than likely more involved with this guy than I am with you. Though if you want, long as you’re here and came so far, we can ball one last time.” “Oh why did I waste my fucking time with you? But I’m horny as hell after four months,” so he stays the night, tells Carl the next morning he wishes it wasn’t this way and he’ll write and call him and send him things and hopes to see him in a few months, flies back to New York, moves in with his folks and stays for two years, helping his mother take care of his father, and driving cabs and posing nude and subbing in junior high schools.

His father comes home from the army. Years later his brother tells him it wasn’t the army but prison. But for now it’s the army. He’s sure there’s going to be a celebration tonight though nobody’s said there’d be. Maybe they’re keeping it from him because it’s a surprise one and they’re afraid he’ll tell it. He wakes up early, thinking his father might have got home late last night, goes to his parents’ room, nobody’s in it and bed’s made, in the kitchen his mother says he should be here by the time Howard comes home for lunch. He leaves the house, tells the boys he walks to school with and his teacher and best friends in class that his father’s coming home from the army today, can’t wait, he’s a major in the dental corps and was stationed in New Mexico, that’s way out west, and lies that he was supposed to go to France to fix soldiers’ teeth, but then the war started to end there and they pulled him off the troopship. He runs home for lunch, hears them arguing through the front door, arguing as he goes into the apartment, “Dad, Dad, it’s me, Howard,” he says from the foyer, they’re arguing in the kitchen. “Eat shit then,” his father says. “You should talk. And really, just wonderful words to wait so long for.” They see him. “Howard, my darling little child, how are you?” and he gets down in a crouch and Howard runs into his arms and is picked up and kissed. “Whew, you’ve become such a load.” His mother’s been crying, he sees from up there, looks angry, fists clenched. He says “How was the army?” and his father says “The army was fine, just what I needed for a year and a half, much as I missed you all. How have you been — a good boy?” “Did you ever get overseas?” “No, they kept me in Albuquerque the whole time. That’s in New Mexico, near the real Mexico but still America.” “I know; I saw it on the map. Mom showed me it around all the mountains. Were there Indians and wild horses there? That’s what some people said there might be. And how come you have no uniform on? Did you hang it up? You don’t have to wear it when you’re home?” “Wait, hold it,” putting him down. “One question at a time. No uniform because I’ve been discharged. That means I’m out of the army, home for good. And it was always on loan — not yours — so I had to give it back. If I didn’t I’d be arrested. And Indians and horses? Not so many Indians; plenty of horses.” “Did you bring me any army patches?” “Was I supposed to? Don’t worry, I know who to send to and I’ll try and get some.” “Did you ride the horses?” “Never had time. Work work work, teeth and more teeth, and they were short dentists. But lots of mountains, lots of deserts, lots of springs.” “What are they?” “Springs. Water coming out of them, gushing or bubbling. They were lucky to have so many for New Mexico needs all the water it can get. So does the whole West, I think.” “Did you bring me anything from there? An Indian bracelet like I wrote you?” “All that’s still in my luggage. When it gets here I’ll have lots of gifts for you and all my darling kids. Now eat your lunch. I think that’s what your mother put on the table.” He eats. They leave the kitchen, shut the door and start arguing in the foyer. She tells him to go back where he came from and stay there, for all she cares. His father says any place would be better than here. “But what I want to know is why you have to act like that?” “Like what?” “Like a filthy rotten conniving bitch.” “You pig, you swine…” If his father left would he want to go with him or stay with his mother? Depends who Alex would go with. But if his father went back to New Mexico and took him he could learn to ride all those horses, there’d be all that country, he could shoot guns and climb mountains and slide down parts of them, maybe make friends with an Indian his age. His father was only in the army there though, so he wouldn’t move back now that he’s discharged. But suppose his parents broke up and his father only moved to another part of the city and wanted him to come along, what would he do? He doesn’t know. Then suppose a judge, like in some movie he saw, said choose who you want to live with, your mother or your dad, what would he do? He couldn’t live without his mother. He’d hate not living with his father, and without Alex and Vera if they chose to go with his father, but he’d just have to settle for seeing them all as much as he could. Does that mean he loves his mother more than his father? He can’t answer. He doesn’t want to think about it. If he got that far as to say he knows who he loves better, he knows he’d be struck down dead by something or for his whole life after that seriously cursed.

In the park with his mother and sister. Nice day, very few people around. “Let’s go look at the ducks,” he says. “You go down, be careful, I’ll sit and watch you from here.” “No, I want to stay with you,” he says. “I do too,” Vera says. They continue walking. A vendor. “Can I have something?” he says. “May.” “May I have something too?” Vera says. She nods, opens her pocketbook. He gets an ice cream. Vera wants a popsicle and pretzel. “Don’t be a hog,” he says. She gets a big warm pretzel. “Sit down on the bench so you don’t sully your clothes while you’re eating.” They sit on either side of her and eat what they got. “Can I have some of yours?” Vera says. “May,” he says, “and no.” “It’d be nice if you both could share what you have, if only a single bite and lick.” He gives Vera a lick, she breaks off a small piece of pretzel and gives him it, they eat that and then continue to eat what they got. “You know, you’re both doing something that I can say doesn’t quite please me but which I’m sure you’re both unaware of, do you know what that can be?” “What?” he says. Vera says to her “I don’t know, what?” “I’m sure if you did know you’d correct it immediately. It’s OK though. You’ll learn on your own while you’re doing it — or not doing it. That’s a hint. Do you know what I mean now?” “No,” they say, “what?” “Or you’ll find out after from me. Go ahead, eat your snacks.” They eat. Little while later she says “You know, you’re both still doing something that displeases me, and now even a little more so than before, have you thought about what it could be?” “What?” he says. “What,” Vera says, “because I haven’t found out yet.” “You’ll find out sooner or later, I’m sure. Though I wish you could find out on your own and correct it on your own too.” “Is it something I said?” he says. “If it is, I’m sorry.” “No.” “Something I said?” Vera says. “Nothing either of you said though it does have something to do with words.” “Then I don’t know what it is,” Vera says and gets up and skips off a few feet, points at a squirrel circling the trunk of a tree till it’s in its branches, skips back and says “Did you see that? It was like a skip rope.” “How like a skip rope? A skip rope’s straight. You’re seeing things,” and eats his ice cream. “You both still don’t know what it is you’re doing wrong? Because you only have a little time left to correct it.” “No,” he says. “Is my shoelaces untied?” Looks. “No, they’re tied. Did I get ice cream on my clothes? I don’t see any. What did Vera do?” “Same thing you’re doing and which is still displeasing me.” “Can you give us one more hint?” “No more. If you can’t think of it, you can’t, so let’s forget about it for now.” “Can I go and skip like Vera?” “Of course, do what you wish, I’m not saying no. But finish your cone first if you’re about to skip or run.” He finishes the ice cream, chews on the cone, skips off, Vera skipping after him. They stop to watch a couple of squirrels jumping from the branch of one tree to another. His mother catches up with them. “Are you finished eating your cone?” “Finished. Where should I put the napkin?” “Hold it till we get to a trash can.” “I didn’t have a napkin,” Vera says. “I’m lucky, you’re not.” “Now that you both enjoyed your treats, want to know what you did that was so wrong and which made me practically ashamed of you?” No, he thinks. “What?” Vera says. “You didn’t offer any to the one person who didn’t have any.” He laughs. Vera looks at him and then laughs. “I’m serious, what’s so funny? If you get something, you offer the person who doesn’t have any some of it. If there are several people who don’t have it or anything like it and you’re the only person who does, you offer them all some of it. If there’s a crowd, then you eat it without offering.” “Why?” Vera says. “You could have had an ice cream or pretzel,” he says. “You have money.” “You’re missing the point. You were both being selfish. I wouldn’t have taken any if you had offered, since I don’t like ice cream or popsicles much and can’t stand pretzels, but that’s not the point either. The point is to offer even if you know the other person doesn’t want any. Always remember what I’m telling you here. I don’t want what you did repeated. Otherwise I won’t know what kind of children I’ve raised, and you can count on what I’ll say if you ask me for a treat after the next time.” He felt so good, feels so bad now. Vera doesn’t seem to feel bad though. She’s still smiling and says “Why not pretzels? Too salty?” “That and other reasons.” “Oh. Can I go now?” and his mother nods and Vera runs off. “And you? Any response?” He can’t speak, his throat’s choking him, and she says “OK, I think I can guess what you’ll do next time,” and sits on a bench and watches Vera circling a tree looking for a squirrel that just ran up it.

Poor grades and too much homework and what else? — couldn’t take the regimentation and strictness in the specialized school like the hallway order (no whistling, no talking, keep walking), so first day as a transfer student at a high school way up in the Bronx. Had to give a relative’s address to get in there, as the two regular high schools in his own borough were said to be too tough. Gets off the elevated train, from the station platform high above the street sees the school and a bell tower on top of it like a real school and all the grass and trees around it, down the steps, starts running to school when a block from it a hamburger and hotdog truck’s being turned over. “Heave-ho!” When the truck’s on its side he sees it was some boys who turned it over. A man climbs out of the serving window waving a long fork and shouting “You motherfuckers. You goddamn thugs. You’ll get nothing from me now, nothing. You could’ve killed me.” “Eat shit,” “Cheap prick,” “Dago pimp,” and a couple of them scoop up pebbles and stones and pretend to throw it at him. He ducks, kneels behind his truck. They laugh, bang on the truck with their fists and sticks, run past Howard and some other boys. “What happened?” Howard asks the boys watching it. “A dumb old fuck,” one says and they head for school. “What was that all about for?” he asks the man. “Protection, the bastards. But who they think they’re kidding I need it from? I know who they are. I’m not selling around your school anymore. Thieves and thugs and future murderers in it.” “But what kind of protection you mean?” “What’re you asking me when I got other things?” Police sirens. “Better beat it like the others or they’ll think you’re in on it too. Or maybe you are. Come to gloat.” “No, really.” The man tries lifting up the truck. Actually gets it a little way off the ground. Howard helps him but together they get it no higher than the man did alone. “Maybe the cops will pitch in,” the man says. Howard thinks to stay to help them lift it, maybe the man will give him a tip, think him a nice kid and tell the school people what he did, but it’s getting late for school and he doesn’t even know what room he’s in, so when the police come he goes.

Walking out of school to the train to get to work when some boy says “Hey, look at the fruity white bucks on the fag.” Turns to him, thinking maybe it’s one of his friends or someone to take the train downtown with. “Oh, want to make something of it, faggot?” “Just leave me alone.” “You’re going to do something if I don’t?” Other boys pouring out of school surround them. “Dump him, Cal. Clobber the fucker.” He pushes past some boys and heads for the train station, hoping a teacher or one of the football players on the student patrol will break it up if anything more happens. He’s shoved hard from behind. “C’mon, prick!” He’s done this before. Loses control. Years later he says it saved his neck lots of times. Now he doesn’t know if it would have been better all those times to keep walking away. No broken nose. No kid lying on the sidewalk with his head cracked and eyes closed. Another with his white turtleneck sweater all bloody and looking at Howard as if saying why’d you jump me so fast and have to go for the face? And just to have had that control. Drops his books and jumps him and gets him in a headlock and squeezes and punches his face while whirling them both around and takes some stomach blows and the guy scratching his neck and cheek but squeezes and punches his face some more and throws him to the ground and pins his shoulders with his knees and sticks his fist under his chin and says “Had enough, schmuck, had enough? ‘cause I’ll bust your fucking ears in, I’ll pick your head up and bust it on the fucking concrete,” and he says “Yeah, lay off, enough, you’re OK. Your shoes are nice. I’m going to buy a pair.” “Bullshit you are,” and gets up. While they were fighting, boys yelled “Kill him, C. C. Poke the twit’s eyes out. Kick his nuts off for me.” When he walks away someone says “Fucking faggot won.” “All right, come on, that’ll be it, boys, everyone go home,” a teacher says.

He’s in college, walking to his waiter’s job, it’s around eight. Someone says “Look at the fruitball.” They seem drunk, guys his age. He stops. “What’re you stopping for, fruitball?” another of them says. “Because I don’t like being called a fruit.” “My friend said you’re a fruitball, not a fruit. But maybe you are a fruit. A fucking fruitball fruit. You suck old men’s dicks in caves.” Jumps the guy, gets him in a headlock, takes some body blows but squeezes his head tight while punching the back of his neck and his face. The friends try pulling him off. The guy falls to the ground. Face a mess, busted nose seems like, lips split, blood all over him and Howard, eyes looking up at them sleepily, he’s trying to talk. “Shit, you really did a job on him,” one says. “A fair fight, I declare it a fair fight,” the biggest of them says, “and a fucking good one. But if he hadn’t had so much beer in him I bet he would have creamed you.” “Want me to help him up?” “Nah, you better get the fuck out of here. You don’t look too good yourself.” Knuckles cut, that’s about all, and his face maybe, and his sweater’s torn. It’s not his. His brother Alex’s who says next day when Howard shows him it “My goddamn sweater. Look what you’ve done to it. Cashmere. Not even a month old. Even if we got all the blood out, which we won’t, and the best darner for the rips, to me it’s absolutely ruined. Next time use your stupid head and show some control by passing by whoever calls you a fag or Jew kike or whatever they throw at you. You’re paying for it out of your wages. Cough up. I know you have a cigar box in your drawer stuffed with tips.” “That’s for Europe.” “Forty-five bucks, and the sweater’s now yours.”

They hear about her in a bowling alley. Chippy, for five dollars, bright red hair, very white body, not too old — thirty, maybe thirty-five, but she keeps herself in great shape. They say he should call her. “You know how to speak to older women.” “Me?” “Yes. You got brains, use big words, have a smooth voice almost and not such a New York accent, so you sound older. Call her.” Calls. She says “Who gave you my number?” “Ellis.” “I know Ellis. He’s a good guy, everybody he’s mentioned to me so far has been very refined, so come on over at eight tonight, and tell Ellis thanks.” “There might be a problem, since there’s a few of us. Is that all right?” “How few?” “Three or four, though there also might be another.” “Four is the most I’ll go for. More and you have a commotion, since my place isn’t as big as a palace. So now with four, when you do come up, do it one by one, first door off the lobby marked stairway. I’m on the second floor, 207. The rest of you, when one client’s up, stay outside and away from the hotel and don’t gang together.” “Ellis said it was five dollars each, OK?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Five for what? For the six cigars you’re interested in buying, fine. But you should know that like a doctor I hate talking price over the phone. It’s undignified, so remember that or don’t bother dealing with me.” “Good,” Ellis tells them after his call. “With four she’ll give me a freebie. But watch out. She has a small white poodle named Snowball who’ll steal your scumbags right out of your wallet if you leave your pants pockets hanging open.” It’s his first time. One of them says that even if they each plan on using a scumbag, they should drink lots of water before so when they get off her they can pee all the syphilis germs out if she has it and some managed to get inside the bag. They meet later at this guy’s apartment, drink a canteen of water each, draw straws as to who goes first — all of them wanted to and he gets to be second — and go to her hotel and up to her floor together. They thought that all of them should get caught together rather than one getting caught while some of the others had already gotten laid. They don’t know what to do when they get to her floor, but one of them finds a laundry closet and three of them stay in it while the fourth goes to her door. The closet’s dark. “Any of you got a hard-on?” he says. “Because I sure do. Biggest I think I ever had. I can’t wait.” “Me too,” one says. “It’s poking a hole through my pants.” “I’m jerking myself off now,” the third says. “It’ll last longer that way when I’m in her, since I know it’d take me two seconds if I didn’t.” He makes some noises. “Jesus,” Howard says, “don’t do it over here; you’ll ruin my clothes.” “It’s all right. I’m facing away from you, I think, and I did every spurt into my hanky. Now I’m going to be in her forever, since I’m the last.” The first guy comes back in about ten minutes. “How was it, how was it?” they all ask. “She was much older than Ellis said. Forty, maybe, like one of my aunts. He just said it so we’d go to her and he’d get a free lay. Still, nice tits that didn’t hang and no wrinkly stomach, and she didn’t stink. I went so far in her I thought I’d go out the other side, but she just laid there like she didn’t feel me at all, and I didn’t see no dog. Since I’ve already been laid once, I’d call it just average, while for you guys for the first time you’ll love it.” “Come on, Howie, get it over with,” one of the other two says, shoving him to the door. He leaves, knocks on her door, she looks at him through the peephole, lets him in, is smiling, her almost orange hair held down by a band on top like a girl’s, skin so white as if if she went on the beach for a minute when the sun’s out she’d get blisters, soapy smell all round her, in a belted bathrobe and bare feet but one of her breasts he can see where it’s open. He’s so hot for her he almost can’t stand up his head and chest’s so woozy. She says “You’re a pretty cute-looking kid. You the one who called? You sounded much older than your age. That why they had you call me, so I wouldn’t be frightened off by all your ages?” “No, I volunteered.” “This your first time too? OK, but I hope not, because I hate showing the ropes each time. Takes too long.” “Why, the other guy was his first? He told us he’s been laid before.” “Him? He was a good guy all right but had to be told everything. And not ‘laid,’ will you? You ‘make love.’ Or you ‘go to bed.’ At best, you ‘have sex.’ Be refined. That’s what I like in all my men, young or old. Otherwise, we all feel messy. OK. Five dollars first. You can put it in there,” and he puts it in an empty cigar box on a table. “Now you’re entitled to undress.” He takes off his clothes, folds them neatly on a chair, trouser legs over its pockets, tries not to show he knows he has a full hard-on. “Ellis said—” “Oh boy, you’re ready to go. A real broom handle. The wonderful young.” “Yes, well. But Ellis said you had a dog Snowball. Do you?” “He’s shy of people, almost never emerges from under the bed. But you might see him if you don’t talk loud or gruff. Here, give me that thing.” She grabs it, squeezes it hard while staring at the head. “Just want to see if anything wrong comes out of it. Nothing. you’re clean. Now I’d like you to put a condom on even if that’s not what you bargained for. I’ve got them if you don’t.” “No, I don’t mind and I brought one,” and gets it out of his wallet. “Let me see it,” and she turns it over in her hand. “It’s a good one, not in your pocket for a hundred years.” “No, I bought it just the other day. And Ellis said also that Snowball steals these things out of your wallet if you’re not looking. He had to be kidding though.” “Steals them? The little yipper? What do you think I have, a circus dog? Just put it on. You got your pals downstairs.” Tries to. Practiced with one once but not over a hard-on. She says “You roll it on, oafy, like a sock in the morning,” and does it for him. When she’s doing it he thinks he’s going to shoot into it. She gets on the bed, takes her robe off and hangs it on the bedpost behind her, opens her legs and says “Well come along, darling, climb on.” “You mean the bed?” “I mean everything, darling,” and points to her cunt. He gets on the bed, squats in front of her but doesn’t know where to put his knees, inside her legs or outside of them, or quite where to stick his prick in. In the hole he knows but where exactly is it? He got a quick look when he got on the bed; she’s got a little square orange bush but he didn’t see the crack where he thinks he should. “What’s the wait for? Just say it’s your initial time and you know from nothing and I’ll show you how it goes. It’ll take longer but probably not as long if you start experimenting on me.” “No, honestly, not like the other guy. This is my third time but last two were in the dark and the girl I was with was more experienced and she put it in for me.” The legs have to be inside hers he now sees and moves closer, gets on top of her and takes his penis and without looking pokes it around where he thinks the crack should be but doesn’t find a hole. “Ouch, what’re you doing? That’s my ass and I don’t want any of that stuff. You want to do it, find a man, but don’t come back to me after. You want me to do something else to you, with my mouth, that’s in addition and will cost you another five, but never the rectum. Never.” “No no, all I want’s the regular.” “Then tell me you never done it before and stop wasting my time.” She grabs his penis, jerks it a few times—“Don’t, I’ll shoot”—“Then let’s get going,” and sticks him in, brings him down on top of her and bounces her bottom a few times. He bounces the way he thinks he should and they’re bouncing together when the phone rings. “Hold it a second,” she says. She pushes him up and reaches for it. He starts to get out and she says, her hand over the receiver, “Stay in. If you come you come, and this’ll only take a second and you’ve already used up your five dollars’ worth. Yes,” she says into the phone. “Yeah, I know you. Yeah, I remember you. Yeah, I said so already, the guy with the Persian lamb collar and hat, and what? Sure, when? Fine, got it, I’ll remember. I don’t have to put in down, I’ve got a fine memory. Johnson, that’s your first name, I know, see ya.” All this while he tried not to think of his penis or feel it, looked around the room, painting over the dresser, window blinds with a droop of a few slats in it and lights from buildings across the street through it, listened for the dog under the bed but heard nothing. She hangs up and says “You didn’t come? I thought I heard something. I don’t care if you didn’t make a sound or still have an erection. The wonderful young can usually keep it up after, so don’t tell me that. Pull out, let’s see.” He does and she looks at it. “OK, let’s finish.” He says “I’ve suddenly got to pee bad, is it all right?” and she points and he runs to the bathroom, pees for about a minute, comes back, she’s reading a fashion magazine in bed and says “Boy, you sounded like a horse in there. OK, now what do we do? — always something with you, more effort than you’re starting to be worth,” and gets a condom out of the night table drawer, puts it on him, lies back, he gets on the bed, looks at her crack, sees the hole and puts his penis in and comes down on her and starts bouncing. “Could you go up and down too? I’ll finish faster.” “Oh sure,” and she bounces up and down, he’s pressed tight to her, smells the cold cream, it smells like it must be fresh on her face and neck it’s so strong, comes. She slaps his buttocks when he’s done jerking. He just lies there. “That little tap means to get off, darling. A signal.” “Oh, I didn’t know.” Gets up and off the bed. She says “That was good, right? Call me again anytime if you want, alone or with only one other friend, and don’t be passing my phone number around like it was a cigarette. Keep it special, it’ll be better.” “I will call, and I won’t be passing it around. What do I do about this now?” holding his penis up, tip of the bag with the come in it hanging over his hand. “What’d you do with your girlie?” “I didn’t use one. She was on a period she said.” “Well, don’t take it off here. In the bathroom, flush it down. And only use the tissues from the box to clean yourself, not the towel if there’s one.” He goes in it, rolls the condom off and lets it drop into the toilet, flushes, cleans his penis with soap and water and dries it with tissues, little pieces stick to it so he sticks it under the faucet to get them off and pats it dry with the hand towel, comes out, she’s in her bathrobe reading the same magazine, he gets dressed, she goes to the door, unlocks it, puts her face forward and lips out, he kisses them, grabs her breast from inside the robe, she says “Don’t start unless you want to pay another five and think you can do it extra quickly.” “I don’t. I haven’t the money.” “Till the next time then. Now tell your friend who’s next to be discreet coming up here. No noise. To act like a gentleman. And no elevator. That’s the rule. Now you know what ‘discreet’ is?” “It means don’t make a big deal coming upstairs.” “To do it as if you’re reserved and a quiet person and live in the hotel. They won’t bother him if he acts like that. OK.” Opens the door, looks out both ways, signals for him to go, he goes, heads for the stairway but turns around moment her door closes and ducks past it to the linen closet, knocks, they open and he goes inside and says “It was only so-so, her face kind of greasy though her body OK, but at least now I can say I’ve been laid.”

It was about a year after. Working at a catering place delivering orders when the man who sends him out on them holds up a wrapped tray of canapés and says “This customer a relative of yours?” “Why, Tetch? Could be, as it’s an unusual one,” and the man says “A Mrs. Howard,” and he says “That’s my first name.” “I know, only making a joke; where’s your sense of humor?” and gives him the tray and another order and exact change for both out of a ten and he goes, few blocks away rings the bell downstairs which has the apartment number he wants but the name Chandler on it. “Yes?” a woman says. “Delivery, ma’am, for Mrs. Howard, do I have the right place?” and she says “Sure, you got it, darling,” and he’s rung in, goes upstairs, apartment door’s opening right across from the elevator when he’s getting out of it, woman in a bathrobe belted tight, Chippy, has to be, doesn’t seem to recognize him or show she does, same style bright red hair, same soap smell or something coming toward him as he goes to her, very white skin, freckles around her nose, he doesn’t know if the bathrobe’s the same one as before, what the hell’s she doing in a regular apartment in a nice apartment building twenty blocks from her hotel? “How much they sticking me for?” she says, taking the canapés, looks at the bill taped to it, he’s already excited, gives him a five, he gives her change, puts a quarter into his hand and says “Here, go and buy yourself a cigar.” “Thank you,” and just as she’s shutting the door he says “Chippy?” and she looks at him and says “What’d you say? — forget it,” and continues closing the door and he sticks his foot in it, though he had no thought to, it just got there, and says “I know you, Chippy, I went to you about a year ago,” and she says “You got to have the wrong party for whatever you mean, little mister. The name’s Howard, like on the order slip, and if you’re saying you don’t like the tip I gave you, though I don’t know anyone else who wouldn’t think it generous, give it here,” and holds her hand out and he says “Yeah, the order slip, but not like on the bell downstairs.” “That’s my friend’s name downstairs, but what’s it to you? Now I’m telling you, he isn’t home now but the super is, and if that doesn’t get you moving, I’ll call the cops and have you run in. Now get your foot away,” and he says “Listen, I don’t mean trouble and will go when you want me to, so you don’t have to call anyone, but I remember everything about you, even the robe but maybe a different color. Can I come in since nobody’s there. I can pay,” and she says “Shut up,” looks around, “Get in, you stupid kid,” and he does, she shuts and locks the door. “You got ten bucks? And you better be quick about it too, since I got someone coming here soon for these canapés,” and puts them on the table by the door. “If not, then you got to scoot.” “It used to be five,” and she says “Ten now. Five, if it was five then, was maybe the last time I used that price,” and she touches his erection through the pants and says “Look at you, ready to roll. Come on, hand it over or go,” and he says “Can’t we do it for nothing?” and she says “You crazy? Get out of here if that’s what you’re thinking,” and starts pushing him to the door, and he says “Then just a hand-job for nothing? I won’t take long and then I’ll leave right after. For the truth is I have no money but the quarter you gave me, as I just came on at work and yours was the first tip of the day,” and she says “Oh brother, you really pulled a fast one on me. And everybody who says it won’t take long, even you kids, takes forever. What the hell my going to do with you now?” and he says “Please, I’ll bring customers like Ellis did,” and she says “I don’t need customers; I’ve enough, even by charging ten,” and he says “Please, I’m really ready as I said; it’ll take ten seconds,” and she says “Oh, to get rid of you, come in here,” and he follows her into the bathroom, “Pull your stupid pants down,” he does, she grabs his penis and pulls him to the toilet by it, lifts the seat and starts jerking him over the bowl. He’s still holding the other order by the string and drops it to the floor, gets so excited he falls to his knees, she says “Get up, I don’t want it on the floor,” he grabs her legs under the robe to hold on to, moves his hands up, nothing on, feels hair, the hole, sticks his fingers from both hands in, “What’re you doing? I didn’t say any of that, and get up. Hell with you, finish it off yourself,” and she lets go of him and leaves the bathroom, he gets up and finishes it off in a few seconds and washes up and comes out with the order and she says “I’m really pissed at you. I should even ask for my quarter back, you little brat. Now get the hell out, and I hope you didn’t mess up my fucking bathroom,” and he says “I didn’t; I did it into the bowl and cleaned up without a trace. A kiss?” and puts out his face and she says “I’ll kiss you one, with my fist — you probably messed up all my linens in there; just get going and don’t bother ever coming back, you’re off my list for good,” and opens the door and shoves him out. He calls some of his friends from work, says what happened, she jerked him off while he had his fingers in her, she was all excited and he would’ve screwed her but she wanted too much and he thought this for nothing is better than screwing for ten bucks, and when they meet that night, five of them, one says “Hey, let’s go visit her. We’ll get ourselves in somehow and ask her to screw us all for free or just jerk us all off. She doesn’t want to, we’ll threaten her, bring knives but keep them under our coats till we have to show them. Shit, hand-jobs she can do two at a time and then we’ll be out of there fast as Howard, we’ll tell her. She doesn’t want to do anything, we’ll also say we’ll tell the cops about her, and the knives only as a last resort and just to scare her, of course. He says “Not me, she could have cops there as customers when we try to push ourselves in, or just a customer with a gun or something or just something like acid to throw at our faces herself,” and this guy says “If cops are there, which isn’t too likely, we’ll say ‘Sorry, we had our appointments with her mixed up,’ or we thought we could come by without calling her, and as for the other things, hardly.” “I can get in trouble, she knows where I work,” and another of them says “A whore’s going to make trouble for you? She’ll never show her face. That’s the point, I guess. That once we get in she’s got to do what we say, since there’s five of us and it’s not like we want to be future customers of hers. We only want this once and she’s a sitting duck for us since we know where she is and what she does.” He still says no but doesn’t want to miss out on the excitement and maybe getting laid and another hand-job but this one finished by her and even a blow-job as someone else says they might also be able to make her do while she’s giving two others handjobs, so he says “OK, yeah, sure, but do we have to take knives?” and they go to one of their apartments first, say hello to their friend’s mother and that they only came up for some cold water and soda and go to the kitchen, get kitchen knives there and put them under their coats or in their belts, Howard and another guy don’t want to but one of the others say “Everybody, we’re in on this together, all for one and do or die and that sort of shit,” say goodbye to their friend’s mother, go to Chippy’s building, decide while they walk what to say and who’s to say it, ring her vestibule bell, “Yes?” she says, “Rowers from Mr. Tibbs, the florist, ma’am,” guy who was chosen to speak says, “Bullshit, flowers, beat it or I’ll call the police,” and they ring several bells in the building, has about twenty apartments, four to five to a floor, a few people say “What? Hello? Who is it? Who’s there?” but nobody rings back, ring some other bells and more people ask questions which they don’t answer but one rings them in, they stay quiet downstairs, a man yells down “Is that you, Thomas?” the spokesman yells up “Sorry, sir, wrong building, made a mistake,” and points to the front door and makes hand motions and another of them opens it and lets it slam. They wait, door upstairs closes, five minutes, then go up, spokesman knocks on her door, others stay to the sides or crouched on the floor but out of view of the peephole, “Yes?” she says, “Rowers from Mr. Tibbs, ma’am, and has to be signed,” “I’m not expecting flowers or anyone, so good-bye,” “No, it’s true, ma’am, just doing my job — open up and you’ll see,” and she says “Even if you put a basket of bouquets in front of the hole here I wouldn’t open up, so you better get moving or I’m calling the police right now,” and one of them from the floor says “Whore’s gonna call the cops?” “Fuck you, dopos, you’ve been warned,” and goes away from the door, comes back a few minutes later while they’re figuring out what to do next, stay here, leave, ring again and say there’s just two of them and they’re friends of Ellis and will give her ten bucks each to get laid and then when she lets them in to grab her and make her do whatever they want for free, and says “They’re coming, have fun, boys, for if you don’t think they do favors for me and that I also wouldn’t press charges, you’re crazy.” “Let’s go,” Howard says, and the spokesman says “She’s full of it,” and he says “What if she is? She’s not opening up, we’re never getting in there, and I’m going before something I don’t like happens,” and starts downstairs, they follow him, outside he says “Let me ask you. What if she had her pimp with her and it was his apartment she was working out of or if she had called him instead of the cops to deal with us and he had come up from downstairs while we were there? Those guys got real weapons and can be very mean and rough,” and one of them says “Why didn’t we think of that? I know I sure wouldn’t have tried what we did if someone had brought it up.”

They’re hanging out on Broadway, sitting against a parked car, night, when a car pulls up, “Hey,” the passenger yells, a friend, the driver another friend beside him, new Olds 98, “Want a ride? Hop in.” They get in, “Where’d you get it?… Whose is it?” and the driver says “A cousin’s,” and Howard says “Nice car… feel the leather,” and the driver’s friend next to him says “Actually, we shouldn’t lie,” and they laugh together, “We saw it doubleparked in front of Tip Toe, motor running, vent window open, keys inside, so pinched it,” and he says “This is a stolen car?” and the driver says “That’s it, babe, now where you want to go?” and he says “Out of it — stop the fucking thing,” and the front passenger says “See, I told you not to pick them up — let the fraidy-cat out,” when they sideswipe a cab, tear of metal, “Holy shit,” the driver says and puts on speed down Broadway, cab following them honking his horn, “What the hell we gonna do now?” front passenger says, through a red light, almost hitting some people crossing, cabby still behind them honking and now flashing his headlights on and off, right on Seventy-seventh Street, “Pull up so we can make a run for it,” guy next to Howard yells, car brakes, stops, halfway up the street, driver runs out his side, front passenger out his, Howard’s door on the left won’t open though it’s unlocked, guy on right has trouble opening his door, Howard looks back, cab’s stopped and driver jumps out of it and runs to their car, right door opens and friend falls out, gets up and runs, Howard’s door still stuck, goes out the other back door, starts running to West End Avenue, hand on his shoulder, “You!” a man says, but he gets out from under the hand, runs to West End, crosses it, Riverside Drive, into the park, through it north, couple blocks away hides behind bushes, everything seems quiet, birds, far-off traffic, that’s all, waits, coast seems clear, goes back to Eighty-third Street but on the other side of Broadway looking for his friends, nobody’s there, walks around the block and comes back, still nobody’s there, walks home, sees a commotion on Seventy-seventh where their car was, figures the cabby never recognized him from the back, goes up the block, cab still there, stolen car, police around, a crowd, he asks a man what happened, “Some kids shot someone on Ninety-sixth, stole a car, crashed into a few of them and wound up here, that cabby over there following them because he was the last one to get clipped, but they got away.” “Jesus,” he says, “anybody hurt?” “I told you, someone shot.” “Oh God, that’s awful. Dead?” “Don’t know. Ask the cop, not that he’ll tell you anything,” and the man leaves and he watches for a while, it’s just a lot of talking between the cabby and the police and some people around him who say they saw most of it, and goes home.

They pick up a Volkswagen and put it into the lobby of an apartment building and wait for the elevator man to come down, open the elevator door and see it. He looks around, through the lobby doors to the street but doesn’t seem to see them. “Hey hey, over here,” they yell, and he shakes his fist at them. They’re all laughing and run away. There’s an old lady in the neighborhood, they call her the Black Widow, always wears black, carries a black umbrella, black hat with a veil over her face, and whenever she sees them she says “Stinking filthy kids, you’ll never be anything, go away, leave this street in peace,” and shakes the closed umbrella at them and sometimes raises it as if she’s going to hit them. They always laugh at her and sometimes dodge around her swinging umbrella and say “Black Widow, Black Widow’s going to bite,” but one day when she’s doing that to them, just shouting and shaking the umbrella, one of his friends comes up behind her and dumps a street can of garbage over her head. Some of it’s dribbling down her and she screams savagely at them, in another language they never heard from her before and can’t understand, and most of them laugh as if they never saw anything so funny and they all run away. When they get together right after at a candy store they go to he says “Really, it’s got to be wrong, she’s just nuts and didn’t deserve that.” They say “Sure she did. She’s a crazy old bag who doesn’t know if she got garbage on her or rain or what.” Next time he’s with them and sees her walking their way he says “Come on, let’s not do anything; let her yell and scream and wave her screwy umbrella all she wants.” “What are you talking about, if she comes after us, and we got to have every day our fun,” and he crosses Broadway and watches the lady walk around them, not shouting or waving her umbrella and looking a little scared, and they chant “Black Widow, Black Widow, Black Widow’s lost her bite.” A gang comes up to them one afternoon after school, they’re from the West Fifties and Sixties, he can tell by the gang name on their jackets, and one of them steps out from the others and says “The Saxons challenge whatever your gang’s name is to a fight.” They say they’re not a fighting gang and have no gripes against them and if they want them to move on, they will. The gang’s about four times larger than their group and some of the members in it older and bigger, though there are a whole bunch of small young kids with them too. The gang calls them chickens and pansies and when they start walking away the gang follows them and then chases them till they see a cop; then they run back downtown. A week later on Broadway again the gang suddenly rounds the corner and runs at them and jumps them. Two are on him and a little one is trying to pull off his shoe and he swings wildly at the bigger ones, rips at their hair, kicks their balls, pulls at and bites one’s ear, shoves the little one into the street, knocks one of the older ones down and picks up the other one in a bearhug from behind while kicking at the one down and doesn’t know what to do with him but the guy’s punching his head so he throws him against a store window they’re up against. The guy goes through it and glass breaks around them. All the fighting stops, the gang members rush to their friend in the window who’s screaming he’s been stabbed, he got it in the face, and Howard, who’s bleeding from a lot of little glass cuts, and his friends run away. Day later they hear from someone who knows a member of the gang that the guy got glass in his neck and almost bled to death and has to stay in the hospital, and the gang’s looking for Howard. They all stay away from the neighborhood for things like hanging around it and going to parties, go to parties in the Bronx and Queens, and a few are escorted by their older brothers and fathers to and from home. Then they’re at a party in the neighborhood, a couple of weeks after their contact with the Saxons says they’ve dropped the matter and aren’t interested in them anymore, lights are out, soft music on, each of them has a girl to neck with, drinking the father’s liquor of the girl who’s giving the party, when they hear from the street “Hey mama boys in there, come on out.” There are about thirty of them, big and little, all in their gang jackets it seems, across the street, in it and on the sidewalk right outside. “Hey, we see you peeking through the windows,” they yell. “Look, don’t be afraid — come on out, all we want to do is powwow.” They stay put, don’t know what to do, maybe call the police but that’ll get the girl in trouble with her folks she says. Then the phone rings. “Someone with a funny voice wants to talk to you,” the girl says, giving Howard the phone. “This is Crazy Louie. We’ll let you all alone if I can have a crack at you on the street this minute, no matter even if you beat the pants off me.” “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve nothing against you and I only fight if my life’s at stake and I don’t see why anything should be like that now. Anyway, you got to think I’m nuts going into the street alone with you and with all your friends, not that I want to any time.” “So I’ll tell you what. I’ll have them all get away. It’ll only be me out here and if you want I’ll even have one of my arms tied behind my back. If you don’t want to come out because you think I’m a better fighter than you, that should give you the odds.” “Listen, I’m sorry for your friend through the glass, but he was picking on me, three to one, so I had to do something. And I heard you use your feet more than your hands, so I’m sure you’ll still kick the shit out of me.” “Hey, baby, I’m going to dust you up bad, very bad, so why not have it done today?” “No thanks,” and he hangs up, tells them what Louie said. One of his friends says “He could be drunk and you might be able to beat him up and then we’ll all be off.” “You out of your head? Where you think he got his name from? There’s no stopping him. He fights like a maniac, butts his head, kicks you everywhere, vomits on you if he has to, pounds your face against concrete till you’re half dead. That’s what I heard. And those guys use zip guns. Beat up Crazy Louie and they could use it on me.” One friend calls his father who he knows has some pretty tough friends over for cards and the men come over in topcoats with the collars turned up, six of them, mostly big guys except for his friend’s father, and each of them keeps his hand in his side coat pocket as if packing a gun, and they say “All right, you kids, we’re cops, so you better beat it or we’re running the bunch of you in,” and the gang takes off. Howard and his friends stay away from the neighborhood for parties and movies and things like that for another month. Then they hear from their contact that Crazy Louie got busted for stomping someone almost to death, some of the older Saxons got drafted into the army, and the rest of them have a gang war going with a gang south of their territory and have sort of lost interest in them.

Time he shot a man in the heart but always said it was in self-defense. Came out again when he said to his wife “Is there anything you ever held back from me?” and she said “Plenty of things, why?” “What were they?” and she said “I don’t know — things. Little. Big. All forgotten or unimportant by now and probably not so important or potentially memorable then.” “Anything big that you can remember?” and she said “What is it, you want to tell me something big you’ve kept back from me? Go ahead then.” “No, I don’t have anything, I’m just making conversation. Because of that movie on the VCR the other night and you fell asleep to — what was it called? Anyway, the woman asks her husband that and I thought it was a good question for conversation starters so thought I’d ask you. Actually, though, now that I think of it there is something I never told you.” “So just say so.” “It’s not so easy. You tell me something first that you’ve kept back.” “I don’t want to, or I can’t think of anything.” “Then I’ll keep to myself what I thought of telling you.” “As you wish,” and she continued eating her salad, sipped some wine, smiled at him over her glass, he didn’t know what for. Nor could he make out what the smile could mean by the kind it was, for it was a small tender smile, nothing he right now deserved. “You ever say anything to anyone you particularly regretted saying and which had grave consequences but which you never told me about?” and she said “Maybe once, twice, but it’s all gone. Probably with my first husband, maybe a couple of times with you.” “Ever steal something as an adult or do something against the law — worse than running a light — you never told me about?” “No.” “Something really terrible to the kids, but same thing — where I didn’t know?” “No, I don’t think so. Screaming, yelling, humiliating them a few times, but I never once even spanked them or smacked their hands.” “An affair with someone while we’ve been married — even a one-night stand or quick afternoon thing?” “Not since we met and I would have told you.” “Anyone kiss you at a party or dinner or someplace?” Shook her head. “Then one from the past — not a kiss but a fuck or an affair that you never told me about, all the way back to when you were a kid. Because I think you said you must have told me, as I’ve done with you with I think all my women and girls or all I could remember up till the last time I told you, about all your guys starting when you were fifteen with number one.” “Seventeen. Listen, this is getting to be too much like a grilling. You don’t want to tell me what you seem to be aching to, save it for when you do. Some little chickadee you’re doing it with now or some time back? — sure, I’d like to know. I think we should always get those things out. But you never tell me and don’t give any suspicions that’s happened, I won’t be curious.” “It’s not a woman. There’s been nobody since we met.” “As I’ve said, same here.” “Good, but you’ve got to be a little curious what’s on my mind.” “A little but not enough to try and squeeze it out of you or where I’ll remember tonight’s curiosity tomorrow and want to follow up on it.” “You know that fellow I killed just maybe a year before I met you?” “What of him? It’s not exactly something I’d forget.” “I didn’t kill him in self-defense as I said.” “You murdered him?” “Not that far, or I don’t know what you’d call it. I was afraid, that after I turned him in, he’d come and kill me when he got out of prison. I didn’t know what to do — I had the gun on him — so I thought — the gun I took from him—” “I remember; wrestled it.” “I didn’t even know if it’d work or there were bullets in it but thought the best thing to keep him from — well, you know, because he could surprise me sometime in the future and next time I wouldn’t be so lucky — was to kill him.” “Wait wait.” “Because I didn’t think much of his life. I was almost sure he would kill me if I ran when he had the gun on me. He was a freak; I could see it in the way he stood and spoke and his face.” “Wait, I mean it, wait. This is hard to take in such a fast lump. Go slower.” “All right, from the start. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t give him all my money. After he grabbed me from behind, stuck the gun to my head. Kept it there. Right on the street. Then on my neck. Kept it there. Then when he marched me into the park, close in the small of my back so nobody in a car passing would see it I suppose. I gave him all the money I had in the park. He looked at it, ripped the wallet apart for more-all this is nothing new to you but I’m getting to where what happened differently happened — and said there’s almost nothing here, ‘give me what you’re hiding.’ I said I’m hiding nothing. He said ‘Bullshit you’re not.’ That’s when I thought he’s going to kill me for nothing and I better do something quick or I’m dead. So I said — this came to me to say and do it—’Holy shit!’ and looked up at the big park wall behind him on the drive and he sort of turned, sort of thought I was faking and turned back to me but by this time I had shifted a bit out of his gun aim and jumped his gun arm to hold the gun up and started wrestling with him for it. But the gun didn’t go off accidentally into him when I was wrestling for it. By the way, I saw some people looking over the park wall at us but they just kept looking and then left even though I yelled for help. But I wrestled it away from him, got it, backed up and pointed it and said ‘One step and you’re dead. I’m gonna kill ya, you fucking bastard, just as you would’ve killed me, if you come a step closer.’ That’s when I noticed those people and asked for help and when I thought does it have bullets in it and suppose it doesn’t go off? He probably has a knife and he’ll kill me with it while I’m trying to bang him over the head with the gun butt. I also thought this because he seemed so casual when I said that about killing him — and you notice those people never came forward to say they saw me pointing the gun at him — and he said ‘What’re you talking about, man?’ and started walking toward me. I yelled ‘One step, just one step,’ as a threat, but I now see it could have been misinterpreted by him as meaning he’s allowed to take only one step toward me. But the gun was no doubt jiggling in my hand but still pointed at him and I wasn’t backing up and he suddenly looked scared as a man who thinks he might be shot would and that’s when I knew it could go off. Then I didn’t know what to do. Something hit me. A thought. Suppose I let him go or turn him in, what then? Turning him in’s what he probably thought I would do, and by the way, he’d stopped, meaning stood still, second he looked scared of getting shot, if that’s what it was. ‘Let me go,’ he said, ‘you got the gun,’ and threw the little money he took from me at me. I let it fall, blow away, didn’t take any chances looking at it or to stop it. Maybe that was his plan — I didn’t think that then — throw something innocent at me to distract me, and people are always jumping for money, and then he’d grab and kill me on the spot. But I couldn’t let him go, first thing. He’s a murderer and a thief. Surely he’s killed before. Maybe lots before. That’s what came out in the police report and newspapers. I thought it then but the papers said he’d been in prison when he was sixteen for killing someone during a robbery and then killing a friend he robbed with in that robbery to guarantee him shutting up. So, two at least that we know of. But he was a kid, did good behavior, model prisoner — graduated high school in prison, the Bible also — so they let him out in about seven years. All in the papers; I didn’t know a thing. He was in fact still on parole when he robbed me. You remember, or you don’t. And if I turned him in, I thought — even when he was asking me to let him go — he could come out and kill me for putting him in. For what’ll he get? This was really all in my head then. One, two years, he’ll get — since I didn’t know of his murders and being on parole — but short enough time to remember me when he gets out. He was also such a mean tough-looking guy. He looked like a savage. His hair, expression, grin he had when he was robbing me. He smelled and his speech was awful and vulgar and his clothes were so sharp I just knew almost everything about him and his attitudes and such and he pushed me into the park and treated me before I got the gun as if he’d slit my throat as much as he’d tie his shoelaces when it was over. Meaning they meant the same thing to him. He could care less. Maybe shoelaces more because he could trip if they were untied, hampering his escape a little, while me dead on the ground wasn’t a worry unless he got caught, and he looked for a while till I got the gun from him like someone who didn’t think he could ever get caught. Another reason for hating him, his fucking smugness. He told me ‘Don’t call the cops, man, don’t.’ Now we’re dealing with only what’s new to you, never been said to anyone. ‘Just let me go, you keep the gun,’ etcetera. And I said ‘No, I’m holding you for the cops’—that’s what I suddenly decided to do, though how to get them I didn’t know or think about just then — and he said ‘Come on, they get me for this I could do a long turn. I’m scared of jail. I won’t be the same when I get out. I’ve never been in, this is the first thing I’ve pulled like this and only because I was desperate, and all my friends tell me prison’s hell. You see, this whole thing with my voice and threats and that gun was an act, man, a big fat act. So please, let’s forget it and that will be it between us, you’ll be rid of me forever.’ When he said that I thought if I turn him in I won’t be rid of him forever. I mean, I didn’t believe what he was saying now about this the first time, because earlier on he’d convinced me when he talked about killing me. He actually had said — something I must have told you—’You don’t turn up more dough than you got here,’ meaning my wallet, ‘you’re going to get killed in your fucking head with this,’ waving the gun. ‘Bullets, though,’ he said, ‘in the mouth.’ And put it right up to my mouth and then shoved the barrel through my lips and I had to pull up my teeth or he would have broken them with it shoving it in. I remember I gagged it went in so fast and far. And that was the exact moment when I thought he means it, or close to that moment — somewhere around when the gun was going in or was in — and that I’ve got to get the gun away from him or run. And run, he’ll shoot me in the back, then stand over me and shoot me in the head. That’s also when — I’m talking now about when I had the gun on him and he tried to con-talk me about being rid of him forever — that I thought his life is nothing to me, nothing. That I hate his guts and face. That I should even kill him because he’s such a horror and threat. That then I’ll be rid of him forever. That his life is worthless, useless, by anybody’s standards. More than that, he’ll kill others when he gets out and probably look for me to kill and besides that he still might be able to trick me now, so sooner I kill him the better. For these guys are full of tricks, I thought. And he’s fast and clever, and I was strong but no kid, and he’ll do something very soon to get the gun from me before I can yell for people up on the drive, if anybody who hears even answers me, to get the cops down or before I can get him up the park steps to the drive and then hold him there for the police. And then with the gun back on him he’ll kill me sure as I was standing there, nothing I’d say making a bit of difference to him. So, a little jumbled up these thoughts — then, and the way I’m now trying to convey them — but around then when I thought I had to kill him to save my life. One way or the other — I’m repeating myself a lot now, but I want to make sure I get you to understand what was going on in me then — one way or the other, now or a year or two from now, he was going to trick me and kill me, for that at that moment was what I was absolutely sure of. That the chances of him doing that there before I could get him to the cops were probably a lot better than the chances of my getting him to the cops, so I shot him. Put the gun right up to his chest where I thought his heart was — he made no move for it but looked no more frightened, as if he didn’t sense what I was going to do — and pulled the trigger twice. I was glad when I heard it go off. Relieved because it went off and had to have hit him badly and probably killed him. Pulled it twice just to make sure he wouldn’t get just slightly wounded. He flew away with the first shot but the second got him too. But you don’t want to hear the details. I didn’t want to do it into his brains where I knew I could kill him or seriously disable him because the whole head up there is just about brains so it’s not as if I would have missed them, but I didn’t want brains shooting out. I thought that then. Later I was glad where I’d shot him because the other way would have been difficult explaining to the police. Anyway, I wanted to tell you, to get it out.” Pause, she drank, he drank, she kept looking at him, then said “That it?” “That’s it. I’m sure there’s more, but that’s it.” “Whew, that’s some story,” pouring them both more wine. “I don’t mean to sound light or trifling about it, or look it, even, pouring this wine, but I don’t know what to say. Maybe what I don’t understand is why you chose to tell me it now. It’s almost as if it can’t be true. You’ve told me everything about your life, or essentially so, so something of it would have come out by now.” “No, it’s for real. Maybe none of it came out because when I want to I’m good at being a great fake. And I never told you before because, well, when I met you, first years of our marriage and so forth — I thought you’d be afraid of me if I told you. That if I had this in me, what else like that could he possibly do? That sort of thing. I mean, you’ve seen my anger before. Rages sometimes, throwing things, screaming at the kids, kicking doors — and that you’d remember the killing story and think maybe he’s capable of something much worse than rage. That the rage could lead to something not like a killing but a beating. That I could start smacking out at people — you, the kids. Anyway, some instinct in me you’d be scared of. Impulse, I mean. Then I forgot about it for years or a couple of times thought of it but it was the wrong moment to tell such a thing and then I saw this stupid movie you fell asleep to and the question thing came up and then from that to this and that I’d never told you, never told anyone, never wrote about it, never did anything with it except maybe hid it in some things and works I did, and that a long enough time had passed where I could tell you. So that’s my big secret. It’s all true. The whole thing stuck to me clearly and you can well understand why it would. Maybe talking and writing about it gets rid of it, and since I never did either, but there it is.” “I’ve nothing comparable to it,” she said. “You don’t have to. That was just a lead-in on my part, that movie question thing; or something that led to my disclosing it, anyway.” “Nothing. I slept with an old boyfriend — the architect — a few weeks after I first met you, and that’s my big secret. I’ve never told you, right?” “No.” “That’s all I’ve ever held back to you of that magnitude, small as it is. I didn’t think it’d do any good telling you so early in our relationship, since I didn’t know you that well and so didn’t know how you’d take it — jealousy, for instance. Just telling me to get lost forever, which I didn’t want you to do but thought you were capable of saying. And then I never thought it worth mentioning after a while or what would be the use of telling it? or just forgot it, mostly.” “Where was I when you were sleeping with him?” “It was once, and you mean literally? I don’t know. Home, maybe. Yours. But he called up — I forget his name…” “Bill. Bill Williams. I remember the name because of the double Bill and that there was a popular deejay by that name when I was a young man. And when I was a boy, also an actor whom I liked — curly blond hair, nice face, the sailor look at the time, and that your Bill used to call you up for the first few years I knew you. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Bill.’ ‘Who is it?’ ‘Bill.’ And of course also the poet though he, like the deejay, but not the actor, used a middle initial and kept to William.” “Anyway, this Bill was the only time and the only one once I started seeing you. In fact — OK, this just came — you and I had broken up for a few weeks and it was a number of months, I believe, after we’d first met. I thought we were completely through. And he called, wanted to go out for dinner; I thought why not? After, he wanted to come home with me for a coffee or drink; I thought why not? though most likely had some idea what would happen. Then I thought why not when he wanted to go to bed with me after we’d had some brandy, maybe too much brandy, though that wasn’t the fault. He’d always been a good lover and you weren’t part of my life any longer, but that was it; once, done. The next day or that night he left and he called again — you and I were still through for good — and I told him I was sick — I was, I think. And then you and I got together again, I forget how but we did—” “One of us called. Something about a book. You had one of mine or I had one of yours—” “Something though. And so the next time he called after that, and the next and the next and so on, as you said, I had to tell him we were together again and then deeply involved and then that I was marrying you and I couldn’t see him for dinner. For tea, perhaps, if he wanted, and I think he said he’d think about it but didn’t call back. And then even when I was pregnant the first time, while he probably thought that by then our marriage had busted up or was giving that idea a chance.” “Tell me, are you making all this up to have something — a big secret — to tell me to sort of take some of the awfulness off what I said? In other words, for me?” “No. And that was the end of him. But are you making up about killing that man the way you say you did to have something interesting to say to me?” “No, swear it.” “Or to get a big secret out of me, which if it was so I must have disappointed you with.” “No again; what a thing to say.” “Then are you sure you didn’t simply imagine it happening that way but after all these years have come to believe it? That the gun really did go off accidentally while you were tussling for it?” “No. I shot him in the heart intentionally or intentionally where I thought it was. I knew I was close to it and I happened to have been right.” “What’d the police say about shooting him twice? For once would have been enough, it seems.” “The police? Nothing. They seemed to immediately believe me. Patted my shoulder consolingly till they saw I didn’t need it, but mostly dealt with the body. Then some routine questioning at the police station — paperwork, formality, they even told me so, though maybe that was a ploy, though I don’t think so — and I was out in an hour and even offered a car escort home. And later at this inquest the city set up, it wasn’t a big deal either. They believed I squeezed the trigger twice because my finger was on it. In other words, that I did it that way instead of once for no other reason than that I did it. Impulse, instinct. That it wasn’t unfair or unusual or unjustified force or whatever the legal term is when you have a district attorney’s inquiry into it. ‘Improper defense’? A man’s scared to death, his life’s at stake, so in that state — and of course I made them convinced that was the case and said nothing about knowing where his heart was. I told them I didn’t know how many times I pulled the trigger. I think I could have emptied the clip into him, if there were more bullets in it — I didn’t check and never found out but at the time I was aware if I pulled it three times I might be in serious trouble — and they still would have bought it. In other words, they knew the guy was a killer and they wanted me to get off.” “Let me ask you this. You think the man, when he got out of prison, would have tried to kill you, if let’s say you had got him to the police and the city had been able to send him to prison for holding you up?” “At the time, yes. Now, I don’t think so. I doubt he would have remembered my face after so long. Because he would have had to be there, with his record, a couple of years, maybe a few. Though it was in the newspapers, my address and although no photos, though some were snapped of me when I left the inquest, so maybe he could have found me out that way. Sure he could have. But I doubt, judging by his speech and looks, he would have been smart enough to know how to go about it or remembered where he’d put the news articles when he went in. Then again, a relative or friend of his might have kept the articles — for some reason, such as thinking he was a celebrity because he was in the papers, cut them out and he got hold of them when he got out and there it was, my name and address. But it wouldn’t have made the papers if I hadn’t killed him. But if it had — after all, ordinary man stops killer from killing him and holds him for the police with the killer’s gun, they could have said. That doesn’t happen too often and especially in a fairly nice Manhattan neighborhood and everybody loves it when the good guy, we’ll call me for this supposition, wins. But by then, if it had made the papers and he hadn’t died and he’d got a copy of it or saved it himself, I had met you and moved into your place about two years after the incident, so he might not have been able to trace me. The post office doesn’t forward mail after a year, and to tell you the truth I wouldn’t have asked them to for even a day and also would have kept my name out of the phone book forever.” “What’s the mail got to do with it?” “He could have come looking for me and not finding me at my old address, asked the mailman where I moved to. They’re not supposed to, of course, but the killer could have conned him into giving it. ‘I owe him a hundred bucks.’ ‘He said he wants to sublet my girlfriend’s apartment.’” “So the mailman would say ‘Write him, it’ll be forwarded.’” “And he could say ‘It has to be done today. By tomorrow I’ll have blown the cash,’ or ‘The apartment will have been rented.’ Anyway, if he had come for me, then without knowing it I might have been protecting you too by killing him. He might have only been out for me but you were with me so he killed us both. Witnesses; get rid of them. And let’s face it, he was a killer, so in one more time, they could throw away the key, and what was one more life to him? Ah, maybe I shot him because I wanted to shoot someone or even kill someone most of my life and knew I could get away doing it to him. Perfect opportunity; gun, which I never had, and easiest way to kill someone, right? And ideal victim, someone just about everyone wants killed. No, that’s not it. Anybody I wanted to kill I’ve done it same way most people do, in my head.” “What’d it feel like after you shot him? I mean, were you disgusted, horrified? I’ve never asked you, and as long as we’re on it.” “I just looked at him and thought ‘Good, he’s dead, he won’t bother me anymore, the sonofabitch, but now I’ve got to start concocting a good case for myself. Also, there was some ecstasy to it. I stopped some filthy creep from threatening me and probably killing me when he had the jump on me and here I am to say it—’Unbelievable!’ I screamed. One word, and twirled around once with my hands in the air like this, like some Hasidic nut dancing, and then yelled ‘Help, police,’ but by this time some people were already looking over the park wall and said ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ And then I thought Holy shit, they saw me spinning around, I’ll have to give some excuse for that too.’ So I brought it up first to the police and said I was dizzy after I shot the man, didn’t know where I was, in some crazy mental state from what happened, and they bought that too. But that’s enough, right?” “You don’t want to go on? I could understand that.” “There’s nothing more really to say. I’ve brought you up to where you know the rest.” “Most of what you told me in the past, if I can be honest, I forget, but all right. The police came, I remember that, and then the questions there and at the precinct, which you mentioned before — all right.” “So what do you think?” “About you in all this? It was so long ago. What’s there to say? You might have been justified. Maybe there’s no justification in killing someone cold-bloodedly like that. But you might have been in such fear and panic for your life after being so menaced by him that you didn’t know what you were doing so you shot him, maybe to stop him from attacking you with what you thought might be another gun or a knife he had hidden. Did you think of that?” “Sure. I’m almost sure I said so. That he’d trick me somehow. But no, I was perfectly rational, or just rational about it, all the time. I thought I might get killed during the robbery but once I got the gun away from him—” “It’s amazing how you were able to do that. Just having done it successfully must have put you — or could have — into some strange state of mind. Power. The superhumanness of it. I mean, people are often having fantasies about it, but who actually does it? The adrenalin must have been overflowing. So much so—” “I suppose. That I don’t remember so I can’t say. Anyway, where was I?” “I don’t know — where, do you mean on the street?” “And it’s getting a little tiresome as a subject, don’t you think?” “It is a bit much, of course, but if you feel you want to go on with it…” “Nah, let’s forget it for now and maybe forever. I’ve told it all. Now maybe it can start dropping away from me; I wouldn’t mind. Finished?” and he pointed to her plate. “I’ll take them in.” “No, I’m getting up,” and stacked their plates, put the silver and wine glasses on them and brought them into the kitchen and put them in the sink. He finished her wine and his, though didn’t know whose glass was which, and went back into the dining room. She was still at the table, looking at him as if she didn’t know what to think. “Did I take your wine too soon?” he said. “No, I was done with it; you finish it.” “Yeah, I might.” “As long as you’re up and dealing with the dishes, mind if I just sit? The whole thing — what you did, went through that night, all that stuff — is really coming to me. It’s horrible. People shouldn’t have to go through such things but they do, right?” “For sure,” and took the bowls and platter and bottle of wine, brought them into the kitchen, poured another glass. “If you want to know what I’m doing — did you hear that pouring sound?” “No, what?” she said. “I was in some other thought.” “Well if you want to know what I’m doing now — I’m drinking some more wine, after finishing both of ours, to sort of obliterate — help make disappear faster and maybe for the rest of the night if I’m lucky — the memory of what I did.” “Do. It’s what I would. You deserve it.”

In California, at a party, lots of pot’s smoked and wine drank, he gets tired and says he’d like to go, Lulu says she’d like to stay, “All right, stay if you can get a ride back but if not, I really have to go; I can barely stand up.” “Will you be able to drive?” and he says “Fine, if I go in the next ten minutes,” so she asks around, gets a ride back with Rust, “Oh that guy, Mr. Horns. He’ll probably want to jump you two minutes into the ride,” and she says “Don’t be a dopey; be thankful he’s giving me a lift or I’d bug you all evening for taking me away,” and they kiss good-bye and he drives home, pays the babysitter. He’s asleep, wakes up, pats her side of the bed, maybe she’s in the bathroom, falls asleep, wakes up an hour later, walks through the house thinking maybe she started reading on the couch and fell asleep, goes into her son’s room to see he’s OK, “Mommy,” Carl says without waking up when Howard lifts his foot off the floor and puts it under the covers, goes back to sleep, is jostled out of it sometime later and she says “Howard? Listen, Rust and I are in the living room,” and he says “What time is it?” and she says “Late, getting to morning, and you were right, we are sort of making it — do you mind my telling you this?” and he says “I predicted it, right? You shared one of his fat joints, got hot when he started talking about his money and deals, so nothing’s stopping you two. That fucking guy; someone ought to do it to his wife and see how he feels. Anyway, what do you want from me? I’m tired. You want to do it? — you always did with him — do it, the hell with you,” and he turns his back to her, thinks what is he doing here? she’s in her bathrobe? she probably already fucked him; there’s nothing to them anymore and it’s only her kid keeping him here which is silly, fucking stupid, and she says “Don’t go to sleep, and don’t get so angry. All we’ve been doing is kissing, feeling each other a little and now he wants to ball me and I said I wouldn’t while you were in the next room but would if you joined in with us. So would you want to? Rust said he’d go for it if it’s the only way he can ball me, so long as he doesn’t have to stick his pecker in your ass — that’s the way he put it — or do anything with his mouth to you. For I’d love to make it with both of you in the same bed, and I sure don’t want it with him on that clunky couch or floor out there. And you mentioned it with me and another woman if we found one we both agreed to, so why not the other way with me?” “Carl,” and she says “He’s dead to the world, and we’ll lock our door just in case he gets up.” “No lock,” and she says “A chair up against it,” and he says “That never works. One push and it falls over.” “Up tight under the knob, which I’m sure Rust can do if you can’t. And if Carl asks why we locked it, we’ll say we were having an all night bull session, something he’s used to and the chair was where one of us was sitting. Or at worst, not that I like carrying it this far, we were all getting high and didn’t want him to get any of the smoke. But he’s not getting up so long as we don’t rant and scream during it.” “All right, all right, but no homosexual stuff whatsoever — not even handholding. It’s you and me and you and him and that’s it, even if I think I might puke halfway through it.” “Hey listen, I thought I was nice including you in. But if you don’t want, I can always go to a motel with him if you have no crucial objections and don’t mind looking after Carl,” and he says “It’s OK, you want it and I’d like to get laid too.” “Great,” and she goes, comes back with Rust. He’s only in his briefs and is holding the rest of his clothes. “Hi,” Howard says, “Hi,” Rust says; “where should I put these?” and she says “On the floor or the chair, or even in the closet — we’ve plenty of hangers,” and he says “No, I’m not that fussy,” and puts the clothes in a neat pile on the chair, shoes on the floor underneath it. “Wait, we need the chair for the door, don’t we?” and puts his clothes on the dresser, shoes underneath it, wedges the chair under the doorknob several times till the door won’t budge. “Now what?” and she says “Get in bed, you funny guy, ladies in the middle,” and takes off her bathrobe, Rust his briefs, and they get on the bed, Howard still under the covers. They all lie back, look at one another, smile, Rust says “Anyone care for a quick toke? — it’s in my pants,” and she says “Too much of a fuss.” “So why don’t you two start?” Howard says, “since you were doing it,” and she says “You’re such a joke,” and kisses his mouth and turns over and kisses Rust and strokes his penis and he puts his hand between her legs. After a minute Howard says “So am I supposed to be doing anything while this is happening?” and without looking she reaches her other arm over, feels around the sheet till she grabs his penis through it. “Jesus, you’re stiff,” and Rust says “Is he? I feel plenty sexy too but can’t get my bloody rudder up yet.” “It’s probably the situation,” Howard says. “This room and our bed and that I’m used to her, but I’d think if it was the first time with her you’d get something going. Don’t worry, it’ll come.” “If it doesn’t I’m going to feel awfully stupid,” and she says “I think I can fix it,” and shakes it, jerks it, flutters it, rolls it between two hands, blows on it and says “Up, funny fellow, up — because when I squeeze it, you know, it looks like it’s got a helmet on,” but nothing happens. “Maybe if you sucked it,” and she says “I don’t want to, not with Howard in the same bed. Either of you wants to give me head, that’d be okay.” “I’ll do that,” Rust says, “I love your bush, though I won’t guarantee it’ll help me. It should though, right? Or what if you did it to Howard and I’ll watch? It’ll be nothing strange for you and then I’ll go down on you and we’ll see where to take it from there,” and Howard says “I’m sick of this shit, let’s just get it over with,” and pulls her down on her back, she says “Whacha doing, sweetie?” gets on top and she says “We’re not doing that yet — hey, hey, man, too fast,” but he holds her down while she tries to get up, forces her legs open, sticks it in and in a few seconds comes. “You rat, that wasn’t nice,” pushing him off her and he turns his back to them, stiffens his body for expects her to hit him with her fists or kick him, says “Go on, go on, do it any way you like with him now, I’m turning in,” and Rust says “I better split, he’s mad as hell, next thing he’ll be beating on me,” and gets off the bed—“I’m not beating on anybody, you schmuck”—and starts dressing. “Hey wait, Rust,” she says, “—hey Howard! Apologize, say something to him or he’ll think you’re creepier than you showed — Screw him, I’ll see you to the door,” and they leave the room, Rust going out in his socks or bare feet so he’s probably carrying his shoes. Howard shuts the light, faces the wall, hears the front door open, then close in a few minutes and she comes back and turns on the overhead light. “He wanted me to take a drive with him — do it on the beach if we have to — and I would have but didn’t want to come back for my clothes and have to explain things to you. You’re really something. A bastard. You had to show off your dick and your overquick comes. You’ll be lucky if he looks you in the eye again. Anyone could have done what you did. Squirt squirt, you’re finished — not a hint of finesse or sensibility or any originality to it. I’ll never do it with another woman and you, for I know you’ll only use it to get your kicks watching us screwing and then lay her and humiliate me. Hey, come on, you hear me — you’re not sleeping. Well jerk yourself off for the next week, for I’m sure not getting in bed with you,” and she leaves the room, probably for the top of Carl’s bunkbed. He tells himself even if what she said might have something to it, he’s got to get out of here; it’s no stinking good and will never improve.

In California, doctor friend calls and says would he like being one of the subjects in a series of medical experiments of various psychoactive drugs at the hospital he works at? Twenty dollars a session, once a month for four months and each time a different drug. Sure, he says. “Maybe you want to talk it over with Lu first?” “Nah, sounds interesting and I can use the extra money and it fits in perfectly with my day-off schedule at the store.” He tells Lulu what he’ll be doing the next four first Mondays of the month and she says don’t. “It could mess up your head.” “What’re you talking? It should be fun, the money’s good, and I’ve for a long time wanted to see the inner doings of a medical research situation. And all they’ll be testing is my breathing, blood, motor control and anesthetic use of the drugs too with a few pinpricks to my toes, and one other thing, but all safe and clear and at the V.A. hospital on the ridge, so not that far.” Gets up early for it, has half a bagel and coffee though was told not to even rinse his mouth after twelve last night, drives there. His friend comes into the room while he’s having blood taken out of his arm and says “I won’t be around for it but you’re in very capable hands. If there’s any trouble, which nobody’s expecting, they’ll know how to bring you right down, and results here will be in a paper read by scientists of several disciplines around the world.” They prick his buttocks and feet, have him squeeze some instruments with his hands, run in place, breathe through an oxygen mask for a few minutes, give him a cardiogram and put him on some other monitoring machines. Then they give him the drug in liquid form in a water glass. He asks what it is and is told it’s synthetically made, this one from a lab in France, but that’s all they’re allowed to tell him except that it’s never been used in research on humans before or available on the street. “How’d the animals take it?” and the aide says “No adverse reactions in any kind of way.” He gets high in a very short time. The aide says “Feeling different yet?” and he says “You bet, I’m flying,” and the aide says “Try to hold down the images and reports of them while we take more blood out of you,” and he says “I doubt I can take a needle of that size this moment.” “It isn’t that long,” and shows it to him. ‘Three inches, and not all of it goes in you, and then only in the fleshier less sensitive part of the arm,” and he says “It looks about a foot long and a circumference of a hotdog and I can see all its barbs. One, two… five of them. That thing will rip through my vein and cause a bloodbath.” “Howard, you’re hallucinating a little. Could a hand be more than nine inches long? and look at the needle in comparison to mine. But we’re not so naive where we don’t expect some overreactiveness of the mind too, so let’s put you through a few of the less anxiety-causing tests and then go back to the blood one when you calm down.” The aide puts his hand behind Howard’s foot and says “Did you feel that?” and he says “No, what?” and the aide says “That’s because I didn’t do anything. You’re alert, not fooling around with us, good. Some subjects though — it’s all high, getting stoned, nothing else, as if they’re only here to enjoy themselves and the staff are their pushers.” Then the aide jabs Howard’s foot with something sharp, holds up a pin while Howard’s screaming and says “Took it out of my new shirt this morning, though sterilized it of course. Wasn’t that bad, admit it,” and he says “It was like you poked me with a knife. I don’t want anything like that again either.” “Howard, please don’t be difficult, please. You didn’t strike me as a fake when you came in and I still don’t think you are. But there are tests to be done, you contracted to do them, so begin accepting that. Better they be done without warning you again, correct? because then you’ll even get more anxious.” “No no, you’re right, I’ll try. But just go easy on me for a while.” “Will do,” and he shakes Howard’s hand. Another cardiogram, some things for his hands to squeeze and feet to push, couple of reflex tests and then the aide puts the oxygen mask on him and tells him to relax and breathe normally. After a minute he feels he’s running out of air and points to the mask and the aide nods and looks away and Howard takes it off. “You sure there’s anything in there?” and the aide says “I’m sure; now on, I’m afraid; we spoke about this,” and looks tough and puts it back on Howard roughly. He wants to do what he’s being paid to and he doesn’t want to do anything that will look bad for his friend, but after about thirty seconds he feels he’s being smothered and takes the mask off. “I’m sorry; even if your saying the mask’s doing the opposite of suffocating me, the point is I feel like I am, so you should be satisfied with that part of your research.” “It’s not part of it. We don’t care what’s in your head. What the machine’s monitoring of your breathing is part of the research, but it’s not monitoring you’re short of breath. But OK, you’re uncomfortable, we don’t want you to be that, so we’ll put this off. But not forever, Howard. We have a well-populated lab ready and waiting for your samples and if we don’t give them more readings and blood and urine—” “Urine I’ll give you plenty of. In fact I have to pee.” “I don’t want your urine now. But they’ll be getting paid a whole day for nothing. You know what that costs? And do you know we only have so much government funding for this research? And do you know the government’s been penny-pinching on this kind of research for the last three years because they think guys like you will only want to take advantage of the free drugs? So what are we going to do now, Howard, what in goddamn’s name are we going to do?” “I don’t know.” “One thing we’re not going to do is get tough with you. But also don’t give us any further troubles with these goddamn tests.” “You just did get tough. You threatened me.” “I threatened you?” “You did, in words, mannerisms and voice.” “I threatened him?” and he turns around to his assistant. “I didn’t see you did,” the assistant says. “I didn’t, that’s why you didn’t see. Howard’s off on a hallucinatory bender and we’re tired of hallucinations. They’re boring, they’re stupid, they’re of no use.” “You’re still threatening me with your voice and words and I’ll have to take my ass out of here if you do it again. I didn’t volunteer here to get roughed up by you.” “I’ll tell you why you volunteered, Howard — want it straight? It wasn’t for the twenty bucks every month. No, I won’t tell you, I’ll keep my big trap shut, because you shouldn’t be getting more anxious by what I say. So I apologize to you, Howard, sincerely and without equivocation, and Miss Doris, our research assistant today, is my witness I did. Now please now, go along with us on these tests. Trust me that your fears are all in your head, both of me and the pain and suffocating and such, and what’s in your head can be easily removed by not thinking of it, OK?” “I’m sorry but I can’t, except for the push-pull stuff with the hands and urine if you want and cardiograms and easier things like that.” “Perhaps to reassure you more let me get the doctor whose research this is, busy as he is and disturbing as this interruption might be to him, but let me get him, Howard,” and he goes, comes back with the doctor. “What is it, Mr. Tetch, something bothering you about all this?” the doctor says. “That’s natural; so go along with it,” and he pats Howard’s leg and turns to go. “Wait. I was saying to him — Kennedy — that I can’t go along with any of the tests but the stress and reflex and maybe a little jab or two with the pin on my feet, but the blood and oxygen are too much for me. If it’s the drug that’s doing it, what can I say? But you’re a scientist involved in these things, so you should know that if it feels that real to me—” “Do you know who you are telling his business to?” the aide says. “One of the foremost psychopharmacologists in the country and probably the premier researcher of psychoactive drugs on this continent.” “Shut up, you,” the doctor says and elbows the aide in the ribs so hard he grabs the part hit, winces, bites his teeth. “That’s it, I’m done here — not even push-pulling the squeeze things,” Howard says. “You guys are going crazy over this. Where are my shoes? Where’s the locker I put my things in?” “I can get them for him,” Doris says. “Don’t you get anything for him,” the aide says. “If you think you’re leaving, Howard—” “I’m leaving, all right. Next thing who knows what the two of you will cook up for me.” “Listen, my friend,” the doctor says, “I will have none of this childish nonsense. Never has an expérimentée acted like this with me. Do what you agreed to and don’t make us think you signed on only for the drugs.” “That’s exactly what I told him before, Doctor,” the aide says. “I am talking. Do I need you to comment? You got us into this by letting him renege on this and that so much till he thought he was conducting the experiment, so be quiet and let me speak — Now, my friend, if you won’t do all the tests we’ve scheduled you for, we can’t leave you this way, can we?” “Get me Dr. Meyer. I want him down here on this.” “Dr. Meyer is an anesthesiologist, not in this wing, and busy in other things all morning. I believe he told you, but you are high, so perhaps you can’t remember. But I was saying I’ll suspend all your tests, close down my lab for the day and cause us a thousand dollars in wasted expenditures and wages, but we will have to bring you back to earth from what to you is only a big trip. The fastest way, since I don’t want to endanger your life with more drugs for that, is to have my associates wrap you in plastic and stick you in a tub of ice. It’s that or your consent to continue the tests after, let’s say, a ten-minute break — no more.” “Let me think. Way you put it, probably best thing is to go along with you, but let me think,” while he’s thinking he’s got to get out of here, right now and in his hospital gown and bare feet if he has to. “Just leave me alone for those ten minutes till I can try to cool myself down.” “I can agree to that,” the doctor says, and they all go. He waits a minute, looks out the room, no one’s around, very quietly gets his clothes and book out of the locker and puts the clothes on in the room, then on all fours crawls down the corridor, past the room they’re sitting in talking, stands and goes upstairs. The guard at the door says “Your pass to get out.” Gave it to the aide when he came in. “Yes, my pass. It’s… let me see,” patting his pants pockets, then jumps the turnstile and runs out the door. The guard yells; Howard doesn’t know if he’s chasing him. His car’s parked in a hospital lot about a quarter mile away, up a hill, but he thinks he can make it never letting up speed. He’s fast, guard’s heavy, probably slow. “Hey, Howard, come on back,” someone shouts. He looks back on the run. Two men in white doctor or lab coats, neither looks like the aide or doctor from this distance, running after him, but they’ll never get to him by the time he reaches the car but might by the time he starts the car and drives off. He gets to the car. Didn’t lock it because he can’t and he jumps in, keys in this pocket, no this pocket, oh Christ the keys and wallet and pen are in a bag in a safe in the hospital, has a spare ignition key taped in the coils somewhere in the driver’s seat, fingers around from underneath, pulls it out, tears the tape off, puts the key in, won’t start. “Don’t do this to me,” he says, “don’t. Please, God, get it moving.” Men getting closer. Forty feet. Other about ten feet behind the first. Never saw them before. Not lab coats but one in a white sweater, other in a pink shirt. Car starts up. Pink Shirt jumps on the hood, rolls off it when the car moves. “Fuck you, you stupid putz,” Howard yells, not stopping. “Wanna get killed for this, get killed.” White Sweater stands to the side of the road, shouts “My friend’s hurt bad, sir. Help me get him back to the hospital in your car, he seems unconscious,” and Howard shouts “Bullshit, and tough shit,” and keeps driving. In the rear-view he sees Pink Shirt standing up, brushing himself off, White Sweater going to him. “Yiippee-hoo-ha!” he says when he’s out of the hospital grounds, “you ain’t gonna ice no super city kid, you hicks,” and slaps the dashboard and punches his palm and then grabs the wheel again when the car suddenly swerves. Steady, drive carefully, watch out for cops, he tells himself, you’re still zonked. Gets home. Lulu’s outside, says “The hospital called just before, wanted to know if you were back. I said ‘So soon?’—Boy, are you ever high; I can see by your eyes.” “You can? I escaped from them. They wanted to dunk me upside down in ice water when I wouldn’t go along with their smothering and bleeding me to death.” Tells what happened. She says “They want you to come back right away. They’ll even come and drive you if I can’t, as they don’t want you behind a wheel and they can’t have you running around loose.” “Never going back, except maybe for my wallet and keys and pen in a few weeks,” and falls to the ground, sticks his nose in the flower bed she was weeding. “Ah, flowers, how I missed them.” “You, the original brick and block man? Their shit’s nothing new.” He grabs a couple of loquats off the tree in the front yard, rips off the outer layer of one and says “How come we never eat these?” and bites into it. “Fyeh, it’s sour,” and she says “People only snitch them off the lawn for jellies and jams, stupid.” Carl comes out. “What’s he doing? He’s supposed to be in school. I’m feeling so good I thought we could have a little morning sex.” “He only goes afternoons, don’t you remember? You should take a shower and just go to sleep. You might think everything’s beautiful and lovey-smoothy, but you look and smell disgusting and are in terrible shape.” Phone rings. “If it’s the hospital,” ne yells to Carl who’s running inside to get it, “tell them to stick it.” “Shush,” she says. “Don’t teach him ugly manners and words.” Carl yells out “It’s Alan.” Alan says “Let me get you and bring you back. I promise I’ll stay with you and they say no more tests. All they want is you to be here till the drug wears off, as they don’t want you doing anything irrational in your condition and losing them their Public Health funds.” ‘Tell those sadists if they don’t let me stay here till I come down I’m going to rob a bank and blame it on the drug they gave me.” “I’ll tell. But I should have known better with you. You guys will do anything to have another dramatic experience recorded or just a great anecdote to tell about your endless battles with the establishment. Just, when you get it all in writing or pour forth about it over some beers, make sure you change my name or at least don’t say I’m still your good doctor friend.”

They make love the night before and in the morning, while he’s looking at her from behind dressing, he gets excited and starts kissing her and she says “Why not?” and they do it. Then they dress, have breakfast, he says he’ll call her, and that afternoon someone knocks on the door. It’s Chantai, a French au pair girl for friends across the street. “How’d you get in downstairs?” and she says “The door was not locked. I thought it the best way since I heard you tell your lobby bell never works.” “Phone, that’s how people get me if they want me to come downstairs to unlock the door for them or just for me to come down to go outside. But fine, glad to see you, how are you, what’s new, like a cup of coffee?” “Wine if you have; it’s my afternoon off from Timothy. It’s a very nice place you have here, very poor, very artistic, but I bet you hate when people tell you that.” She sits on the bed, which is also his couch, reaches over to the night table or side table for a magazine or book, thumbs through the magazine, “This one we don’t have in French — no fun for no advertisements,” drinks her wine, eats the crackers and cheese and apple slices he puts on a plate for her, yawns, puts the glass down, her arms up, he thinks for him because of the way she smiles at him now and he says “Tell me, and if I’m being off-base, tell me that too—” “What is this ‘off-base’? I love your expressions; all of New York’s.” “Off-base, is off-base. I’m very bad at definitions, I just know words. ‘Improper’? ‘Not good behavior’? So I hope I’m not being that way, but did you come here to make love?” “I never did it with you, isn’t that right? I know I kissed you once, but I could be wrong in that too.” “In the Jankwitz’s kitchen. I went to the fridge for a beer and you were there and we talked about wine, I think, and I don’t know, I kissed you or we just kissed.” “And we didn’t make love? Why do I think we could have made that? Sometimes I get so wiped I don’t know what I before that did.” “No, we didn’t. I know I thought of asking you out but didn’t know how to go about it, since you worked for my friends.” “You telephone me there and say would I mind to go to a museum. Do you want to start making love now? Thing is, I only have an hour more and I could use it to take off pressure from work with Timothy all day, and because I would want to with you.” While they’re making love she says “You smell like you have another woman on you or else you wear perfume. But a woman’s, not a man’s. I know those things.” “I don’t have either on me. I don’t know what it could be, since I don’t use aftershave lotion either and I’m afraid I haven’t even shaved yet today.” “That’s OK. But you should always wash if you make love with one woman and then another.” “All right; a woman slept the night here. Then you came by, I’m glad you did but didn’t know you would, so I didn’t have time to wash.” “You could have done so in the bathroom while I took off my clothes here. Or in the kitchen when I went to the bathroom to put in my disc.” “What’s the difference. We’re doing it already. But if it makes you happy…” “I’m happy with you, yes, very, but I’d be more happy if you would wash. Else, it would interfere in my mind and I don’t want that now. I want all the pressure off. I will say that the perfume’s nice but not the smell, so this woman must have good taste.” “Touché,” he says. She doesn’t smile. “Hey, that’s French. Maybe that’s not a language you understand.” “That’s silly. It doesn’t make you attractive. Go.” He goes, washes his whole body with a washrag, the genitals and face a second time, comes back and they finish making love. “I still have most of an hour and I can be fifteen minutes late,” she says. “Want to go to the park to walk, or have a demitasse on the street?” “Next time. I have to get some work done now.” She leaves and he goes back to work. At around six he thinks he’d like to make love to three women in one day. He’s never done that. Two’s the most, which he’s done a couple of times. He calls some women he’s slept with. One says “You’re horny, right?” “No, honestly, why do you say that?” “You only call when you’re horny. I don’t mind when I feel that way also, with you or anyone else I’ve had sex with, or even when the call suddenly springs that feeling on me, but not tonight.” “I only want to go to a movie. What happens after, if anything else like that does—” but she says she’s in a hurry and hangs up. Another woman says she’d love to meet him but she’s busy with something. “Tomorrow?” “Tomorrow I’m tied up; make it tonight.” “I’m free the day after tomorrow,” she says. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing then. I know I wrote something down about it, an appointment of some kind but I forget what time. Let me get back to you.” “That’s not nice. Why’d you call if you really don’t want to make plans?” One doesn’t answer; another has an answering machine. He says “If you get in before nine or ten and want to meet, call me. I could cab down or you could cab here and I’ll reimburse you for the fare. Or we can meet at a bar near you. But call. It’s Thursday, October 16th, by the way.” Then he remembers someone he met at a book party a few weeks ago. He wasn’t attracted to her but she was to him. Started a conversation with him, gave him her number though he didn’t ask for it. “In case you want to phone me. I’d be interested.” “Thanks, I will,” but didn’t think he would. He forgets where he put the number, remembers her last name, looks up several spellings of it in the phone book and calls and she says she’s busy tonight. He says “What about after if it’s not too late?” “I might be able to get free. It’s only dinner, and he’s not someone I’m especially involved with; more like just a good friend who’d probably even understand.” “Can you meet me by nine-thirty, ten?” “I think I can,” and gives him the name and location of a bar in her neighborhood. She calls when he’s getting ready to go and says “I’m glad I caught you. I won’t be free till around twelve or so, will that be too late for you?” “Too late. If I wait around I’ll probably feel like going to sleep by then. Sure you can’t make it sooner? I was already showered and dressed and set to leave.” “That’s almost the earliest. We only had a snack instead of dinner and then went to a play. That’s where I’m calling from. And after it he says we have a little dinner party to go to and then there’s the getting rid of him, since I think he now thinks he’s more than just a friend.” “Skip the party. Get a headache or say you’ve work to do tomorrow. I don’t know what kind since I don’t know what you do, but it’s got to be something.” “I told you at that party. I’m a book designer. The one in fact you went to the party for.” “Great. There’s plenty of work to be done there. And then let’s say we meet at your place at eleven.” “That’s cutting it pretty tight, since I might not get a taxi so fast, but I’ll try to make it. I’ll say the play’s longer than I expected, even if I’m not sure how long it’ll be. There’s another act but it has twice as many scenes. Maybe we should meet this weekend. I actually do have to be at work around ten tomorrow.” “No, we started it for tonight, let’s keep it. Eleven-fifteen, we’ll say. And I don’t have to stay long. We’re just meeting.” He’s at her building at eleven, thinking maybe she got home earlier than she thought she could. Rings her bell, no answer. Then stands in front of her building, feels conspicuous waiting there so walks around the block and rings her bell again. No answer. Waits outside, thinks maybe she came back when he was walking around the block but was in the shower just before and didn’t hear him ringing. Rings her bell, no answer. Walks around her block, a cab’s pulling up just as he steps down into her vestibule to ring again. She and a man are in it. It’s almost 11:40. She gets out. What if the man does? He’ll leave the building and continue walking and then look from a little distance away to see if the man goes in with her or the cab’s still there, and if she stops him stepping out or on the street he could say “Elizabeth, what a surprise. I was seeing a friend of mine — thought this was his building but it must be the next — but is this where you live?” Not that but something. Man doesn’t get out. She blows him a kiss from the sidewalk, cab speeds off and she runs into the vestibule. “Hi,” he says and she jumps; “You scared the hell out of me.” “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you, but didn’t know how to alert you,” and puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses her. “Gee, boy, what is it with you? — I don’t even know you,” and laughs. “Let’s go up quick,” he says. “Sure, you’re in a hurry for something?” “You.” “Oh my, what passion. What is this, a race for the fastest conquest?” “Nothing like that. Just that I’m also eager to get into your apartment. I got here early; it’s cold down here and waiting on the street.” They go upstairs. Once in she says “Like a drink, anything to eat?” and he says “No, let’s just go to bed, do you mind?” “Wait, we got time, and I’d like a glass of wine and something to nibble on — I’m hungry, what with only an early snack.” “No, really, later, bed now, do what the doctor says, please?” and she says “That could be funny; what do you mean? Oh, all right, give me a moment,” and he says “Only a moment, if it’s to put something in or to pee.” “Those are it, but kiss me again, will you?” and he does, hard, tongue squishing around in her mouth and she says “Mm, mm, I like,” holds up a finger to mean one minute, he supposes, and ducks into the bathroom. He looks at his watch. 11:53. Her clock. 11:51. He gets undressed, down to his undershorts, rubs his penis through the shorts till it’s hard, sticks his hand down and starts jerking it, stops when he hears the bathroom door open, she comes out, “That clock right?” and she says “It’s electric, I set it by some radio program time, why?” and he says “Nothing, just that my watch is all off,” takes her hand, she says “Bedroom’s down there,” he says “Let’s do it right now on the couch,” and takes off her blouse, “Help me out with this,” he says, trying to unhook her bra from behind and she says “You know, I don’t know if I like this. It might be getting late but you’re making me miffed with your rush, whatever-your-name-is,” and he fakes a laugh, says “Sorry,” starts kissing her, she him, gets her bra off, skirt up, panties down, his shorts off, both of them on the couch, rubs her down there for about thirty seconds and then sticks it in, looks at the clock when her eyes are closed and head’s the other way, 11:55, then the last numeral changes to six, pumps harder, she says “Hold it, I’m not even halfway into it yet,” comes. “Oh, that was bundles of fun,” she says, “bundles — for you. Next time don’t forget someone might be doing it with you, maybe even a human being.” “I was overexcited, what can I say?” Looks at his watch. “I should have taken this off. I could have scratched you with it and it somehow shouldn’t be on someone when he or she’s making love.” 11:59. Minus the two from her clock and it’s 11:57, at the most fifty-eight. Later in bed with the lights out she tucks up behind him and rubs his penis but he knows he won’t be able to do it so says “Huh, wha?” and pretends to be asleep. When he wakes up early the next morning he thinks maybe he should tell her why he was in such a rush last night. She’s got a good sense of humor, a nice disposition, so she might even look at it as a big laugh. Anyway, he doesn’t feel good about the deception and she might even suspect something, so out in the open like that she’d be hurt less. If she gets mad, hell with her then. Won’t be any great loss if he doesn’t see her again, and he was being honest with her, so what does she want? He could be a fool, he could say, no less than just about anyone, and if she can’t accept that, he’s sorry but OK. Then his hand, pulling it out from under his leg, lands on her thigh and he strokes it and then glides it along the curve of her behind, starts to get excited and thinks he’s never done it four times in twenty-four hours with any one or two women, at least as far as he can remember. Tries to remember. No, never, three times at the most, which he’s done with two or three women individually and probably with a couple of women too, one in the morning, another the same evening, but not for a few years. If he’d done it four times in twenty-four hours he’d know — it’d stand out. So he starts fondling her breasts, she seems asleep but then seems to awake, plays with her down there, she grabs his penis, turns over to him, says “Let’s just go slowly this time, OK with you?” and he says “Fine,” since he has almost two hours before the twenty-four are up, “any way and as much time as you want.”

He’s in the cottage typing in their bedroom upstairs, wife out for a run, daughter’s downstairs with the new farm set they got her the other day, when a screen door slams, sounds like the one to the porch and he yells “Olivia, what are you doing?” no response, “Olivia, Olivia, you hear me?” nothing, runs downstairs, she’s not in the living room, looks out the back windows, not on the porch or the path going down to the water, runs out the other living room door to the front of the house, not there or on the road going up to the town road, runs around the side of the house and looks underneath it, runs around the other side, yells “Olivia, where are you, answer Daddy now,” runs up to the porch, looks around from it, runs into the house, upstairs, not there, looks out the windows, yells out one of the bedroom windows “Olivia, Olivia, do you hear Daddy? come right back to the house,” listens, runs downstairs, kitchen, out the back way and down the path to the water, stops in front of the boathouse and yells “Olivia, where are you? it’s Daddy, yell you’re OK,” waits, no response, no sounds, runs through the boathouse, looks on the beach, nobody on it, no boats in the water, shouts “Olivia, it’s Daddy, are you on the beach somewhere? answer me,” runs up the path along the creek to the house, shouts for her, then yells “Denise, where are you? stop your run, come back quick, Olivia’s missing, Olivia’s lost; Denise, it’s Howard, I need you to help me find Olivia,” runs back into the house the back way, upstairs, under the bed, behind the clothes on the clothes line, looks out the windows, under her bed in their room, downstairs, bathroom, shower stall, guest room off the porch, back inside the house, behind the couch, where else hasn’t he looked? outside the front way, up to the woodshed on the left, around it, in the woods all around the house, calling for her, runs up their road to the town road a quarter mile away, from the town road shouts for Denise and then her, runs back, stops to stare at all the trees past the field, the big boulders and uprooted trees in the field, runs the rest of the way to the house, upstairs to look around and out the windows, downstairs, guest room, under the house, down to the water, runs a little way along the beach both ways, back to the house shouting for her and Denise as he runs, inside, outside, woodshed, cups his hands and yells loud as he can “Olivia, Olivia, yell for Daddy, yell the word Daddy, yell for me, sweetheart, yell, yell, yell everything’s OK,” listens, “Denise, come quick, Olivia’s not here, I can’t find her, help me to, help me,” bangs his head with his fists, screams “O-liv-i-a,” runs to the back of the house, that’s where he’s almost sure he first heard her go out, wonders where to look next, what to do next, it’ll start to get dark in a couple of hours, maybe hour and a half, he should call the town clerk, the sheriff’s office, the town fire department, they’ll know what to do, in minutes they could have dozens of searchers here, but one more run, down to the water, stands in front of the boathouse and looks up and down the beach, runs right up to the water and looks back at the beach and bushes and trees, runs up the main path, around the house and little way up the road, stops, shouts her name, yells for her to yell she’s here, if she’s in trouble yell help, “Yell anything you want, Olivia, anything, but yell, yell,” listens, bird sounds, wind in the trees, car from somewhere far off, chain saw even farther away, crickets or some insects, runs farther up the road, sees her walking toward the town road about ten feet from her, he’s about a hundred feet away, should he shout? will she know to stop if he doesn’t shout? should he run up without shouting and grab her? she might step onto the town road before he gets there, shout and he might scare her onto the road when she was going to stop at the edge of it, he shouts “Olivia, stop. Olivia, stop. Don’t move another step.” She stops about a foot from the road, turns around and leans her head and body forward as if trying to make out who it is. “It’s Daddy, my sweetheart, stay right there. Don’t move. Don’t do anything, just stand still. Wait till Daddy gets there. In fact, come to me, my darling. Come to me now.” She stays there, still looking at him. What the hell’s wrong? Why’s she doing that? Car shoots past. She turns to it, watches it heading to the point. “Olivia,” he yells, walking to her. Don’t run or she might get scared she did something wrong and run onto the road. “Olivia, look at Daddy.” She turns to him. “Don’t move, sweetheart, stay right there. Just stay there on that spot and don’t move.” Continues walking to her. Van goes past the other way heading to town. She looks at it, turns to him. He continues walking at a normal pace. “Come to me, sweetheart, Daddy wants to give you something.” She doesn’t move. He’s close enough now to see her face seems scared of him or he doesn’t know what. “Anything wrong, sweetheart? Come to Daddy and tell him,” holding his arms out as he walks. Gets about twenty feet from her, smiling so she thinks he’s in a good mood. She just stares. Rattling sounds coming from the point, which she turns to. Car shoots past pulling an empty boat trailer. He walks fast while she’s looking at it, grabs her hand and pulls her down their road a few feet, puts his arms around her and hugs her, then backs up, holds out her hand with one hand and slaps it hard with the other. She starts bawling. He continues holding her with one hand and says “You scared the hell out of me. I slapped you that hard so you’ll remember never to run away like that again. Do you hear me?” She’s crying. “Do you hear what I’m saying?” Still crying, eyes shut tight. “You hear me. I don’t like hitting you but I did it for your own sake. I thought you were lost, that I’d never find you, do you know what that means?” but she’s still crying and he says “OK, but I’m not going to pamper you, it’s too important that you remember the bad you did,” and starts pulling her down the road by her hand, she falls to the ground, intentionally or because she stumbled, and he says “Come on, get up, get up,” and drags her a couple of feet and then picks her up, she’s still crying and puts her head on his shoulder and he lifts it up so she won’t think she can be comforted now, but has to keep holding it up and then says “Oh screw it, you’re smart, you heard and understood everything I said, just please, sweetheart, never run away like that again,” and lets her rest her head, kisses her cheek several times while she’s sobbing, and walks back to the house.

Summer camp. Her name’s Valerie. She’s going with someone for about six weeks, breaks up, smiles at him a couple of times while they’re in a group and other kids are talking, so he thinks he has a chance. She’s short, blond, pretty, a great all-around athlete, doesn’t talk much, he’s pretty shy himself. He and his bunkmates sneak out of their cabin after taps and go to her cabin. He sits at the end of her bed and looks away to his friends mostly, most sitting on other girls’ beds, she mostly looking at her friends lying in their beds, then when his bunkmates think it’s time to sneak back, he moves a little closer, bends over and kisses her. “Would you like to sit together at the movie tomorrow night?” he says. “If they let us.” Next night when the lights in the social hall go out for the movie, he sneaks over to her, she makes room on the bench and they hold hands and for a while he has his arm around her and she leans her head on his shoulder. They dance at the next social almost only with each other, at the lake when all the seniors have an evening cookout they toast marshmallows and roast franks and potatoes and snuggle under a blanket he brought down and kiss a few times under it, kiss at the farewell social when someone shuts all the lights off for about fifteen seconds and yells “All the couples on the dance floor, kiss,” and last day at camp he goes to her cabin, she’s dressed for the city, has stockings and flat shoes on, the stockings are too big or she’s not wearing them right, so her legs look funny, her dress is heavy and looks as if it’s for the winter, they walk a little ways while holding hands, he looks around, no one’s looking, and he kisses her and asks if he can have her phone number in the city, he’ll call in the next few weeks and come out to Williamsburg where she lives. She says “I’d love for you to, but don’t call on the sabbath; that’s when we don’t answer the phone.” He sees her at the bus station in New York a few hours later; she’s with her parents, he’s with his mother and brother, and he waves to her. “Who’s that?” his mother says. “His girlfriend,” his brother says. “Last two weeks of camp they were always together. His first girlfriend and he’s already getting married.” “That true?” his mother says. “You’re too young. Wait a couple more years.” He worries about calling her. What will they do in Williamsburg? What will they talk about a whole afternoon with none of their friends around? Will he have enough money for a date? Suppose she wants to go to a movie in one of the fancier downtown Brooklyn theaters and maybe take a cab there or back and then sandwiches and sodas after in a place he can’t afford? The cab he’ll say no to because he likes going by subway or trolley or whatever they have out there, but he doubts he can say no to the rest. Was she as pretty as he remembers? She looked silly in her city clothes that last day and she might even be in dressier clothes and high heels when he sees her. And he doesn’t have any good clothes. His brother’s are too big unless he rolls up the sleeves of the shirt and doesn’t button the top button and makes the tie with a fat knot, but the rest he doesn’t have any of his own, not even shoes where the leather isn’t cracked. He gets an after-school job, saves up enough in a month to buy a sport jacket and for a date, tries his brother’s pants on and finds he can wear them if he pulls them up very high and belts it tight but also uses suspenders, calls her, she says she thought he’d call sooner, he says he wanted to but was very busy with school and work. “Oh, I suppose I could have called you, but I was told by everyone not to. If he wants to call, he will, and if he doesn’t, he won’t, they all said.” “Who told you that?” and she says “Friends, one who’s been dating someone for a long time, and my mother.” “You spoke to your mother about me?” “Only that I met this nice Jewish boy at camp, one who wasn’t religious or anything but was smart and polite and he may come see me.” He says that’s what he called about, if it’s still all right, and she says she’d love to and gets her father to give him subway directions. The father gets on and says “So where you live, kid? If it’s all the way out in the Bronx, it’s too far to come here, no matter how wonderful my wonderful daughter is.” When she gets back on he says “I don’t think your father likes me,” and she says “Don’t be silly, he has no opinion of you, see you Sunday.” He worries about it all week. She’s too sweet. She’ll say sweet things all the time and how happy she is he came to see her and like that and it’ll be the dullest afternoon of his life. It might get very warm that day and the clothes he has to wear are flannel and heavy wool and he’ll be burning up all the time. He’ll be too shy to say anything, and she could be too shy also, and he doesn’t want to meet her folks, have to sit with them awhile before he and Valerie can go out. She lives too far away. Maybe that most of all. Suppose he gets to like her, what then? He’ll have to go to Williamsburg every time. In the spring it won’t be so bad, since they can go to Coney Island and Rockaway from there, but now he’ll be missing seeing his friends in the city one day every weekend, and if he has to go back and forth twice in one day if he wants her to be with his friends there, half the time of the date will be spent on the train. He wants to call it off but doesn’t know how to. Maybe he could just not show up, then send a letter as an excuse, that he got sick, too sick to call, with laryngitis and bronchitis plus some other throat and chest problems. But then she’ll think why didn’t he get someone like one of his parents to call for him if he couldn’t talk himself? and if they both go back to the same camp next summer as CITs or camper-waiters, everyone there will think he was a liar and rat. Maybe his brother could call for him and say he’s very sick. But his brother says that wouldn’t be the right thing for either of them to do. “If you want to break the date, call her and say you’re very sorry but you have to work at your job that Sunday and that you’ll call her again soon for another date.” “Suppose she says why don’t we make a date now for the next Sunday?” and his brother says ‘Tell her your job’s the kind where it might make you work every weekend for the next month. If your boss doesn’t ask you to do that, which you’ll know in a few days, you’ll call her, and after that you don’t have to call her and she’ll gradually get the message or just not think of you anymore.” Calls, says what his brother told him to, she says “I was really looking forward to it, I had so many interesting things to tell you, but I can understand. My father makes his workers work hard at their jobs too, and it’s also a long trip out here for you.” “The trip’s not it. And it’s not just the job but a ton of schoolwork to do. Reports, a big quiz at the start of the week, and because I’m working weekends, I have to study and do the reports at night.” “You ought to be an Orthodox Jew. Then you wouldn’t have to work and study for school for a whole day. I also have lots of schoolwork to do, but I was going to get it done tonight and tomorrow afternoon so I could have time with you. Well, call if you want to, and if you don’t call or don’t want to, or something, you won’t, I suppose. I think I got that right. It’s what some people told me to say if this ever happened.” “I know. You told me about it last time I called.” “Did I? Then you must think I’m very stupid. Anyway, if you don’t call, I won’t be calling you,” and she hangs up. He feels lousy. He made her sad, disappointed her, he could tell by her voice at the end; she might even have gone out and got special clothes for the date. And she was so nice about it. Didn’t blame him, just accepted it. Maybe he should call her right back and say he just called his boss and told him he can’t work this weekend, or can, but only Saturday. Even if he did call her right back he doesn’t think she’d see him this Sunday or make a date with him anytime soon. Too sad and disappointed. He doesn’t really know what she’d do if he called now, but it was probably the best thing not going out there, and she’ll get over it soon. At least it was final. He thinks of her a few times after that the next few weeks, and a couple of times that he should call her. He doesn’t know any other girls to go out with and she was so pretty and sweet and nice and, because she said she got such good grades in school, smart too, but doesn’t. Next June he crosses the East River by subway on his way to his aunt and cousins in Coney Island and says to his brother “That’s where Valerie, the girl I met last summer, lives; Williamsburg.” He thinks this is Williamsburg because he sees a lot of religious Jews in long beards and black clothes below the elevated station when they’re pulling in and also when her father gave him directions he said “You ever come out to Brooklyn before? If you did and same way by train, Williamsburg station’s the first one over the bridge.” She’s not at camp that summer and next June when he’s going to his aunt and cousins in Coney Island he looks for her in the street from the train windows, looks in the tenement windows the train passes in case by chance she’s in one. If he does see her in the street he’ll say to his brother “Go on without me; I’ll meet up with you there later,” and get off the train before the doors close and run down to say hello to her. Or if she’s in one of the windows, then off the train at the next stop and run or subway back to find her, or call her from a phone booth in Williamsburg. He remembers her last name and street; he could get her phone number. And the coincidence of seeing her from the train and surprise of just running up to her or calling her from a nearby booth would make up for any bad feelings she still might have for him after almost two years, or could. He thinks of her every time after that when he’s going to Coney Island by subway that way, but for some reason never when he’s coming back. Then when he’s around thirty the woman he’s living with says she heard of a good cheap dermatologist in Williamsburg who could take care of her skin problem for half the cost of her Manhattan doctor. Would he go out there with her, since she doesn’t know what kind of neighborhood it is? He doesn’t think of Valerie then but does when they get off the train and look around for the doctor’s street. “I once knew a girl here when I was fourteen or fifteen. Valerie Bubky. I wonder if she’s still living here.” “Hardly likely,” the woman says. “She’s probably married with children and long moved out, and her folks also, for look at this dump. I think we should forget the doctor, get back on the subway before we’re robbed, and call him when we get home that we’re canceling the appointment and that he should probably move away from here also before he gets killed. Why do people always talk about Williamsburg as if it’s someplace special? It’s a bleak shithole.” They go back to the subway and during the ride home he wonders what would have happened if he’d gone on that date with her. He bets he would have seen her the next Sunday also, that they would have started to talk more, liked each other’s company a lot and without needing other kids their age always around. And that Sunday with her would have been his first date. He forgets who his first date actually was. He might have seen her for a year, maybe years. Though her family was orthodox and she said she was too, he might have got her to let him pet her, in a few years to even make love with her. She could have been the first woman he had sex with, since he doubts he would have gone with his friends to prostitutes if he was dating her. He could have continued to see her in college, maybe even married her, had children with her. He could still be with her. She was so pretty and attentive and sweet, always with a smile when she saw him in camp, always glad to see him, and affectionate, a good kisser, and funny sometimes, he remembers — tickling him, once pushing him off a raft into the lake and trying to pull his trunks down in back as he fell, or maybe with both those she was just being flirtatious. Anyway, she could have been the first girl he really loved and who felt the same about him the same time.

Gwen. He’s sixteen and they first meet at a dance at her girls’ private school. Wearing the same perfume she wore every time he later saw her. It did what perfumes are supposed to, made him romantic, dizzy, want to kiss her neck, burrow his nose into her chest. She never let him. With another woman later on, Janine, it was carnation soap she bought by the twelve-box at Bloomingdales, which she and her bathroom and her apartment when the bathroom door was open, usually smelled of. Now he thinks Gwen was too young to wear perfume then. He once bought a box of that soap to remind him of Janine, after she broke their engagement. Once went to Bloomingdales to be sprayed with Gwen’s perfume by one of the first-floor perfume ladies. First time in Paris he bought the smallest bottle there was of it, for his mother, so she’d wear it around the house sometimes and he’d be reminded of Gwen. “Mom, you never seem to put on that perfume I got you,” and she would. On subways and buses or the street when he’d smell it he’d look around quickly, thinking it was she; same with the soap. Used to sneak into his parents’ medicine chest and dab a drop of the perfume on his wrist and later in bed smell it. Always right before he went to sleep so no one would know he had it on and it’d be gone by morning. Goes to the dance with his friends. It’s in the gym and one of the girls’ mothers asks them at the door to sign in. All his friends are in private school. He makes up a name, Poly Prep, and says it’s in Connecticut, and no, he left any kind of I.D. in his dorm but his friends will vouch for him. Sees her talking to some girls. He’s immediately attracted, but how’s he approach her? She’s dressed like a rich girl, flouncy skirt, lace blouse, pearls, stylish hair. One of the girls she’s with sees him staring, maybe is attracted to him — he never found out — and comes over and introduces herself, says this is what they’re supposed to do with all the new boys, so don’t think you’re anything special, and asks what school he’s at, then Gwen comes over and her friend introduces them. Two of his friends saw her when she walked over and made with the eyes and smiles to each other, but he caught their attention and pointed to himself and mouthed “Hands off, she’s mine.” “Poly Prep?” Gwen says. “Sounds like poly pulp. Can it be a real school or are you just a big fake — I won’t tell.” “Fake and a fraud, but don’t get me tossed out; at least not yet.” “Fake and a fraud” was what his father often said about various people he’d just met. The smell, was it coming from her? Bright face, inquiring eyes, good speech, dulcet — word he looked up from a book that week and used a lot — voice, long legs out of this stiff thing under her skirt—“What is that coming out, if I can ask?” pointing. “A crinoline. My parents manufacture them so whenever I step out socially like this I like to be a walking ad. Least I can do for all they’re shelling out for me for this Easter society pri-school.” “Easter what? I don’t get it.” “Try.” Shuts his eyes. Get it quick, she’ll admire it. “Something about Jewish and Gentile all in one?” “No, it’s about what part of town this school’s in. You’ll get it in the end.” Swan’s neck, he thought then, or like a ballet dancer’s. “Like to dance?” holding out his arms. Already giddy with her, saying and doing the wrong things, can’t think straight, Easter society pri-school means what other than private? His hand feels hot in the small of her back, her hand hot on the back of his neck, her other hand smooth in his sweaty one. And it’s from her, the smell. Sees himself nuzzling, kissing, their bodies in skimpy bathing suits on a blanket on a beach squeezed tight. Gets an erection and a big one and she must feel it because she backs up a bit. He wants to say excuse me, to show how sophisticated he is, and if she asks, to even say “For that,” looking or pointing down, “and I truly apologize,” but doesn’t. it’s a fox trot, thank God, only dance he really knows — he’s tried to learn all the popular ones but once he gets out there it always ends up where he has to ad-lib — and during it she says “I had a dream last night I’d fall in love with and marry a proletarian, what do you make of that?” and he says, because he can’t think of any way of making her believe he knows what it is and then later tonight looking it up, “What’s a proletarian?” She says “Come on, don’t kid me,” and he says “Really, what, an iconoclast?” and she says “I know what that is and it’s a good one but it’s not that. No, if you don’t know, that means you’re probably one, though you’re not the fellow in my dream, since this happens in college two years from now,” and he thinks “Did I blow it? Of all the words I know, why couldn’t that be one?” After the music stops and they separate he says “Like to do the next one?” and she says, glancing at his crotch — erection’s gone down without him even noticing it—“In the beginning we’re supposed to give each young man a chance — that’s how it was put to us; I’m not quoting from the Bible. Maybe later, when all the young men are used up,” and after she dances with a few other guys — he was lucky; next one was a lindy, which he’s a real clod at — she disappears. He walks past the girls’ bathroom on that floor several times, looks in some classrooms, goes downstairs to the school entrance, and outside. Oh well, he knows her name, thinks he can get her phone number from someone and if not he’ll call up a few Wakesmans on the West Side where she said she lives or send her a letter care of this school, but he sees her in the gym as he’s leaving and says “Sorry we couldn’t dance again, but would it be OK to call you?” “Sure,” and he says “I’ll need your number,” and she has a pen in her purse but nothing to write on but a dollar bill, he only has coins in his pockets but lies and says his paper money’s in his coat downstairs, so she writes it on his palm and in front of the school he writes it in a friend’s matchbook. He calls her that Monday, takes her to Radio City Music Hall by cab, they go to the restrooms downstairs when they get there and then sit in this big sitting room outside the restrooms while waiting for the next show to begin and he says “You know, I’ve had a dream over and over again about—” “A recurring one.” “Yes. When I was a boy, you see, I went here a couple of times and since then have dreamt about the men’s room here but where it has a hundred urinals in a row on both sides of the room. I just saw there weren’t even twenty altogether — I counted them, but that’s not including the stalls. Uh-oh, maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up, for that’s not very nice talk,” and she says “No, it’s good; conversation I like. So more like that, more. Tell me your deepest dreams; your darkest worries and thoughts. I hate all small talk; it’s boring,” but how does he produce more, for that urinal one might be all he has? He once had a dog he loved who jumped out of a car window and got permanently lost. Once got his tongue stuck to a popsicle and though a man told him not to he panicked and pulled it off. Once while fooling around he fell down a coal chute of an apartment building on his block and a fireman had to climb down and pull him up. Got lost in Central Park during a blizzard and for a while didn’t think he’d make it out. Got hit by cars twice while playing ball on his sidestreet and both times ran home and into bed saying he thought he just came down with the grippe. His sister who’s been so sick with cancer she almost died in the operating room a couple of times. His father who went to prison and now still can’t get his dental license back. “Well, right now, nothing, but there’s plenty of those in me, believe me,” and she says “Then what do you want to do, even though you’re not in college yet, after you get out?” and he says “Something good for mankind. A doctor, but not for money but for missionary work, though not connected to any religion. Unfortunately, I’m not good in the sciences. But my dad says I don’t have to be and that he’ll get me into dental school if I want, because once there it’s all practical stuff.” “But you don’t want to be a dentist, putting your nose in people’s mouths,” and he says “No, a doctor, but medical school he doesn’t think he can get me into with just a C average, which is all I’ve ever been, and also because he has no connections there, so I don’t know what to do. But when you think of it, people have bad teeth everywhere and it causes so much pain and the relief of it’s just as great as taking out a cancer, and I have to admit my father’s a dentist, but not practicing these days. But just to go to Africa — maybe I’ll learn French better and go to med school in Switzerland or someplace like I heard people do who can’t get in here — and to work with poor starving natives and in the deepest bush.” “That’s nice. Money doesn’t concern you. That’s great, but you have such a long trek ahead. I’d like to be an artist of any sort — but a creator, not an interpreter — and right now I’m going about trying to determine which one. Maybe I’ll be a triple or quadruple threat in several artistic fields, and with a number of hats on my head in each one.” He doesn’t get the hat expression, but nods, says it sound exciting, he once thought of art for himself too. Painting, which he used to do slews of as a kid and some of his school art teachers thought he was pretty good at, and even acting, which he thinks you can be a creator in, though maybe she’s right, but he doesn’t have enough talent for either or not compared to lots of people he’s seen his age. “My feeling,” she says, “and you know, I’m only starting out, but it’s if you don’t believe in yourself completely from the beginning in those fields, it’s best to stay out of them. So you probably made the right decision, early as it was.” The movie’s about young concert performers — the reason he took her to it; classical music, maybe an intelligent story in it — and in the cab home he asks and she says she’s grateful he took her but the plot and music were for the most part for people who only feed on sweets. “You noticed no Bartok, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, any of the modernists. You know why? Most people would run out of the theater, or worse, not go in.” Stravinsky he thinks he heard of, but the others? but he says “There’s something to what you say. But a little of it, I have to admit, like that Mendelssohn violin thing running through it, I kind of liked and think I’ll get a recording of it. I got the name of the real player of it from the closing credits, which is why I made you sit through them. Francescatti.” Oh, she says, she knows his Prokofiev and Bach. She lets him kiss her at the door. “Can I call you again?” and she says “Sure, call,” and he says “Maybe we can make a date now — I’ve been invited to what should be a great party next Saturday,” and she says “I don’t have my calendar on me or know what my obligations at home will be next week. Best to call.” He bends down to kiss her but she moves aside and says “One, for now, is enough.” Next two days he thinks he can still smell her perfume on his sport jacket in his closet, but his brother takes a whiff and says he’s imagining it. “Just sweat; you ought to get it dry-cleaned if you want anybody to go out with you.” Calls that Tuesday; Monday would seem he was too much in a hurry. “Hi, I was wondering if you’d like to go to that party I mentioned,” and she says it turns out she’s busy all weekend, and when he asks, the next one too. He says he’ll call again if she doesn’t mind and she says OK. “By the way, how are you, what have you been doing?” and she says “Nothing much, and fine, there’s little that ever gets me down, but you know how I feel about small talk. So I’ll be speaking to you, Howard.” Howard, his name, that she was saying it, he was going crazy for her. Draws her face and figure in that crinoline dozens of times, kisses his pillow several times pretending it’s her. He loves everything about her. Looks, manners, mannerisms, intellect, clothes, tastes, gracefulness, cute younger sister who came out to see him that first date, that she and her sister share their own listed phone, her fancy East Side friends and school, fine old apartment building and apartment with a wide Hudson view, doormen, elevator men, flowers in the lobby, flowers in that little foyer right outside their front door, maid who wore a black and white uniform when there weren’t even guests and called him Mr. Tetch, way the place was furnished and that Gwen brought him into the living room to meet her parents who were having coffee after dinner, father with a tie on and in what looked like a lounge jacket, mother also in elegant stay-at-home clothes and with this aristocratic voice and both getting up to shake his hand, paintings he was shown there, real drawings — with little frame lights above them — by Titian and Rembrandt, books she said she was reading, small poetry book she took to the movie in case, she said, she had a few extra minutes when let’s say he went to look for a cab, thin soft lips and beautiful teeth, that she had a cat. Calls the Tuesday after the next and she says she’s busy the following weekend, “Oh, that’s too bad. Is there any weekend you won’t be busy — in other words, maybe the first Friday or Saturday night where you won’t?” and she says “I never make plans for more than the coming weekend — that last time was an aberration.” “An aberration. OK,” he says angrily, “an aberration,” and hangs up, hoping his anger and hanging up and no good-bye will somehow interest her in him more; that he draws the line, has feelings, takes no crap, is like what she originally liked in him it seems, a strong proletariat. Right after that he gets depressed, doesn’t know how he’ll make it till next Tuesday or Wednesday when he’ll call. Tuesday; Wednesday and she’ll be busy for sure the next weekend or at least will have a good excuse: he called too late. And “aberration,” and he writes it down way he thinks it’s spelled, looks it up, it isn’t in his dictionary, asks his mother what it means since she’s known most of the big words he’s asked her about before. “Why?” she says. “Because I heard someone use it.” “In what capacity?” and he says “That knowing what you’ll be doing two weekends in a row is an aberration.” “That’s not how it’s used,” and tells him what it means and spells it out for him and he finds it this time. He calls the next Tuesday and first thing she says is “Did you hang up on me last week?” and he says “No, I might have just said good-bye very softly, why?” and she says “Because if you did I’d think, hey, this fellow isn’t worth answering the phone for if he’s going to unload all his belligerence on me.” “Not me,” he says and asks her out and she says there would have been a definite possibility if she didn’t have so many extracurricular activities this week like tap dance and singing lessons and an Italian class she’s starting and she also models at the Art Students League one night a week, all of which means she’ll be studying the whole weekend for her midterms.” “You model? Not in the nude.” “Yes, it’s for artists.” “How do your parents let you? You’re so young. Or even the art school?” and she says “I told the League I’m nineteen, since I feel I act it and could look it. As for my parents, they’re both artists in their souls but business people to keep their souls alive and bodies fed, and they trust me. It’s only the top part anyway, not that I wouldn’t model the bottom part if they needed it. I was asked by an instructor there who sat on the stool next to mine at the health food lunch place near the League and thought I’d be perfect for the pose he had in mind.” “Oh yeah, and God knows what he’s going to ask you to do next,” and she says “You really don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You’re absolutely right and I’m sorry,” and asks her out for the weekend after next—“Anyone can repeat an aberration once, I’d think”—and she says “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” but in a nice voice and when she says good-bye she says “So I suppose I’ll be hearing from you,” which gives him the confidence she’ll say yes the next time. Calls the next Tuesday, she says she’s sorry, she’s busy that weekend, he says “Busy busy bizwax — with what, voice lessons, studying again, cooking school?” and she says “You sure sound cynical today,” and he says “I’m not, or didn’t mean to be; go on, tell me what your plans are, though of course you don’t have to and I don’t know why I asked,” and she says “No, I’ll be honest; I don’t mind. I have appointments Friday and Saturday nights,” and he says “You mean with guys, or just one,” and she says “Yes, with two fellows I know,” and he says “Guys you’ve been going out with, right?” and she says yes and he says “Then I guess I’ll give up then, right?” hoping she’ll say don’t or he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, and she says “If that’s how you feel; excuse me, but good-bye,” and hangs up. She was mad. That could mean a couple of things, one good, one bad. Somehow in her voice when she seemed mad it also seemed she was saying I’m mad because you made me mad but I’m not that mad where you don’t have to call again. And if she’s seeing two guys, it means she’s not serious with one. No, he’s crazy, what’s he talking about, goddamn stupid idiot, and picks up the receiver and slams it down on its cradle, bangs the night table it’s on with his fist, receiver jumps off and falls to the floor and he wants to grab it and smash it against the table, rip it out of the phone and wrap the wire around his neck and pull it tight till it hurts and cuts and leaves marks; puts the receiver down and grits his teeth and tears come and a sinking empty sickening feeling in his chest and he says “Oh shit, why the hell not, what the hell’s wrong, why’d I even start, who the hell you think you are, you skinny rotten bitch?” and covers his face with his hands and digs his nails into his skin, and then his mother knocks on the door and says through it “May I come in now, Howard? — after all,” since it’s his parents’ bedroom, and he says “Sure, sorry, I’m done here,” and passes her with his head down and she says “Anything the matter, dear?” and he says “Well, you know, but I’ll be all right,” and to get to sleep that night after everyone’s in bed he sneaks open the liquor cabinet in the living room and takes several swigs of Canadian rye and sits there till he starts to yawn. A friend tells him she’s going out with two guys, a junior at Yale and a grad student at NYU. “The Yalie’s very rich, not Jewish, an athlete and a scholar in English lit I think. The other guy’s a poor Brooklyn or Bronx Yid and supposed to be real handsome and smart, always on total scholarship, and on his way to making a million in advertising or TV.” “Him — both of them,” Howard says, “have to be too old for her — I mean, she’s barely sixteen,” and his friend says “She seems to have her parents’ permission, according to this girl who knows, so what can I tell you?” He sends her a letter saying “If you’re interested in going to a movie one of these days, let me know,” and gives his phone number and address. She doesn’t contact him. He thinks of her every day, calls her three months after they last spoke, she says “Hello, how are you, it’s been so long,” and he asks her out to a movie the next Saturday afternoon and she says she’d love to. She takes a tomato from the kitchen as they leave her apartment, offers him the first bite on the street, he says it’d be too sloppy and he doesn’t much like tomatoes, “I adore them,” she says and bites into it without making a mess and eats it as they walk to the theater, holding it in front of his mouth when she’s almost finished with it and says “Sure you don’t want some? It’s going fast,” and he wants to, just to put his mouth where her lips did and to show he’s not obstinate and takes chances, but says no. She smiles and chews the last of it and he thinks he loves everything she does; it’s awful. She leans her head on his shoulder about fifteen minutes into the movie, he thinks should I? and decides to and kisses her hair and then her cheek and then very quickly her lips. She didn’t stop him or look up at him and her eyes were closed when she kissed him so he waits what he thinks is about five minutes and then kisses her hair, cheek and lips and then a long kiss and tries to open her mouth with his tongue, thinking if she lets him do this then he really might be starting something with her, but she pulls away and says “Too fast, too far, let’s just be kids,” and kisses her finger and puts it on his lips and he says “Sure, whatever you like.” Outside the theater he asks how she liked the movie and she says she’s in a hurry to get home, can they get a cab? or just she’ll get one, and he says “But it’s only three blocks, and it’s not raining,” and she says “Don’t worry, I’ll pay.” “That’s not it; I’m working and I’m certainly not cheap,” and hails a cab, tells her in it he had wanted to go for a bite after the movie but OK, maybe the next time, and she says, getting out of the cab, “It’s a date.” He says “Hey, I’m not taking this to my house,” and pays, but she’s already walking into her building, waving at him. He calls her when he gets home for a date next weekend and the housekeeper who answers says “She was only here but gone out.” Calls her the next day and she says “What is it?” and he says “I wanted to take you up on what you said yesterday and make another date, maybe even an evening one, but I guess it’s hopeless — somehow, your voice.” “I think it is,” and he says “I don’t get it. You were so nice at the movie, we had fun, even walking to it—” and she says “Don’t.” “So it doesn’t make a difference what I say or we did?” and she says “Not in the slightest, and please understand I’m not being malicious saying that. I like kissing and you’re a nice fellow but I’m simply not interested in you the way you are in me.” “How are you interested in me then?” and she says “Whatever way it is, it’s not amorous, is that now clear?” and he says “OK, I got it finally,” and slams the receiver down and feels miserable for a week. Calls her a month later and she says “Oh, hello?” and he asks what she’s been up to lately and she talks a little about what she’s been doing and then there’s silence so he starts in about what he’s been doing recently and then she says “That’s nice, great, well, I’ll have to say good-bye now,” and he says “Any chance we can meet?” and she says “Howard, I’m still not interested. If you only wanted to be friends, that’d be a different thing.” “OK, as friends, would you like to go to an art museum today?” and she says “Not this week, I’m busy.” “Next week then?” and she says “I don’t want to make plans so far ahead,” and he says “Then you don’t want to be friends; you don’t want to be anything. All right. So screw you, friend,” and hangs up. Oh God, that’s it, that has to be it, for me, her, definitely for me and I’m sure she’ll never talk to me again, and bangs his parents’ bed with his fists and screams “Goddamn it, shit, shit,” and starts tearing at his hair. His parents think he’s going crazy and have his brother speak to him. It snows that night and the next day he walks in the park and kicks drifts in just a T-shirt and pants and shoes without socks so he can get a cold and pneumonia and die. Sees her on the street several months later and she waves to him and he waves to her as she goes down her block. She smiled when she waved. Maybe she’s changed her opinion about him somewhat, wouldn’t mind him calling her. Calls, says it was nice seeing her on the street and how is she? and she says “Listen, I’m busy this week, if that’s what you were eventually going to ask, but thanks for calling.” “Maybe next week?” and she says she’s going away for the weekend, and for the month after that to Southern France for the Easter break. He’s waiting tables in the neighborhood Schrafft’s a year later when she comes in with two other girls and sits at another station. He pretends not to see her. Sees her in a mirror looking at him. All three have ice cream sodas and one of them has a sandwich. In the kitchen he tells their waiter “I know one of the girls at your four-table. Used to go out with her — the beautiful slim dark-haired one.” “Her, beautiful? Eh, so-so. But put the word in for them to give me a big tip.” “No, it’s all over and I have no influence with her, but she’s got lots of family dough, so I’m sure you’ll do OK.” “Then get tight with her again. She’s a good-looker, they all got juicy nookies, true? and if she’s that rich and you can go into her dad’s business, forget college; you’ve got it made.” He’s passing her table with a tray of dirty dishes, still pretending not to know she’s there, and she says “Howard,” he looks at her, “Oh hi, Gwen, hello,” she introduces him to her friends and says “Since when do you work here?” and he says “It’s a good place, lots of actors and writers working as waiters, so an interesting group, and it’s in walking distance from home,” and she says “I know that, but I meant for how long?” and he says “Few weeks. Look-it, the manager’s a crab when I talk to personal friends who aren’t my customers, so nice to see you,” all in a voice and with an expression that he couldn’t care less that he saw her, and smiles and says “Nice to meet you” to her friends. Watches her through mirrors or the kitchen door window from then on and after she leaves he asks her waiter how he did and he says “You didn’t do your part well — almost a whiff,” and he says “I’m really surprised. The tip must have been left up to one of the other girls, for she was always pretty free with her cash.” Leaving the restaurant he thinks maybe she’ll call him. For the next few weeks he looks at the restaurant door every time someone comes in, hoping it’ll be she, alone or with her sister, parents or friends. If she does come in, he’ll turn away, do his chores, ignore her even through mirrors, and then pass her table with dirty dishes, or with food for customers this time, and be surprised to see her when she speaks to him, or speak to her first this time and later, if she’s alone or with her sister, maybe ask if she’d like to meet him when he gets off. About a half year later he sees her passing the standees’ line he’s on outside the Metropolitan Opera House. “Gwen!” “Howard,” she says, “hi, I’m way in back, only came up to see how long the line is.” “It’s long; I don’t know if you’ll ever get in. You an opera buff? I didn’t know that.” “No, I like it; never saw Faust though and always wanted to.” “Well come on, slip in here.” She starts to, guy behind him says “Wait a minute, that isn’t fair,” and he says “I was expecting her; she didn’t think I’d get here so early to get this far in front,” and pulls her in. She thinks what he did — by her face — bold, and maybe what he said quick and clever. “You’re alone I hope,” he whispers into her ear. “Otherwise, I’m sure Charlie won’t allow anyone else in.” “I’m alone. You know him?” and he says “No, just based on his face and what he said, I was giving him a name. No meaning; just my usual nonsense, I suppose,” and she says “I’m not sure you can gauge much from superficial contact with someone and only one expression on his face. And he’s justified in how he acted, since I did cut in and what if they close him out right after us?” and he thinks Oh shit, here I go blowing it again, acting the snob, which I’m not. Think what you’re going to say; make everything hit; for a few hours she’s all yours and this might be your last chance. He asks and she tells: bit of fashion modeling, been learning Hindi, ice-skating a lot, was in an experimental film that got some attention — a western made in New Jersey if he can believe it — and is preparing to go to college. The line moves. They talk some more in the lobby during intermission. People stare at her she’s so beautiful or maybe they’ve seen her in the movie and fashion ads. After the second act she says her feet are tired, she doesn’t much like the opera and there are two more acts, so she has to go. “I’ll go with you. I’ve seen it several times and I have to be at work early tomorrow. I’m starving besides, since I came straight here from night school. Like to have a bite somewhere nearby?” and she says it’s really getting quite late. He says “Want to go by cab?” and she says she likes subways; so full of characters and life, especially at night. During the ride she says “No need for you to go with me all the way,” and he says he wouldn’t think of letting her walk home alone from the subway stop. She says “I do it all the time. It’s reasonably safe and I can handle myself well. I carry a canister of mace and I’ve developed my diaphragm through voice and acting lessons where my screams would be heard for blocks.” In front of her building she says he can’t come up. Her folks are there and they object these days to midweek dates. “Wouldn’t think of it, my dear, wouldn’t think of it,” and shakes her hand. She leans forward, her lips out, he hopes to kiss his and waits to see, and she pecks his cheek. Maybe if he’d leaned down to her she would have done it, but probably not. “Good night, nice seeing you again,” and swivels around and walks away whistling and looking up at the sky and thinking what should be his strategy now? Don’t call her for weeks; considering his history with her, she’ll be mystified. He calls two days later and she says that was fun that opera night but what she neglected telling him is she’s seriously mixed up with a Dartmouth man and has promised him she wouldn’t see anyone else when they’re apart. “Oh shucks,” he says, “a little movie or something won’t hurt.” “I can’t. I’d have to lie to him — he’s very strict about this dictum, living like a celibate up there, all work and no women. And if I did tell him it’s all innocence and old friendship between us, he’d still get incredibly jealous and mad.” “Oh well,” he says, “maybe some other lifetime. See ya,” and gently hangs up. He cuts his hair short in front of the bathroom mirror, cuts his sideburns off, looking at the mirror over his shoulder, shaves the hair on his neck. He feels the hair on top and the sides, he can still grab some, and cuts it even more. Doesn’t know why, other than it had something to do with her, of course, but he suddenly felt prissy and like some fake artist with all those curls on his head and over his ears, and a little unclean. He asks some people in the film department at his college if they know of an experimental western made recently which which might have got some good reviews, but nobody can think of anything coming close to that other than High Noon and Shane. About a year later someone mentions a film like that and gives the title and he sees it at an art movie house and either she gave a different name for the credits and he didn’t recognize her in it or this one wasn’t it. He next sees her in a photography magazine. A friend shows him the full-page photo. Very high-fashion pose, and she’s holding a smoking cigarette, though she never smoked when he knew her. Buys the magazine at a stand, though it’s very expensive, cuts the page out and puts it in a book he’s reading, and every now and then at school and work, takes it out to look at. Guy sitting next to him in the department store employees’ cafeteria says “Who’s the chick — some new actress? Never saw her before.” “You want to hear something crazy? I used to go out with this piece of ass.” “Yeah, me too, me too, was even married to her once.” “No, it’s the god’s honest truth. Gwendolyn Wakesman. I even know her middle name, which it doesn’t give here: Cora. Year and a half younger than I. When we were in high school, though she went to a fancy private and I to a junky public. And we were in love, or maybe I was more with her than she was with me, and I was the first to ball her also, and her second, third, fourth, all the way to maybe her fiftieth.” “You’re full of it,” the guy says. “Knew you wouldn’t believe it. Only thing wrong with her was that her calves were too fat and she smoked. I can’t stand smoking. I get these physiological reactions to it — sneezing, trouble breathing, besides getting irritated; that’s why I’m sitting in the corner here, away from all those chimneys around us. And she smoked those smelly French cigarettes — she was kind of a phony also but not enough of one for me not to go out with someone so beautiful and to say no to screwing her, and I was sure that part of her personality would go away with age. Anyway, it was because of that smoking that I broke up with her. What a schmuck I was.” “Good story, but I think you’re still full of it.” “What can I say that I haven’t already? Kill me for it.” Next sees her in the Metropolitan Museum. He’s going up the big flight of stairs, she’s coming down. “Gwen?” he says, for a moment, because of her shorter differently styled hair, not sure. “Well, hi, how are you? My, we always seem to meet in the more cultural places. But I have to run. See you at Carnegie Hall next, yes?” Watches her go. Body fuller, face as beautiful, still the same perfume smell and artistic clothes. Maybe if it was just lunch she was going to he should have said “Want to go to the cafeteria here?” Follows her downstairs but at a distance of about a hundred feet. If she turns and sees him he’ll say “Sorry, didn’t want you to think I was following you, which is why I kept at such a distance, but I realized I originally came here to see the Greek collection.” She leaves the museum. He watches her hurry down the steps, hail a cab. Next sees her at Rockefeller Plaza. He’s sitting on one of the long concrete planters, reading, waiting for Janine, when someone says “Howard.” Looks up. “Oh my God. Gwen, Jesus, howaya, what’s going on uh…” “You look great, Howard; different, natty, all the rage, and your face; blooming.” “Not me, but—” “No, life’s got to be going smooth for you. What have you been up to?” and he says “Nothing unusual, as usual. Actually, things are going OK, thank you. Job, personal life.” “You just plunk down here to read on this gorgeous day or are you waiting for someone? For if you’re not doing anything too important, we can talk while you walk me to Fifty-seventh Street where I’ve an appointment.” “I’d love to but I am waiting for someone. My fiancée, as a matter of fact. I’m on my lunch hour. My job starts at noon, so it might sound peculiar saying lunch hour at four or so, but I’m a newsman.” “So. Good luck then, in everything. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again, and my best to your fiancée.” She puts out her cheek and he kisses it. “Before you go,” he says, “and I know it’s almost a mandatory question, or at least from one of the parties, when two people from the past meet after a few years, but you see any of the old people we knew?” “Who might they be? We didn’t know anyone mutually, did we?” “Robin Richards? … The fellow who used to say “The nose knows’? He had an unusually long nose, which now probably people look at as handsome, but he always had lots of gossip and social information to give out, so he made fun of himself with the nose line.” She’s still shaking her head. “I thought he crossed both our crowds. He went to Trinity. Then Ellen Levin? I didn’t know her that well, really not at all, but I certainly remember her.” “Her name’s not familiar either,” and he says “Ellen Levin, or Levine, or Levine,” pronouncing it the other way. She was your best friend at school, I thought. Tall, pretty, bouncy blonde. Father had a hamper factory.” “No,” she says. “Then Helen? Evelyn? I don’t think ‘Eleanor.’ Because I remember first talking to her at your school dance, night I first met you, and then she introduced us, or you just came over and introductions were made all around, because she thought we’d get along or saw I was mainly interested in you and not her.” “Is that where we first met? I thought it was after a movie.” “No. And maybe I got her last name wrong, but I’m sure her first name was something like Helen or Ellen.” “I’ve never known a Helen or Ellen.” “Everyone in New York’s known an Ellen.” “Then in high school or college. And I did always think we met after a movie. I still do. I even know what movie. Modern Times, at the New Yorker. You came up to me after it, in that lobby-entranceway where they have that enormous refreshment stand and long vertical box with movie calendars for the next few months, and asked what I thought of the movie and we had coffee or tea at a coffeehouse nearby, or you asked me.” “I don’t even think the New Yorker was the New Yorker when we first met. It was the Stoddard or something. And the only movie we ever went to — no, there were two, but the first was Rhapsody, with Elizabeth Taylor and Vittorio Gassman — the one about music. They’re music students, concert performers. But young. And some other actor. John someone. A flash in the pan, pretty face, no talent, but the male romantic lead. Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto was also in it, I think, all over the place, and another schmaltzy piece — Rachmaninoff’s Second or Tchaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto. All I know is I loved the music then.” “No, I never saw it.” “At Radio City Music Hall. It was our first date. We sat for a while in the waiting room outside the two big restrooms downstairs.” “I thought our first date was at the Metropolitan Museum. You showed me all the paintings you knew something about, talked nonstop about them, I guess to impress me. I was so young I didn’t mind being impressed by a knowledgeable young man, especially about anything involving art.” “No. We once met there — the last time, in fact — several years ago. We were going in opposite directions on the grand stairway there. It was very brief, hello, not even a how’s-by-you, and then you ran as fast as anybody could run down those steps and I, I’ve got to admit, followed you out of the museum, or at least to the top of the steps, and watched you get into a cab.” “Why’d you do that?” “Because, because, why do you think? A bitten smitten. I mean, maybe not then — at the museum. Then probably I was following you to see what had interested me — maybe even obsessed me — for so long about you.” “You were that way about me?” “Are you crazy? Excuse me, but how could you say that? When I was sixteen, and then seventeen, eighteen and ninteen or so, I would have put my head under a speeding car’s wheel for you. I in fact almost did do something like that for you once. I walked out of my house — no, I should shut up.” “Go on, if you want. It’s long ago — unless it embarrasses you. It doesn’t me.” “With only a shirt on — a short-sleeved — you know, not an undershirt—” “A T-shirt.” “That’s right, and pants and shoes too, of course, but no socks. To get pneumonia. In the freezing cold and snow, that’s what I mean. So you’d hear about it later — from Robin Richards or through him to someone you knew — that I died or at least got very sick. And you’d be worried, concerned, upset, call me, want to see me — in the hospital room where I was recovering, for instance — then out of pity or something bordering on affection, start seeing me again but exclusively.” “We never really saw each other. It wasn’t even close to that.” “I know. But that’s how I felt. But all of that — the movie; movies, actually. I forget what the other one was but it was at Loew’s 83rd or RKO 81st. And bumping into me not only at the Met museum but at the old opera house Met and standing in the orchestra standing room section with me to see Faust, plus my feelings for you then — none of it rings a bell?” “I remember the opera. I met you there by accident, I think, though whether I stood with you inside or sat alone or with someone else — and certainly whether it was upstairs or downstairs where we stood, if we did — I forget.” “We stood alone. I stood behind you. We took the subway back to the West Side together. Before we took the subway I asked if you wanted to have a snack. Asked you outside or in the lobby after you wanted to leave after the second or third act. I stood behind you at the opera so you could see. I mean, that’s not why I told you I was standing behind you, though I might have, but that’s why I did it.” “Well that was very nice of you if that’s what you did. And whether it was Modem Times and at the New Yorker theater where I first met you, I could also be mistaken. My memory’s never been one of the keenest. Though I do feel sure it was at an art movie house where we first met — the Thalia perhaps. And that you struck up a conversation about the movie, to get to meet me I realized and didn’t mind, and we had coffee after or we didn’t. Maybe I’m getting all the art movie houses mixed up with the art coffeehouses — and then you phoned me a few times. Unfortunately, or quite truthfully, I couldn’t go out with you or wasn’t interested. It could have been I was seeing someone at the time. Though I’m almost certain I did go with you once to the Metropolitan Museum. Probably just an innocent Sunday afternoon date. And then for the next few years I kept running into you at various palaces of culture in the city. Carnegie Hall, I believe.” “No. Carnegie Hall is the place you said, when I bumped into you at the museum Met, ‘Well, I suppose we’ll next meet each other there.’ Meaning, at another palace of culture.” “Then the Modern.” “Never the Modern. I would have remembered. Of all places, that’s the one I most wanted to go to with you. And to also have a snack in the garden restaurant there, or if it was too cold, the one inside. Never the Modern. Never Carnegie Hall.” “But places like that. As I said, my memory was never that sharp, but I never thought it was this bad. Anyway, it’s been nice talking with you, Howard. Again, my regards to your fiancée. See? I remember I said that.” “Listen, she’ll be here any second. She’s usually late, but not this much, and I’m sure she’d like meeting you.” “I’m already very late.” “You also might be interested in her. She was an actress, pretty successful at it from the time she was ten, but gave it up. She even did TV soap operas and a couple of drama shows and made Broadway three years ago, in a good play, as far as the critics were concerned, and she’s friends with a couple of women who went to Sarah Lawrence and you went there, didn’t you?” “I graduated last year, but I don’t have the greatest memories of the place or the people in my class, so I’d rather not talk about it. Well, Howard, I’ll see you again I’m sure,” and heads uptown. Years later he’s living with a woman who once took a class at the Sarah Lawrence continuing ed school and for some reason was being sent the alumni magazine. He always reads the alumni news in it for the year Gwen graduated. She’s never listed. Years after that he’s seeing a woman and they’re at the apartment of a friend of hers and he asks where the bathroom is. The friend says “I think the one off the living room’s filled; there’s another in my bedroom.” He goes to it. On the night table is the latest Sarah Lawrence alumni magazine. He takes it to the bathroom, turns to the alumni news for Gwen’s year and looks at it while pissing. Nothing about her. Puts the magazine back on the night table and sees a stack of alumni magazines on the radiator. He goes through about ten of them before finding something about Gwen from two years ago. She’s produced documentaries on nature, done public television writing, “ghostwritten a poetical biography of a dying city,” finished a “mastodonic novel which I decided would never get published and if published, never be received well, so I immediately trunked,” took up residence in five cities in three countries in the last eight years “doing work research on I won’t say what or with whom and I hope the finished results won’t show,” been married and divorced twice, no children and “because of all the undertakings I feel I still have to do and get done, I doubt I’ll have any — my loss, not theirs,” is now living and painting in a “saintly little town in the mountains near Santa Fe, something I’ll most likely be doing for the rest of my life, for I feel I’ve finally found my art form.” “She gives,” the class correspondence secretary says, “no address, and no one should even attempt to reach her through New Mexico phone information, since for the next two years she’s in self-imposed solitary without so much as a flush toilet, running faucet, mailbox or phone, refining her work for a solo showing at what I’m sure will be a prominent NYC gallery. Gwen also writes she’s periodically gloomy because of her solitude but has never been more creative in her life — this from the one who was Ms. Creativity in our class for four straight years, and we had some winners. For companionship she says she has several sheep, horses, innumerable cats and a hundred-ten-pound Great Pyrenees named Fluffy to protect her from real mountain lions, bobcats and bears. Gwen only answered my inquiry — which came via a family member of hers, so don’t think I have her address — to spare me the task of trying to track her down for the next ten years. Her parting words — and I apologize if she didn’t mean for me to print any of them, even if I’m sure she doesn’t get the alumni mag and wouldn’t read anything about herself if she did — were ‘Right now I’m solely and totally involved with my animals, artwork, and putting the finishing touches on my house’ (which she built all by herself, I forgot to say, and without the help of electric screwdrivers and saws) ‘but no people, and if all that sounds phony if not pathalogical, so be it.’ It doesn’t, Gwen. It sounds heavenly. From all of us: Follow your star.” He reads art reviews and announcements of art exhibits in the New York Times for the next few years, but she’s never mentioned, nor have any artists he knows heard of her work. During this time a friend who’s a writer gives him a literary magazine with two of his stories in it. One’s about a woman named Gwen Wakesman. In it the fictional character has a blind date with her when he’s eighteen, French-kisses her on the first date, feels her breasts through her bra on the second, gets his hand in her underpants on the third, makes love with her in her apartment — her parents are in the Caribbean and her sister and the housekeeper went to the circus — on the next date. On the fifth date he teaches her how to go down on him without hurting him — she says it’s her first time — and how to position her body so he can stick it into her behind — and they see each other for a year, having sex almost every time they meet, before he dumps her for her best friend. She becomes very upset over this, gets a room in a cheap hotel and calls him and says she’s going to slit her wrists in the grubby bathtub, and she brought the razor blade to do it with, unless he spends the night with her there. He comes, undresses her, carries her to bed kissing her, then drops her on the floor and beats her up. “Now do you believe we’re finished?” “Finished,” she says. “And you’re not going to do anything stupid again? Because if you are I’m going to really mess up your face” “Nothing. I was wrong to threaten you.” “Good. Now get dressed, clean yourself up and I’ll take you home.” Two days later she commits suicide. He goes to the funeral, gets on his knees in front of the open coffin and screams he’s sorry for his heartlessness and prays for her to be alive again. He has a vision there that she steps out of the coffin and pats his head and says “Don’t fret, my darling; it was more my fault than yours. I depended too much on our love affair going well. I was young and impulsive and ignorant and I forgive you with all my heart.” That night he sleeps with her best friend, who was also at the funeral — they had dinner and saw a movie after — and he says “Don’t ask me why but the sex just now was the best in my life. I thought I saw God. Maybe I did if he looks a lot like what the ancient painters depict him as in so much of their art.” “I almost reached that state also,” she says, “or maybe I did. I know there was a lot of clearing and light.” “No, you’re supposed to know a mystical experience when it happens to you, there is no probably or maybe. But it was good, right? You explain it, because I can’t. And now I’m not only still feeling the buzz from my come but I also feel no remorse over Gwendolyn anymore whatsoever. I truly believe she forgave me today,” and she says she still feels remorse just a little but she thinks she’ll get over it in time, and they go at each other again. Howard calls his friend and says “You knew Gwen Wakesman?” and he says “Yeah, you too? I went out with her when I was around twenty. I changed my age a little for the story.” “You know she’s not dead, of course. She’s living near Santa Fe, or was, up till about three years go.” “She’s still there but on a reservation now, learning how to make indianlike jewelry, silver and rugs. I’m in touch with someone who met her.” “So how much of the rest of the story’s true?” “You ask that of an author? You should be ashamed of yourself. Besides, you haven’t said what you thought of it.” “Some of it though, right?” and his friend says “What do you think? I went out with her for months and my libido hasn’t changed since I was a sex-starved five.” “But you’re such a putz. What the fuck did she ever see in you and why in hell didn’t you at least change her name? You can’t use someone’s real name like that. It’s demoralizing; it’s degrading. You’re a total schmuck as a writer and the biggest shit as a person — no, the reverse. No, both, and I never want to see your scummy face again,” and his friend hangs up. Couple of years later he’s at a dinner party and the woman he sits beside at the table talks about herself, grew up in Lake Forest, boarding school in New Hampshire, summers in coastal Canada or Spain, graduated Sarah Lawrence—“Oh, what year?” “Sixty-two.” “A year after Gwen Wakesman. Did you know her there?” “No I didn’t. There were always two groups, academic-aesthetic and the finishing school types. She must have been in the other.” “Which one were you in?” and she says “Are you belittling me? The academic-aesthetic.” “That would have been the one she was in too.” “If she was I would’ve known her, even if she was a year before me. We all interweaved.” “She’s been in the alumni magazine. I’ve read it. As an artist living outside Santa Fe.” “I don’t read that silly magazine. It’s only published to raise money from the finishing school types in exchange for them telling us the names of their newest horse, boat or island and for the few a-a egotists in every class to talk endlessly about themselves and to promote their book tours and art exhibits and plays they’re in.” “I’m sure she would have been in the artistic group at school.” He next sees her name in the obituary notice for her father. Surviving are his wife Gladys, daughter Gwendolyn Leigh-Balicoff, and two grandchildren, Olympia and Augustine. So she might have got married again and the kids could be hers or her sister’s. She might even have adopted a couple of Indian children. But no mention of her sister. She die? Then it would have said “deceased.” They disown her? Weeks later he looks up her father’s name in the phone book; they’ve moved to Park Avenue, if it’s the same Philip. Calls to find out where she’s living. An older woman answers. If Gwen had he thinks he would have immediately hung up. “Hello, I’m trying to reach Gwendolyn Wakesman, now Leigh-hyphen-Balicoff. I have the right number?” “She’s living in Munich,” the woman says, “and I’m not allowed to furnish her address or phone number.” “Munich. Well, nice city. And she has a phone now? Good. Could you possibly be the woman who worked for them then, Rose or Ruth?” “Ruth, yes.” “You probably don’t remember me, Ruth. My name’s Harold Zeif. I used to date Gwen — just two dates, really — years ago, when we were in our teens.” “I don’t remember you, sir.” “How could you, and there wouldn’t be any need to. And God, you’re still working there, unless you’re only visiting for the day.” “I’m still employed by the Wakesmans, though my chores have been reduced and I no longer live in.” “Also, I was probably one of many young men Gwen knew. She was so pretty and intelligent and mature and charming, she must have had many suitors.” “That she was and did, sir. I remember that.” “How’s Mrs. Wakesman taking the death of her husband? I mean, I didn’t know her well either. I came in, her parents said hello, they were very nice — but it was a matter of seconds, maybe a minute I saw them and just one time. In the living room of the old Riverside Drive apartment, with all the paintings.” “Same paintings are here now. Different furniture though.” “I remember the furniture. Big elegant flowery couch, right?” “Vertical stripes.” “I remember flowers. I’m of course wrong. But the chairs — soft easy ones — were flowered then.” “Plain. A deep rich green one and a deep rich red one, if you’re talking about the armed padded chairs. Both are gone now. They had a decorator in and out everything went. I got the red chair, cigarette burn-holes and all.” “Then I’m thinking of someone else’s apartment. But how’s Mrs. Wakesman doing?” “Not well, as should be expected. They were tightly knit, at work and as parents.” “I remember they were. From Gwen talking, and just for the minute I saw them they seemed like very fine people. Polite, generous, cosmopolitan. And Toby? It is Toby, right — Gwen’s sister?” “Toby then but she changed it back to the original Dorothea when she turned twenty. She died many years ago.” “Ohh, that’s what I was afraid of. When the obiturary didn’t list her name as surviving. But no ‘deceased,’ it said, which puzzled me.” “That was an error of the newspaper. It was asked to say she died and didn’t survive.” “I should have thought of that. I worked on newspapers and so know how they leave things out. But what a nice cute kid she was. Did she get sick?” “It’s a story I don’t want to go into, sir.” “She didn’t kill herself, I hope.” “I shouldn’t be saying anything, sir, and it doesn’t seem you were close to the family.” “Not with her wrists.” “No, something much worse. Complete mutilation. They never got over it ever, neither Gwendolyn either. After all, there was only the two of them for the parents, and as sisters they were always little buddies.” “I’m sure. I didn’t know Dorothea well, but the times I did see her — I think she was there both times I went out with Gwen and then I used to see her walking on Broadway sometimes — she was a wonderful girl. Peppy, lively. Well, they’re the same thing, but that’s what she was. Double lively, chipper, energetic, I think — a real spark with a beautiful face and smile.” “That’s so. All of that. I loved her. Of the two, and I loved them both, she was my special little doll,” and she starts crying. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.” “That’s all right. I like to cry for her.” “I’m really sorry. Gwen, I suppose, was in for her father’s funeral?” “I’d like to stop now, sir; I’ve things to do. May I ask why you called, so I can jot it down here? Is it to pay your condolences?” “In a way, yes. But especially to Gwen. And now for both her sister and father.” “I’ll try to convey it to her. Your name was how spelled?” “Harold. And then Z-e-i-f. It’s been so long, she might not remember who I was.” “I’ll let her know, if she happens to call and I get on or if her mother writes to her.” “Just one more thing, Ruth. Is Gwen now married?” “No.” “So she married only two times?” “Three, but the third was annulled.” “Then the last name Leigh-hyphen-so-on is her third husband’s?” “It’s a combination of her sister’s middle name and her mother’s maiden name which she decided to use when she moved to Europe. I think she said she wanted a new life in every possible way.” “What’s she doing there, working, painting?” “Nobody knows.” “Surely you know but maybe you don’t feel like saying or were instructed not to, which’d be OK.” “No I don’t know, sir, and neither does her mother.” “And the children mentioned in the obituary — are they hers or Dorothea’s or one of each?” “Dorothea’s. They went with the husband after the accident, you can call it.” “It wasn’t over a man she killed herself, pardon me for asking. I shouldn’t have; I’m sorry.” “I don’t like answering that one way or the other, but it wasn’t, and it’s none of your business as you said. If you don’t mind I won’t give Gwendolyn your message. She once told me to screen all the messages too.” “You mean letters, packages, requests from alumni magazines — things like that?” She doesn’t answer. “I suppose you’re right. My condolences all around. That includes you too, of course. I can imagine how you felt then, and now with Mr. Wakesman after so many years, and I’m sorry if I sounded snoopy.” “Thank you,” and she hangs up. He gets to Munich the next year with his wife-to-be and looks up Gwen’s name and then her maiden name in the Munich phone books. She’s unlisted or maybe not living there anymore. His writer friend and he never speak after that last phone call but he expects he’ll bump into him one day and they’ll shake hands and eventually meet for coffee or a beer as they used to about twice a year and he’ll get around to asking him about his relationship with Gwen and if he’s heard anything new about where she is and what she’s doing.

Janine. Meets her at a New Year’s Eve party. His brother invited him to it but said not to get there too early: “That way they won’t think I invited everybody I know.” Gone to a movie with friends, drink and a hamburger after with them, they left for home to get there before the real street reveling began and he walked uptown for half an hour, stopped at a bar for a beer and then took a cab to the party and was in it when twelve came. “Happy New Year,” the driver said when lots of horns and shouting went off around them. “You too. May it be a great one for you.” Seated on a couch, legs crossed showing short muscular calves, seams running down the stockings. Who wears seams? Doesn’t like them, make her legs look cheap. Holding a mug of something, coffee or tea, because it’s smoking. Blond hair put up in what she later says is a chignon, animated pretty face laughing at something a woman in the chair nearest her says, catches him looking at her, he smiles and bows his head, she smiles back and turns to the woman. He walked into this reading or sitting or television room, since in addition to walls of books and lots of sitting furniture there’s also a TV, looking for something to do or someone to talk to, foremost an attractive free woman, when he saw her, no men around, in a seated circle of several woman. He’ll look at her till she looks at him again. If she seems interested, by her look, he’ll smile and leave the room and make his move later. She doesn’t seem interested — no smile back, a look of “So what seems so interesting?”—he’ll still make his move later but less confidently. Other women are discussing a movie, she looks at him, raises her eyebrows as if saying “Something you want to say?” he smiles, she smiles back and then looks at her mug as if contemplating something inside it. Maybe the way the smoke twirls, milk in the coffee curls. He looks at his glass — what could she be thinking? that he make his move now? — it’s half full but he holds it up and nods as if it needs refilling and leaves the room without looking at her again. Finds his brother; he can’t even place the woman by Howard’s description. “Actually, beautiful, little pug nose, sort of dirty blond kind of wiry hair up in a twisted pile in back, tweed skirt, I forget what color blouse or there might be a sweater over the blouse, seamed stockings, very lively face and plenty of hand motions, with not noticeably large breasts and seems a tiny waist. She could be a dancer.” Looks around for her. While admiring the paintings in the living room of larger-than-life-sized nudes, the host says behind him “Something, huh? And they were done by my mother. It’s an amazing story. She’s only at the League for a year, took up painting for recreation after my dad died, never held a brush other than a scrub or tooth one, and look at what she can now produce: paintings that are both art and can give you a hard-on. The change in her, like her art, came almost overnight. Now she only wears dungarees and smocks, paints all day, dreams of painting and paintings all night, haunts the art museums weekends when she never went to any but Natural History and Historical Society before and only because they were around the block, and thinks of herself as a serious artist with a so-far unclear mission and her teacher’s even thinking of solo-exhibiting her.” Still can’t find her so he goes back to the sitting room, she’s on the couch, now in a corner of it because two other women have sat down, legs crossed same way, seams don’t seem as bad, big knees, hairy thighs, bulging calves, sees them squeezing him and his breath puffing out, shuts his eyes and shakes the thought off, she doesn’t look at him, at least when his eyes are open, and he leaves. If she had looked he would have gestured with his head to the door and then left. If she didn’t come out in a minute or so he would have made another move, though he doesn’t know what, some time later. Fifteen minutes later, after looking though the apartment for her, he heads for the sitting room to talk with her if she’s there and not occupied or gesture with his head if she’s busy, and sees her standing outside the sitting room talking to a man. Now or you’ll never, and he says hello to her, hi to him, gives his name, “How are you, Happy New Year,” and puts out his hand and shakes theirs. “I don’t mean to be forward but I suddenly felt like talking to someone, and it’s not out of mania or drink, so I thought I’d barge in on you two. Kind of awkward and awful, but do you mind?” She smiles as if what he’s doing is funny, man’s about to say something serious when he says “Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet, I’ll just listen, won’t contribute till my not contributing makes you nervous or I’m asked or obliged to speak.” “No no, the man says, “please talk. Our conversation isn’t really anything we can’t continue next time we meet, since we’re in the same class once a week.” He asks and their names are Willie and Janine. Asks and it’s an acting class. Asks and it’s run by a well-known director in a couple of rooms in a dingy Broadway office building, but strictly for professionals. Asks and several prominent actors are in it. The most famous one sits in back in the dark in sunglasses and a fifty-thousand-dollar schmink, but is as sweet as can be. Want to hear a funny story? Janine’s heard it from the source so don’t cut in with the punchline. “One of the actors gets a call from her last week. She says hi, gives her first name and wants to do a scene with him. He doesn’t know who she is, some older woman he recently met while bartending and who’s making a play for him? — no pun intended and the actor said it with a straight face, showing how dumb he is. She wouldn’t give her last name, didn’t want to unnerve him I guess, just kept saying ‘This is Marilyn, Marilyn,’ and finally ‘You know, from class,’ and that they were all asked to pick a partner and do a scene for the class, weren’t they? They’re rehearsing it now. She serves him hot cocoa, it’s all very nice and he says she’s got talents up her ass.” Asks and he’s been in stock, on daytime TV, off-Broadway and some movie bits, while Janine here was on Broadway in a major role up to a month ago. Two months, she says. Asks and she says and he says he never liked that playwright’s work, though he hasn’t seen this play. Too traditional, homespun, unadventurous, with half the scenes around the kitchen or dining room table and half of those when the characters are in bathrobes getting ready for or having just got out of bed. There was a bathrobe scene in her play, she says, and her best scene too, but midway upstairs. “Oh boy you just blew it,” Willie says, slaps his back, laughs, goes. Was there a signal between them? Looks to see and she seems annoyed, no doubt by his comments, apologizes, she says it’s OK and he’s probably a writer or wants to be one, and he says he’s been doing little fictions and short plays but how’d she know? Because they’re usually trying to negate a skillful older writer’s work or just shoveling it into the grave. Asks and her father writes plays and television scripts and he even gets hate mail from young playwrights starting out or about to, damning the little success he’s had, belittling what he’s still very hard doing, praising only the not-written new. Apologizes and she says let’s forget it but still looks angry. He did blow it. What could he do to make up for it? Mind, face, body, glamorous life, artistic father, probably her own apartment, says what she thinks, would love being close with her when that anger’s for someone else. Says half his literary judgments are dumb and uninformed and he’ll never shoot from the hip like that again. She says why’s he making such promises to her? She’s still angry. Afraid she’ll say it’s been nice talking to you but she’s got to go. Asks and the mug only held tea because she has a cold and sore throat and what she really needed was honey in it which the host has but couldn’t find. Wait and comes back with no tea because he couldn’t find the honey when he thought he could but does have two aspirins and water if she needs. So kind and he says misguided overconfidence and he liked the way she was protective of her pa, not many people are. Suggests and they go out for sandwiches and tea with honey for her, she puts her arm around his on the way back, she’s cold, didn’t dress warmly enough tonight, but it still means something. Asks, if she doesn’t mind, is surprised to find she’s nine months younger than he, thought she was twenty-five. Looks that old? and says it’s because of her maturity and range of experiences so he thought she was a very young looking twenty-five. Tries kissing her at the door, not that she wouldn’t like to but someone might come out of the elevator or party, leads her around to where he thinks the service entrance is where they kiss, sit on the service steps and hold hands, stare into each other’s eyes dreamily, hug, help each other off with their coats, stare, kiss, hug, kisses her hands, starts crying, says he loves her, isn’t that crazy-stupid? and something never to be said so soon, she touches his tears, guesses she feels the same about him too, bizarre the way it started out or right after that went down and then so quickly changed. When? and she says when he told her to wait for she didn’t know what and brought back aspirins and water. Wants to go home with her, she says someone brought her, anyway it wouldn’t be a good idea, just a good friend who knows the host and lives a block from her and who’ll be disappointed if he has to subway home alone. She giving him a line? Not something to ask. Could say it’s because he loves her he’s asking if she sleeps with this guy, she still might get offended and give up on him as fast as she got close. Here, take my sweater, when she’s going, but she says she’ll survive. Then his scarf, it’s warmer than hers and that way he’ll know she’ll have to see him again to give it back, says she can always mail it but of course she’ll see him, not tomorrow because she has scene run-throughs for class all day and things like that but the next night. Dinner at her apartment. Opens the door wearing an apron and lobster oven mitt she pretends to bite his nose with, framed impish photo of Churchill on her kitchen wall, Picasso boy with horse repro he doesn’t tell her he dislikes above the couch, lots of poetry books, cookbooks, Nancy Drews and how to raise dogs, carnation soap smell from the bathroom though has to ask what it is, family photos all around, parents and siblings very handsome and animated then and now, louvered doors to the kitchen — louver, new word he learns — brought wine and napoleans — napoleans, she’s always heard but never saw or had them — slips her hands into his back pockets when they kiss, holds his palm up when they’re standing and rests her thigh on it, his look what’re you doing? and says that’s what Harpo always does, hasn’t he seen their films? lets him sleep with her if he promises not to try to have sex, sleeps in what were then called baby dolls, he in pajamas too large her brother left when he slept over, later finds the same line in a recent play he reads from her bookshelf where the pajamas were the character’s ex-lover’s, sees her breasts through the baby dolls, says if he continues to peek she’ll sleep with a bra underneath, her behind and a little trickle of pubic hair when she turns her back to him next day to dress, lets him hold but not rub her breasts in bed the third night, week to the day they first went to bed she says she’s putting in her diaphragm, is it OK? he says he knows what that means, she doesn’t want to have his baby, she says what in the world does he mean? holds her through the night, she says almost every man she’s known has turned his back on her right after and slept by himself on his side of the bed and usually even after the first time they made love, remembers to fall asleep holding her every night even when he wants to curl up alone, she says they’ve had sex at least once a day for two weeks so tonight could he give her poor poopie a rest? After they say goodbye outside they keep looking back to wave and blow kisses, sometimes from more than a block apart, two abortions with a young playwright she wanted to marry or not marry but have kids with but he dropped her, that’s why she left the play and was taken aback by his remark that first time, came pretty close to killing herself with poison over a much older actor two years ago, which was when she first thought of giving up the stage for something less frenetic and more cerebral, slit her wrists very slightly over a play director three years back, such a dumb profession where they’re all only amateur therapists for the characters they play, wants to sculpt, pot, perhaps write poetry, learn Russian, German and French so she can read all their nineteenth-century literature, holds her tight when she spills all this, says he’ll never drop or hurt her for what could ever stop him from wanting to be with her and making her happy forever, says same with her but they’re probably a couple of naifs and they cry, kiss, hug and make so much love that night that next day they both ache. Two months after they meet he can’t reach her. Said good-bye to her at her door, tried calling her that night, phone doesn’t answer for days. Calls her folks and they haven’t heard from her in a week but say don’t worry as they’re sure she’s OK. Her friends have no idea. Tries letting himself into her place with the key she gave him but the cylinder’s been changed. Something’s up but doesn’t know what. A guy probably but who could it be and when that she could have hidden it from him, so it’s not possible. Waits in front of her acting class day she has it and she doesn’t show. Calls the school next week saying he’s from a flower store with a delivery for her and what day will she be in since she wasn’t there last week to receive it and the receptionist says last week she was away but she notified them she’ll be there today. Sees her leaving the building laughing and then putting her arm around the waist of the actor she said she used to date between the two men she nearly killed herself over but found him too rigid and Christian-religious so it could never have gotten serious and broke it off. Everything in him goes cold and drops. Wants to run away without them seeing him, get drunk in a bar and write her the bitterest letter he can and send it care of the acting school’s address. But talk to her. Maybe it’s just friendship with this guy, like actors are always behaving, so affectionate and full of bullshit, and the lock and not being in touch with him and all that is something she can completely explain. Lincoln sees him crossing Broadway to them and pushes her behind him and grabs her hand. “So I was right,” Howard says. “To myself I mean. I mean between you two, I can’t believe it. I hate saying the obvious, Janine, but I should have known — at least that you were screwing me good by keeping me on the hook and making me miserable while fucking some other guy.” “Listen, Howard,” Lincoln says, “you want to get it out, you probably have every right to, but it’s not what you think at all. I don’t know if she told you, but Janine and I used to see one another—” “You saying you now don’t?” “No, we’re together again, that’s obvious as you said, but much closer than before, I’m afraid, and we wanted to tell you—” “What about her telling me? — How come you didn’t? Come on, get out from behind him and speak to me, don’t I deserve it?” “Of course you do,” coming out from behind Lincoln and letting go of his hand. He tries grabbing it back but she cups her hands. “I’m sorry, very sorry, there’s no excuse for the way I handled it with you.” “She was wrong, Lincoln says. “She knows it, she admits it, I asked her to talk to you and she didn’t know quite how to and I didn’t want to do it for her, but I swear she was getting around to it and has felt rotten over it from the start.” “Who cares what you have to say? I want her to speak — Tell me, was the whole fucking thing with me an act? Were you acting for two months or only the last month or two weeks or what?” “That’s not really a question, and I wasn’t,” she says. “Acting at the party I met you at with your stupid headache or whatever it was? Acting when you told me what a madwoman you once were but how with me everything changed?” “No, really no. I was serious. You were wonderful. But something just happened.” “With what? Him you mean? When? How could it have? I was seeing you almost every day, fucking you just about every night.” She shuts her eyes, seems to grit her teeth. “Don’t get coarse,” Lincoln says. “We understand how you feel, and your anger, but if you want to talk reasonably we can all go to a coffee shop and do it there.” “I don’t want to go to one,” she says. “OK, we won’t, but I don’t know how good an idea it is to have it out here. It isn’t a good idea, Howard.” “So it wasn’t an act with me, you’re saying?” “No, never, but let’s stop this on the street as Lincoln said. Now that we started talking, I’ll phone you and we’ll meet for a chat or talk on the phone about it some other time.” “But it’s all over, right?” “You’re saying — wait, us two?” “Us, yes, That that’s it, we’re finished, done, ‘Good-bye, Howard, you big fool, you stupid chump, you haven’t a chance now and I won’t say it but I don’t give a shit what happens to you after this’?” “That’s not it, and I’m sorry, deeply, but I don’t know what else I can say.” “Honestly, Howard, we should stop this,” Lincoln says. “You want me to start putting on the act like you, Janine? To say it’s all OK, easy come, go, good luck and all that crap and just walk away whistling so you’ll feel better?” “No. And I truly do wish there was something I could do about it but I can’t.” “You can marry me. I want you to marry me and for you to have my babies. I always did. Do that, please.” “I can’t. I’m in fact actually marrying Lincoln, if you have to know.” “What are you, kidding? You know him two weeks and a short while before a few years ago or whenever and you’re getting married? Or maybe I did get it all wrong. That you were banging him for the two months I knew you. Saying ‘I love you deeply, Howard,’ and then turning around and saying ‘But I love you even more’ to him.” “No. No — Lincoln, really,” as if they have to go and he should lead the way, she can’t, she’s about to get sick or faint or start screaming at Howard or just start screaming and he takes her hand, puts his arm around her shoulder and they head downtown. “Where you going? You running away? Can’t take the fucking thing? It’ll last a week with him, a day. A year, let’s say. One great year, you rotten slut. Then who you going to act that you love next? What new putz?” Lincoln stops — that’s what he wanted, them to stop — and starts back. “Lincoln, no,” she says. “Now take it easy, Howard. I’m telling you, you’re going too far and you’re also being ridiculously unfair.” “You’re a witch,” he says over Lincoln’s shoulder. “I hate your guts, his guts, the fucking sidewalk you’re on and phony fake school you go to — I hate you all.” She’s crying. “Go on, cry,” moving around Lincoln to talk, who moves with him so he doesn’t get right up to her probably. “Cry your baloney-living life out. And forget chatting. Oh chats, oh chats! No chats, calls, nothing. I never want to hear your ugly voice again.” “You really don’t have to act like this,” Lincoln says. “Believe me, you’re going to regret it later, but seriously.” “You didn’t have to see her. You knew she was seeing me and how I felt about her. Don’t talk about natural forces either. You could have stayed away or waited till she dropped me if she did and then moved your big prick in.” “That’s not how it happened. Anyway, I’m sorry too as to the affect on you and I’ve said so and you simply have to believe me,” and puts his hand on Howard’s shoulders and for a few seconds rubs it. The director leaves the building with the famous actress and a few students, says “That the guy you told me to watch out for, Lincoln? What’s he, drunk? coked up? Emily said she saw it from the window and is up there looking at us now, so if you want me I’ll signal her to call the cops.” “No, he’ll be OK. He’s just a nice guy in a tough spot.” “Oh Jesus,” Howard shouts. “Everybody,” looking at Janine, “isn’t Lincoln beautiful? Isn’t he just wunderbar great? What a heart he’s got, what a soul. I think we should all applaud him — come on, everybody, applaud,” and claps. “I’d step away, Lincoln,” the director says, with a hand wave getting one of the students to put the actress in a cab. “One swing from him and hell spoil your gorgeous nose.” “No, I’m fine,” and puts his hands back on Howard’s shoulders and digs his fingers in and starts massaging them and Janine comes up and holds Howard’s hand and looks at him and smiles. “Fuck it, I give up on you,” and pulls away and runs downtown, could make a right at the side street and disappear but runs across Broadway so they’ll see him and down into a subway station. Gets drunk at a bar soon after and calls Lincoln’s apartment from it. She answers and he says “It’s me, don’t hang up, I can’t live without you, piesie, I can’t,” and starts crying. “I’m sorry, Howard, I’m really very sorry. I told you why. So please don’t call again. Then, if you still want, we can meet in about two weeks. Send a letter to my old address. I’m still collecting mail there or I have someone pick it up almost every day and I’ll phone you and we’ll meet and talk some more. Now I’m putting the receiver down, sweetie, and please, for both of us, do what I say,” and he slams the receiver down before she hangs up. Tells himself not to but calls several times later and line’s always busy. Gives up his modeling job at the League because he can’t pose for twenty-minute stretches without going crazy thinking of her. Can’t read or write or paint or draw or do any of the things he once liked to. Goes to movies, leaves after about fifteen minutes; museums, hoping he’ll bump into her and she’ll see how sad he is and one thing will lead to another and they’ll start up again. Every time the phone rings at home he thinks it might be her saying she wants to see him, at least speak to him to see how he’s doing, even that she loves him and didn’t know how much till now, or just that she wants to explain some things she didn’t so they can part as good friends. Calls in a week, Lincoln answers and says he doesn’t think it’s the right time just yet for him to speak to Janine and to understand he’s upsetting her every time he calls and try not to again for a while. “But she told me to call her,” and Lincoln says “If she said that then she’s changed her mind.” “Let her tell me that,” and Lincoln says “She asked me to speak for her,” and he says “How do I know you’re not talking for her without her permission and that she might want to speak to me but doesn’t have the chance to decide yes or no on it because you’re not telling her I’m here?” and Lincoln says “You’ll have to take my word, there’s no other way.” “Well, let’s say it’s so, how long’s a while when you said not to call again before that?” and Lincoln says “Few months, possibly more. I won’t spin out the reasons why it should be that long. And I also hate doing what I’m about to, Howard, since I actually like you and can appreciate your passion and I know this hostility is only anomalous behavior on your part, but I’ve got to go so I’ll have to cut off,” and hangs up. Anomalous. Would look it up but can’t even stand these days opening a dictionary. Calls a few hours later hoping she’ll answer. Lincoln does and Howard says “Listen, I’m sure she’ll speak to me if you tell her I’m here and absolutely calm and peaceful and it’ll only be for a few seconds and nothing nasty,” and Lincoln says “Believe what you want on that, Howard — believe anything, if it makes you feel better, because all that can be helpful in a way — but I swear to you, it’s not true,” and he says “What isn’t?” and Lincoln says “What you said, what you asked,” and he says “I forget what that was,” and thinks He’s probably right, it’s probably so, I can understand why she wouldn’t, and says “you still there?” and Lincoln says “Still here,” and says “Anything more you have to say?” and Lincoln says “Nope, you?” and he wants to curse him out and say the whole situation stinks and he still feels Lincoln’s a pig but thinks maybe the moderate approach will help, for once he won’t act on his first impulse, and Lincoln will go back to her and say “He seemed so polite, reasonable, pleasant, well adjusted the last time we spoke,” and she might then think she can talk to him again and might even think better than that in his favor, that he was distraught before but for good reason, and also passionate, as Lincoln said, which she might like if Lincoln isn’t, but now he’s mature and congenial, gracious and calm, and says “So, nice talking to you, Lincoln, and thanks so much for your attitude through all this, and I mean it,” and Lincoln says “Good,” as if he doesn’t believe it, and he says “You know that I’m being serious now. I don’t know anyone who would have had the character, if you don’t object to my saying this, to handle the whole thing the way you did. And best to Janine and much happiness to you both,” and Lincoln says “I’ll convey it,” and hangs up. Few days later he waits across Broadway, sees them leaving the school, they don’t see him and don’t seem to be looking around for him, nobody at the second-floor window, ducks behind a parked car, looks through its windows at them, both with serious faces on, angry or peeved at something, maybe at each other or how they performed in a scene today or expressions that might seem like anger but are apprehension or alarm he might be around — he is seeing them from a distance and through two windows — holding hands, cross the avenue at the corner, he moves around the car as they get nearer the sidewalk till he’s in front of the hood looking around it, follows them though he thinks he knows where they’re going, they go where he thought, down the uptown IRT station, no doubt for Lincoln’s place. Drinks a lot in a bar for a couple of hours, same subway station uptown, pictures where they stood, sat, stands in front of Lincoln’s building, six stories, rundown, mangled garbage cans in front with no lids, first-floor apartment windows with gates across and towels on top of the lower windows’ upper sashes to keep out the cold, vestibule has that dead roach or insecticide smell, never been able to identify it but most of the old tenements have it, maybe just mildew or wall rot, one of the mailbox doors ripped off and another almost twisted in half, first-floor hallway, through the frontdoor window, dirty, needing painting bad. So cheap rent probably, romantic little rooms he bets and which she’ll give her special touch, roaches around and maybe mice but so what? Just bang them with paper or your hands or feet and the mice with a broom and make love under lots of covers, because probably insufficient heat. Get a cheap heater, sit by it while you work and stick it by the bed on her side or in the bathroom when you go to sleep. Lincoln’s name on the bell roster and in the mailbox, 4C. Doesn’t know if it’s the front or rear. Her name taped above the regular name space in the mailbox but not on the roster. Goes outside and looks up at the fourth-floor windows. Shades up in two, down in the three others, lights on in all but never sees anyone. Gives up in an hour. Cold out, some people passing on the sidestreet look at him as if he’s about to commit a crime. Calls up friends of hers who seemed to like him. Several say what can he do? She’s in love, getting married soon, best thing is to accept it or forget her. One invites him for coffee. Lincoln’s been a Christian Scientist since he was a kid, he’s told. Janine used to be one when she was a girl, and her mother still practices it sometimes. Lincoln brought her back into the church. She’s given up alcohol, little she drank, does the Mary Baker Eddy and Bible exercises every day, is already distributing old Monitors and religious magazines and leaflets to barbershops and places like that. She’s never been happier or healthier. She not only says it but looks it. She’s even given up coffee and regular tea. They’ve visited the mother church in Boston twice since they got together and for their honeymoon they’re flying to Paris to see avant-garde plays for a week — Lincoln speaks fluent French — and then to study there for a month with what she guesses could be called a Christian Scientist guru. Lincoln’s bought an Italian motor scooter and they zip around town on it like a couple of kids and they both got jobs on the same soap for this fall. The wedding date and place are a secret except to their guests, this woman says, “presumably to keep it from you and another of her past suitors. She certainly knocked off a few.” Calls her at Lincoln’s, she answers and he says “So how are you?” and she says “I’m fine, what do you want?” and he says “Oh God, gruff voice, I thought you said you wanted to talk to me in a couple of weeks,” and she says “Lincoln explained it to you once; that should be enough,” and he says “Please don’t ride on motor scooters; they’re dangerous. Oil slick comes, it’ll skid and you’ll crash or fall off. Get a helmet at least,” and she says “You’re probably right about the helmet; I’ll get one for Lincoln too.” “And you gave up coffee and tea that has caffeine, I heard. You used to love coffee, made the best I ever had. Ground it fresh every morning, mixed it with whatever you mixed it with — chicory, sometimes two different beans.” “It became a fetish. And it’s a stimulant. I happen to love herbal teas or vegetable broth first thing in the morning, at least as much.” “Good, all that makes you feel better, live longer, you don’t need doctors anymore, but he’s twelve years older than you, someone said.” “So what? I wasn’t hiding it.” “But when you’re twenty-eight, he’ll be forty. Thirty-eight, he’ll be fifty, and so on. By comparison to you, he already looks old.” “He looks as young and is probably in twice the physical shape you or any man your age is, including professional athletes. He never drank, smoke, did anything to poison his body, and because his principal theatrical interest is mime, just practicing it hours a day keeps him incredibly fit. He can stand upside down on a single finger and then walk on two — you know what it takes to do that? As for his mind, it’s clear, imaginative, and youthful as they come.” “Religion is the last refuge of a dumbbell or whatever someone once said. Who needs to bow? Who needs to pray? Like a bunch of beggars the way they hand around that dumb money tray. And who needs to read some wacko whose hip bones stitched naturally after a break but starts up her own religion from it.” “You haven’t read her. We don’t bow. Other than for what we think are its practical benefits, praying can be like meditation, which you loftily once said you thought there could be some value to and you might want to try. You ought to witness a Science testimonial some Wednesday afternoon or night at any of the churches around town or go to a Sunday service. Everyone’s lovingly invited, even tourists, and you’ll see we’re not robots and there are no ministers. It’s entirely run by laymen and women, services and church. I could lead a service if I wanted to and knew enough.” “You’ve been brainwashed. Your mind’s hanging out to dry and is getting bleached by the sun and holes in it from the wind.” “I knew you’d get around to that business eventually. Insults and ignorance. We’ve seen it before. Please don’t call again, Howard. You were once sweet and caring but you’re now a headache. Right after this I’m having our phone disconnected,” and hangs up. Calls back a few minutes later to apologize and the phone’s busy. Calls the next day and it’s busy and day after that the number’s been changed and new one’s unlisted. It’s an emergency, he tells the operator and she says “Not even for emergencies it says.” Writes her letters, apologizes in them, says he was feeling crazy and depressed before, so because of it bitter and unloving, but he’s now over it, pleads for her to meet him so he can ask her forgiveness in person, but they’re never answered or sent back. Wants to get away from her, hitch and train around the country, have adventures, more experiences, meet lots of women, work at various places to make money to continue traveling. Goes to D. C. to say good-bye to his oldest brother. In an elevator at the Press Club an acquaintance of Jerry’s steps in, they’re introduced, says “He the brother who wants to be a writer?” “Both,” Jerry says, “but the older one’s actually getting published.” Remembers Jerry telling him Howard worked as a copyboy at CBS when he was in college, wonders if he’d like to fill in for a vacationing reporter for three weeks. Does, stays for two years. Year after he has the job he gets Lincoln’s number from Information. Calls a few times over the next months. Lincoln always answers and Howard always hangs up. Once though he says in a muffled fake voice “Hello, this is Balicoff Studios in Los Angeles, is Miss Austin in?” “Hold on, please,” and in the background Lincoln says “It’s fantasyland; what do they want?” and she gets on and says “Janine Austin speaking,” and he says nothing and she says “Hello, what studio in L. A., my husband wasn’t able to catch it so fast?” and says nothing and she says “Have we been cut off? Could you speak louder, if you’re speaking, or do you want to call back? Yell yes and I’ll hang up.” Nothing and she says “I think I hear someone there; is anyone there?” and waits a few seconds and says “Oh well, if it is some studio, try to call back, thanks,” and hangs up. She sounded the same, maybe a little artificial because she thought it was an important professional call. Pictured Lincoln seated beside her on the bed, holding her hand, ear near the receiver. Then them both waiting for the studio to call back and after a half hour or so dialing California information for Balicoff Studios or any name sounding like that, and then realizing it was a prank and maybe even Howard calling, or maybe they realized it right after she hung up or Lincoln realized it before, or there could be a new guy carried away by her and they thought it might be him. Calls her folks a couple of weeks later when he’s drunk and depressed and says “Howard Tetch, you remember me,” and her father says “Sure,” and says “How’s Janine?” and he says “Fine,” and says “Good, any other news about her?” and he says “None we know of — take care of yourself, Howard, nice speaking to you,” and says “That’s great, and nice talking to you too, sir.” Wrong thing to do, thinks next morning. They’ll tell her, they’ll all say how immature he still is and doesn’t he realize how disturbing it is getting a drunken late-evening call like that? Writes her folks an apology, saying he’d gone to a party, too much to drink, got sloppily sentimental — doesn’t know why, Janine hasn’t been on his mind for a year — it’ll never be repeated, wishes them well, doesn’t hear back from them. He and another reporter quit their jobs to form their own radio news service, running it out of the radio-TV gallery in the Capitol. Month after they start it his partner has a stroke, partially paralyzed and can’t type or speak on the air anymore and Howard can’t run it alone or bring in anyone else as his partner was the brains behind it. Could go back to his old job but returns to New York permanently because just around then the freighter his brother Alex was on disappeared in the Atlantic and he thinks he should be near his sister and folks. Moves in with them, job, calls up one of Janine’s best friends, doesn’t mention her name but hopes she and her husband will and tell him something about her. They’ve heard him on radio several times, seen him on TV asking questions at the political conventions and of visiting dignitaries like Khrushchev and Macmillan and Mrs. Roosevelt at Washington airports and in the Capitol and such and once on a panel show on some news subject, glad he’s found something he likes doing and is good at and he says he doesn’t much like it, still wants to write and actually gets some lines down now and then. They invite him for dinner, wonder if they should invite Janine. “Why,” he says casually, “she still in the city?” “You didn’t know? You’re some reporter. They got divorced. Incompatible. Nothing brutal. Simply couldn’t live with each other after a while. Maybe it was sex, or with actors, more likely ego. And more with Lincoln than her, because she was never much that way, was she?” “Ego? No, not that I saw.” “She’s still very involved with Christian Science and they see each other at the same Sunday church service sometimes, but that’s all. She got a Mexican quickie. So you wouldn’t mind?” “Me? It’d be nice seeing her again, if she can stand being in the same room with me.” “And why wouldn’t she? She once told me she understood why you did what you did, though at the time found it unbearable, but harbors no ill feelings.” Goes to their apartment, hopes she’s been invited and comes, brings a good bottle of wine, expensive pastries, combed his hair this way and that to try to cover his growing baldness, tie? no tie, but shine your shoes, tried ironing his pants but his mother took over: “You’re too nervous. Men can never do it right anyway unless they worked in a cleaner’s. Where you going?” and when she hears Janine might be there: “Too bad about her divorce. I always liked that girl. Real lively, but how you let her get to you I never approved. Never be a fall guy. Sensitivity’s fine, but make the women come to you. Remember what everyone knows and has told me: with your looks and brains you could have almost anyone. Give her our best.” It’s winter, old snow on the ground, sees her wet boots on the doormat. His pulse; number of other physical reactions which were also with him during his twenty-block walk here. She answers, big bright smile and loud hi as she used to open the door with when things were good with them. Happy to see him, says it, looks it. He pretends to be subdued: “Thank you, nice seeing you too,” but sweat on his face a giveaway. “Look at me,” wiping. “I ran from the bus stop for exercise, which I didn’t get today, and because I thought I might be late. I hate hanging people up, and I see I’m not,” looking at the wall clock. “Hope you didn’t shake up the wine and cake too much.” Oh God, how could he run with the wine and cake? “No, I held them both to me, cake straight,” and demonstrates. “Anyway, hi and hello,” putting out his hand. She shakes it and puts out her cheek. “This is fun,” she says, “five minutes of greetings.” Where’s the couple? Hears them in the kitchen. They must have planned, or she said “Let me get it,” so she planned, but why the plans if it wasn’t that they were busy and she was just helping them out by answering the door? But why wouldn’t they be out here by now? Maybe a good sign. No older, hair up and even blonder, as beautiful, body seemingly unchanged. She says “We’re having champagne — I’m not but they are and I hope you will too — to celebrate a belated happy new year. I was supposed to go to a party with the Lipsatz’s but never made it. The flu.” “You OK now?” “Of course, it was weeks ago.” “Sometimes they linger on,” knowing he’s showing too much concern. How to undo that? Thinks; can’t. Just says “You’re right.” Lipsatzes come out with hors d’oeuvres and the champagne and tray of champagne glasses, one filled with club soda and ice. “Happy New Year,” Janine says, holding her glass up and they all say Happy New Year and he intentionally starts the kissing by kissing Naomi’s cheek first, then goes over to her and she puts her lips out and he gives what he thinks she expects, a peck, then kisses Mel’s cheek and right after he does realizes Mel just wanted to hug. “It’s really wonderful being here,” he says — they’re still in the foyer, he hasn’t taken off his coat yet—“old friends, really,” and thinks, taking off his coat, switching the glass from hand to hand instead of putting it down on a sideboard which seems new or highly polished and he doesn’t want to stain, if he could only say something funny, true, untrite. He’s still nervous, pulsing in spots; relax, try to avoid eye contact with her for most of the evening and see how she reacts. Much better at dinner: words there when and where he wants them and often big ones but where it’s not obvious they’re said to impress. “What’s ‘extrapolation’ again?” she says at the table. Lipsatzes in the kitchen cleaning up, though the plates and utensils were throwaway paper and plastic and there was no salad or bread and the entire dinner came out of one pot. There to leave them alone? If so, only planned on their part. “Why,” though he knows, “in something you read?” “You used it, don’t you remember? When you were saying President Kennedy’s a charming lightweight compared to Mike Mansfield who you said is the one senator there qualified to run the country.” “Sure, in decency, dignity, speaking ability, modesty, intelligence, world experience and things like that. His face is pockmarked and he comes from little Montana, so maybe that’s what killed it. But Jesus, I totally forgot using the word. Just came and went. At least you know I didn’t say it to impress you. I won’t even try defining it I’m so bad at that,” and then gives one straight from the dictionary, as he’d looked it up last night for about the fifth time in a year. She says “Talking about impressions. I’m impressed the way you’ve changed in almost every aspect. It must be your work, people depending on you and all the interesting types you met, living away from home and in your own apartment, holding down a demanding position and what any two years would do to someone our still impressionable age.” “I don’t know. To me I’m just the same old schmo, but thanks.” “Oh come off it.” They leave together. Said at the table to her “I’ve got to go — work tomorrow — but you stay.” She said no, the Lipsatzes have to get up for work too. In the elevator she says “I’ll get the number 10 bus downtown.” “Take a cab. It’s late and your neighborhood I’m sure isn’t the safest.” “Money money money,” she says, “but I’ll be all right.” “Here,” and he fishes out a five. “I’m working and I don’t want you going home except by cab.” “Always so protective,” she says. “I’d do it for almost anyone, honestly.” Opens the cab door for her, tells himself not to attempt even an innocent kiss goodbye, says “May I call you?” “I hope so, if just so I can give you your five dollars back.” “Precious cargo,” he says to the driver, who nods, doesn’t turn around, and thinks another trite familiar remark; when she’s driving home she’ll think I’m even a worse schmuck than I was. She waves through the back window as the cab pulls away; he gives a brief wave and then pretends to be fingering his coat and pants pockets for something, eyes where his hands are, anxious look. Before the cab left she said “Want to be dropped off on the way?” and he said he’d rather jog home—“exercise again”—but walks, interpreting all the signs he could remember and what she said, punching his palm several times, not believing his luck. Phones, they meet, kiss the first night, meet, doesn’t want to sleep with him till she feels they’re ready, he tells himself don’t push it, ruin it, she’s not saying she doesn’t want to be with him. Takes a week. Night of the biggest snowfall in years. Maybe it contributed to it in different ways. They’re walking home from a movie in the Village. Nonessential cars, radio says the next day, weren’t allowed into the city. Several horses with sleighs down lower Fifth. Cross-country skiers, no traffic noises, so voices from blocks away. “Hiya, neighbor,” a stranger says. Throws snowballs at lampposts, lobs one at her and she quickly turns around and it smacks her back. “You-u-u,” and comes at him with a handful of snow as if she’s going to mash it into his face, drops it when she gets close and either he hugs her and she falls into his arms or she falls into his arms and then he hugs her, and they laugh, brush the snow away from the other’s neck, nip at each other’s lips and then kiss. “I’m going to get even with you one day for that snowball, mister,” she says when they separate, and he gets down on one knee and says “No, please, have pity, don’t,” and makes a snowball down there and threatens to throw it at her and she screams and runs off. Arms around each other’s waists rest of the way, kissing, saying things like “I’m gonna say it: I love you, always have, always will”; “I love you too, sweetie”; “You do? You mean romantically? Then I love you too-too.” “Too-too what?” “Too-too much which isn’t enough.” “Never too-too much, never enough; by George, what do I mean?” “Never ever have I loved you more, never have I loved anyone more or as much. Seriously, I’m being serious, though I bet you don’t want to hear it.” “You’re a darling and a dearie,” she says, “and I mean it.” “I’m gonna say this is the happiest night of my sappy life; day or night, happiest sappiest anytime, day, dusk, dawn or night.” “It isn’t mine but it’s one of and that’s sufficient, isn’t it, or not?” “It doesn’t always have to be equal so long as it’s close.” “It is; it’s going along perfectly; we’ve lots more time.” Apartment’s warm, radiators knocking, windows steamed up, doesn’t want to push, ruin it, though now isn’t sure he could, still, she’s a changeable sort, gets down to his jockey shorts as he does whenever he sleeps over — fresh pair every day; they’re white, doesn’t want her turned off by stains — kisses her goodnight, “So good night then, my dear, sleep well, pleasant tights,” saluting her, bowing, shaking her hand, then the other, wants her — knows he’s going too far — to pick up on the irony of their passionate kissing on the street and now going to separate beds, heads for the couch hoping she’ll call him back if just for another kiss, when he gets there wonders if he shouldn’t have tried necking with her just now, massaging her back, maybe curling his arm around to brush her breast, “Excuse me,” somehow maneuvering her hand to his fly. No, but at least to have said “You know I’d love sleeping with you — perfect night, the snow, hissing radiators, rising risers, chained tires clanging outside, besides what I’ve said is the deepest besides the ruttiest kind of love I’ve ever had for anyone including you. But I can understand why you’re not tempted — no, that’s not the right word — so I’m not going to push it, ruin it. We’ve time as you say, right, so who’s complaining? — not I,” and then, as he did, to walk to the couch without looking back. She says, when he’s making the couch up, pretending not to notice her going back and forth from bathroom to bedroom, trying to push his penis back between his thighs because it’s sticking straight out, “Listen,” in a short nightie, nipples and pubes seen through, “why don’t you sleep with me tonight, if you promise to take off those godawful shorts.” “You want me to wear boxer shorts instead of briefs?” “Anything. Nothing, under your pants, if I had the choice between those and no underclothes.” Engaged in a couple of months. Proposes in her building’s basement while they’re taking clothes out of the washer and sorting them and putting most into the dryer. “I know this is the wrong place but would you, if I asked, marry me?” and she says “Why, what other place would be more memorable to be asked that except maybe the toilet? and I’d love to.” “Let me get it straight — for the record as we reporters like to say — I never did but I heard about it — you’d love to marry me?” “Yes, I would.” “You will marry me then?” “Yes, I’ve said it.” “We can tell people, we can start planning for it? I can start considering your apartment my home?” “We might want to get a larger one, but for the time being, sure, it’s ours. As for telling people, let’s digest it for now and, to mix it up a bit, sit on it for about two weeks, but don’t you worry, I won’t change my mind.” Their folks meet at a restaurant and her father says “I can see who he resembles,” looking at his mother, and she says “Oh, Simon was very handsome when he was Howard’s age — all the women went for him and I felt fortunate he chose me. But he got plump and now you can’t see the likeness except in the strong chin, but I’d say he resembles him.” “Don’t ruin it for the boy,” his father says. “I was a born eater while he’s mostly hated food and has stayed thin. But you’re the bathing beauty — you know she was Miss New York, or was it Rockaway, before I met her and she danced in the Scandals? — so let them think he got his good looks and sleek physique from you.” “With Ziegfeld. And I would have won the Miss America too if they had talent then as part of the competition. But it was all rear ends and no brains and they chose some Pennsylvania Slovak who everyone said slept with the two main judges when they couldn’t get me.” “You never told me about the hanky-panky,” Howard says. Starts reading the daily Christian Science exercises from Science and Health and the Bible because he knows it’ll please her, going to church with her almost every Sunday. She’s usually one of the ushers: standing at attention at the door when you first come in, passing around the plate, always smiling because she believes it’s infectious and in ways curing, white flower pinned to her dark collar; he can’t stand looking at her she seems so fake and once thinks if she ever breaks up with him he’ll use that image of her smiling and ushering in her ugly prim suit and pumps to lessen the pain. Says “I’m finding the readings very interesting, lot to learn from it, she’s a very smart woman, and the Bible’s such a beautiful book; I wish my folks had read it to me as a kid as yours did,” though finds it all a drag, too much like school was, but will continue doing it enthusiastically; then he’ll quickly give her a kid. She doesn’t want one so soon, he’ll inseminate her somehow: stick it in before she says “Wait for my diaphragm,” all out of passion; then say let them do it that way a while, he never gets to be inside her without the smelly cream, he can control it till the last moment but he’ll take it out long before that, while secretly leaking little by little in. She says “You don’t have to read or attend any of it if you don’t like, though of course if you really want to, it’d be very nice.” Wedding set for May. They want a small city hall ceremony and the reception in a Chinese restaurant on 103rd and Broadway but her parents say their house. She’ll be accompanied downstairs. Her favorite flowers everywhere and about forty guests. He’ll be waiting for her and they’ll walk the next few steps together to the judge in front of the fireplace, lit if it isn’t a hot day. Two-day honeymoon at the Sturbridge Inn, which they’ll get to by rented car. In April, morning after a lot of evening lovemaking, where it’s so bright and crisp that he jumps out of bed an hour before the alarm’s to go off, half hour of energetic calisthenics, shower, reads by the kitchen window while having coffee and toast, kisses her hand and nudges her instead of letting the alarm go off, from the kitchen catches her through the bedroom mirror getting out of bed naked, holding up her breasts to inspect and slipping into her bathrobe, he’s dressing for work while she’s putting on hose when she says “I have something to tell you.” Way she says it. And doesn’t look up at him. Immediately shouts “Forget it. Don’t say anything, I’ll just pack my clothes. Because it’s happened again. But this time you drew me in nearer to give me even greater disappointment. You’re cutting it all off, right?” “No. Don’t jump the gun, Howard.” “Ah, fuck it. Ah, screw it. The whole thing’s obvious. You’re never going to go through with it even if you say now you only want the wedding postponed.” “I do only want it postponed. I’ve no doubts about my feelings for you but think we need more time to sanctify it.” “Sanctify, horseshit.” “It was the wrong word. And wrongly worded. I meant—” “You meant, you meant — we’re over with, don’t tell me. You’re booting me the fuck out, for can you actually tell me you want me to continue living here?” “True, I do think it’d be better if we had separate living places for the time being. A month or two. Maybe through the summer, though we’ll still see each other, of course; just a bit less. But this will give us time and room to think if we truly do want to go ahead with it.” “I truly do. There’s nothing I want more.” “But I’ve been married. Getting divorced was devastating and I don’t want to — I want to make absolutely sure I’m absolutely sure about marriage again. If we decide to go ahead with it, then it’ll only have been a few months’ delay.” “Nah, you’re soft-pedaling me out of here. It’s always the same. Whenever you want something that bad, it never turns out OK. Whenever I want — not you.” “That’s not it.” “It is it. You know goddamn well we’re done with, done with,” banging the couch with his fists. His untied tie starts to slide off his neck when he bangs and he grabs and twists it and tries tearing it in two and then throws it across the room. “You know what you’re doing?” she says. “You’re making me think why have I put up with you so long and your terrible tantrums?” “That was the first with you ever. But excuses. I’ll give you real ones. Our different religions. You’re a Christian Scientist and I’m an idiot trying to please you by reading it till I’m sick and blind.” “Well that’s news.” “I’ll give you more. You think you don’t love me enough or maybe realized you never did.” “You know that’s not so.” “It is. You hate even being mentioned as my fiancée. I saw it on the street with that guy Weinberg or Weintraub or whatever his name is — Ned, my brother Jerry’s friend. After I introduced you—” “I only said later — he the one by Rockefeller Plaza?” “Yes.” “I didn’t like being introduced as your appendage but by my name.” “But I was proud of it, wanted to tell everybody—” “I still didn’t like it. It’s demeaning, outdated, a step away from ‘my betrothed’ or ‘intended’ or ‘future slave.’ Maybe not that bad, but do I go around calling you my fiancé?” “Do, I’d love it; then ‘my husband, my beloved, the love of my life.’ What the hell else is it for? But you didn’t like it because it was the realization that by the designation people had the expectation we’d eventually get married, and at that moment it sunk in.” “You’re being silly. But we’ll talk later, or we’ll be late for work.” “I’m being realistic. If I can see, then I say what I see, and I can see it, on the wall, the freaking end-of-getting-married and end of everything else between us, so stop hiding it to make it so-called easier for me. Because if I’m to start getting the jitters about you dumping me, I want to starting today.” “All I can say—” putting on her coat, “Don’t you want something to eat?” “No.” “Is that you’re acting all out of proportion to the situation. But after the way you acted, perhaps it would be best if you got your things together this weekend and moved out for the time being.” “And you’re saying you weren’t going to tell me that before we had this rotten talk?” “I probably would have, if you didn’t leave on your own in a week or so.” “Bullshit. Horseshit. I could kill you. Sorry, I don’t mean that, but I hate you for what you’ve done. Sucking me in, leading me on…” He’s punching his palm, biting his knuckles now. “Go yourself. I’ll throw my junk together while you’re out and that’ll be it for us.” “No, I don’t want you wrecking the place. Besides, I don’t want to leave it like this. Come on, Howard, really; stick another tie in your pocket and let’s go.” Does, muttering “Fuck you, you bastard, go screw yourself,” under his breath. They take the subway, don’t speak. Didn’t when they walked to the subway, he always a few feet ahead of her, “Boy, you really want to be rid of me,” she said. “Why don’t you just race on ahead?” I would, I would, if I didn’t want to, he thought. Didn’t know if he should stick the coins in the turnstile for her, as he usually does, but did, after he went through, without looking at her. She touches his hand while they stand hanging on to a pole during the ride, but he pulls it away, looks at the ads around, can’t stand looking at anything and shuts his eyes. I hate her. I’m going to go crazy without her. If it’s bad now, what’ll it be when my stuff’s all out of her place and I don’t have an excuse to see her? I’ll call, she’ll be nice on the phone, but won’t see me. Maybe in a few weeks, she’ll say. She’ll start with some other guy, probably one from her church. Seemed to be a lot of good-looking bright guys there and a lot more fun-making in the sense she likes than him. Jolly, healthy, gay. I’ll drink too much to get to sleep, wake up a few hours after I pass out and feel even worse because I won’t be able to get back to sleep besides being a little stomach-sick, so I’ll just think of her, the bitch, hours before with her apron on, cooking dinner for some guy, later on top of him in bed, at the same moment he’s thinking all this, that smile on her puss when she’s up there doing it that way, taking this subway with him next day. Shakes off the thought. “Anything wrong?” she says. “No,” closes his eyes again, recalls her as the smiling usher, escorting one of the elderly congregants down the aisle, that phony and fake. “Aren’t the stained-glass windows here beautiful?” first time she took him. No, they’re not, he thought, they’re churchy, depressing, but said yes. I should be glad to be rid of her. If they had children, what fun would it be bringing them up if she led them to church every Sunday? This business with medicine. Dinner with her boring church friends, no wine, or a bottle only in front of him, and after, Sanka or herbal tea, though if he likes, real coffee. What’ll I say to my folks, brother and friends? Who am I going to move in with? I’ll have to get my own place quick. That’s not easy. Everyone wants a cheap place in the Village. But I want it to be near hers but not in the same neighborhood, so I can bump into her or plan it so it looks that way. Forget that. I’ll get one, anywhere in the city that’s cheap, show her I don’t need her. Show her nothing. Tell friends it’s over and you want to go out with other women and then go out with them, find someone else — that’s the best cure, and staying away from her. Opens his eyes, looks at her. So goddamn beautiful, it kills him. Would love for it to be like it’s been, handholding on the train, if they get seats each reading a different section from the same newspaper and occasionally commenting on it, parting kiss. “Listen,” he says, and puts his mouth to her ear, “I love you too much, that’s the problem.” “That’s not it,” she says, “believe me.” “Then what is?” “Let’s talk about it later,” as it’s her stop they’re pulling into, and she puts out her cheek, he says “Oh shove it. I’m not going to just take everything you dish out,” and she shrugs and goes. He’s at work but can’t work, calls her after lunch and says “So where do I stand? Can I come by later to at least pick up the stuff I need?” “Hold it. Don’t go to extremes again. We should talk, Meet me after work?” Meet, dinner out, grabs her hand when they walk to the restaurant, she clutches his, puts her head on his shoulder, over dinner she says she was much too hasty this morning and didn’t think through lots of what she said, his reaction didn’t help matters but she takes part responsibility for that, she still wants the marriage postponed, she doesn’t know till when, but please stay, she’s almost sure it can all work out. “I’ll stay, no question about it,” kisses her hands, she kisses his, stare at each other and cry. Few weeks later, while they’re dressing for work, he says “By the way, have you had any more thoughts, either way, about the marriage being postponed or anything regarding it and us? Just asking, you don’t have to answer.” “Truth is, after careful consideration, corny as that has to sound to you, and talking it over with some people good for that—” “Your practitioner?” “Among others. That’s all right, isn’t it?” “Really, what more important decision could you make, so anything you say.” By her expression and she’s looking right at him and that “corny as that has to sound” remark, he thinks everything’s going to be OK. “Anyway, you asked, so I’m saying, though I hate for it always to be the first thing in the day — I don’t know when the right time for it could be—” “Wait, what are you saying?” “You must have sensed something’s been wrong between us since the last time.” “No, nothing, what?” can hardly speak, “everything’s been great.” “It hasn’t. Quite the opposite. I’ve been withdrawn from you, melancholic to downright depressed most times the last two weeks. It’s because it isn’t working, and I also knew what I’d be saying now would hurt you, which made me feel even worse.” “Why? You’ve been happy, gay, moody occasionally, but not for long and no more than me — natural moodiness, comes and goes. And we’ve been fine together, same as ever whenever it’s gone well, and it has, joking around, sleeping together—” “Not fine; not happy or gay. If I seemed liked it then it was an act not to show how I felt but one I wasn’t even aware of. And sleeping with you is what you wanted so I gave in but not with any enthusiasm or joy. You had to know that too.” “I didn’t. That’s not at all what I caught.” “Then I’m not saying any more. We’ll talk tonight. I don’t want to ruin your day or mine as I did the last time.” “You saying you definitely can never think of marrying me?” “I think so. Or at least that’s what I think now. And without that direction, we shouldn’t live together. Something isn’t clicking with us, I don’t know what. You’ve been wonderful, have put up with me and my moods, but I need time to be by myself and think things out. Maybe, but I doubt it, I’ll discover—” He pushes her, wants to hit her, she sees it, fist up and his face, and backs away. “Don’t worry, I never would. Never you. Not that precious face. Oh no, I couldn’t,” and smashes his fist through a panel of the closet door. She says “Now who’s going to pay for that?” “Fuck it, you moron, your goddamn door.” “All right, I will fuck it. I’ll fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, you fucking fucking curser. You crazy man. For the first time, though you’ve given signs, I’m truly afraid of you,” and goes into the bathroom and locks it. He listens at the bathroom door. “You crying in there? Well if you are, cry all you want; just think of what you’ve done to me,” and runs water over his hand, wants to put antiseptic on it but that’s in the bathroom, wraps it with a dishtowel and leaves. Calls her at work and says “Sorry about the door. Tell Mrs. Young I fell with such force or something that my head went through it, but that I’ll pay for it.” “I saw blood in the kitchen. How’s your hand?” “My hand deserves what I did to it, so don’t worry. I also want to say, if it’d help things, and I don’t think it’d be a bad idea for me — I’m interested in it and I need — you saw — some additional spiritual discipline in my life like this — I’ll convert to Science.” “Do it only for yourself, not me. It won’t change anything between us. It’s not the issue. Be Jewish; even be Orthodox Jewish.” “But I need you to stay with me and guide me in it. I’m serious about it. It’s not just for you.” “Go to any Science church other than mine and ask them for advice. But nothing related to me.” “Ah, you just don’t love me, that’s all. You maybe did a little once — now and then — but not enough.” “Anyway, I’ll stay somewhere else tonight and you can start moving out. I’ll give you till around six tomorrow. But please go? And promise you won’t wreck anything else or take whatever’s not yours?” Gets an apartment. Gets drunk a lot. Calls her late at night a lot, for anything. “The Auden book I said I didn’t want? I need it back. Not only because I’m starting to love his work again but there’s something in it I have to find and copy down to go into my own writing.” “I’ll send it.” “I have to have it by morning. Can I come right down?” She’s on her stoop with the book. “Here. Please don’t bother me with little things like this again. You want anything more of yours I might have, tell me now and we’ll go upstairs and get it and that’ll be all.” They go upstairs. He grabs her on the third-floor landing to kiss her. She puts her hand between their mouths. “Please. I feel nothing but sympathy for you now.” “Fuck you, you rat. You can have whatever I’ve left up there, or throw it out the window for all I care. Plus this book,” and heaves it downstairs, kicks it out of his way as he leaves the building. Weeks later wishes he hadn’t; one about Yeats and another about suffering he wanted to go to; also the shortie where children die in the streets. He was drinking and in a sad serious mood. Meets her two years later at an art gallery she’s working at. Saw the review and that afternoon had nothing to do. “Fancy this,” he says and she looks up from a textbook and that smile and big hi. “I didn’t mean to just spring up on you. You’re I swear a complete surprise.” She’s no longer a Christian Scientist, is living with an artist who exhibits here but nothing of his up this moment, courses in anthropology, paleontology, ancient Greek, given up theater for good. News quit him when the show went off the air and he’s living on unemployment and writing a book. They kiss each other’s cheeks good-bye. “Wait a sec, I haven’t even looked around,” does, says he wasn’t disappointed and it’s a nice walk back through the park. “By the way,” and invites him for dinner. Accepts but hour before just can’t see himself there, sitting, wanting, coming back, and calls to say he suddenly got a stomach flu. The artist answers, says she’s in the can now, he’ll relay the message. “Too bad, it would’ve been interesting. Most of our pals can’t talk anything but dealers or painters, when they’re not descanting on Chinese food and movies. In fact I’ve tried to bring some writers onto the scene to change that, but another time, hey? and feel good,” and he says “That’s very kind, thanks.” Months later goes out of his way to pass their building. Looking through all the store windows around there just in case and sees her on one of the checkout lines of the supermarket on her block. Goes in, says he was heading for the subway, looked left just for a second and couldn’t believe his eyes. “Watch out,” she shouts as the conveyor belt moves her food and she jokes how she sometimes thinks her hand’s going to move with it when she’s thinking about something else and disappear under the belt. “Who knows what’s under there; I imagine teeth.” Laughs, at the same time realizing he’s being phony since he doesn’t think it funny. Invites him upstairs for coffee; Ricardo’s in Germany for an opening of his work. Carries both bags, despite her protests, and remembers shopping with her when they lived together; always liked it. Coffee’s rich, ground just for this brewing; king- or queen-sized mattress on the floor behind a screen. Very little furniture, all the lighting fluorescent except for two student lamps by their bed pillows, most of the place seems to be his studio. “Where do you work when you’re home?” and she says in bed or at the kitchen table. “Ricardo pays the bills and is the at-home artist and it was his place so gets most of the space.” Lots of expressionistic nudes, still lifes, sunsets or rises over some Mediterranean fishing village it seems with mountains in the back and big storms boiling behind them. None of the nudes look like her except a little in the face: heavier breasts, larger aureoles, bigger bushes, darker hair, thinner legs, squarer buns. “Interesting; nice; good; exciting; terrific color, any of you?” and she says “Zillions, in every kind of pose, clothed and unclothed, including some frankly pornographic ones and a few unerotic nudes with him—’Artist and His Model’—but they go straight into the gallery or on the road. These are all early works to hide the cracks.” Books piled up against the walls, bunches of tiny dried flowers throughout the loft, bathroom smells from her soap; in it a life-sized mirror-image self-portrait, he supposes, looking as if he’s about to break the mirror with his brush; dark, handsome, bearded, angry, long fat semierect penis; only painting so far he really likes. “That him in there?” and she says “It’s embarrassing, that one. I like to tell people it’s his nonexistent identical-twin brother, but maybe that doesn’t help,” and he laughs when she does, again thinks he’s a phony. Wants to throw her down and rip her clothes off and rape her. Give her time only to put her diaphragm in if that’s what she still uses — looked for the case in the bathroom but didn’t find it — but to tape her mouth if he has to and flatten her to the mattress, grab her ass from behind with both hands and push her up to him as far as she can go and to come fast and for the whole thing to be over with forever. Maybe for them to stay locked like that for a few minutes but without him looking at her and then if he can to come again the same way or with her turned over. To go to jail for it, long as they’d want to stick him in it — he wouldn’t give any resistance. Kiss on the cheeks good-bye. “We really should do dinner,” she says. “Ricardo would enjoy meeting you.” “Sure he would.” “Why wouldn’t he? He’s interested in anyone with a serious purpose, doesn’t have to be art, and says the two of you are much alike. He’s punched his hand through a door and wall a few times too.” “I only did it that once and would like to forget about it.” He calls and they meet twice in the next two years, for coffee, the next time lunch. Ricardo sold the loft and went to Paris to live and work and she’s following him in a month. She’s studying art history now, also figure drawing. He says he’ll take her to the airport by bus; she says she does have a lot of luggage so it would be a great help. In the flat she’s staying at when he picks her up he says he has something he doesn’t know if he should tell her. “Paris has evaporated,” she says. “I’m still madly in love with you, I’m sorry,” and chokes up. She looks consoling while busily getting last-minute things together. “I didn’t know that and wish it weren’t true. We’ve become good friends and I’d hate for anything to spoil it.” “Don’t worry, nothing will; I’m not about to make a move on you.” Kisses her hands, just before she’s going to board he hugs her good-bye. She keeps her head stretched to the side so he can’t get at her lips when he kisses her. “Oh, I forgot,” though he intended it for now, and pulls out of his coat two gift-wrapped paperbacks and a jar of instant tea and she says “Gosh, where am I going to stash these? I haven’t an inch of space left,” and he says he’ll send them to her and takes them back. They correspond about once every other month. Tells her he’s coming to Paris to live, always wanted to and isn’t it the thing for a young writer to do? and he can’t take another day of substitute teaching in junior high schools but put away enough money from it; maybe he’ll get to see her, take her to lunch. Who you kidding? he tells himself. He’s going because she’s there and in her last letter she said things weren’t going well with Ricardo; their relationship’s often been tempestuous but now it was getting uncivilized. He thinks: she’s usually broke, has no job there, they’ve been living outside of Paris and not going in much, she’s written, so maybe she’ll want to move into the hotel with him and let him support her awhile. At the least, if she’s living off him, she’ll let him screw her from time to time and maybe eventually something deeper might develop and maybe right away. Certainly if he learns French fluently, which he plans to, and gets a job there with some American firm or French firm needing Americans in editing or news or something like that — just writing anything — things will even get better for them. He calls her day after he gets there and Ricardo says she left today for New York and is probably this minute at the Luxembourg airport. He calls Icelandic there, they get her and she says “I didn’t leave because you were coming, though I knew you were and wanted to see you, but because Rick and I had the worst fight of our lives and I didn’t want to be in France or even Europe another second.” “Cash in your ticket, get your luggage off the plane if it’s already on. And if you can’t, don’t worry, I’ll buy you new clothes and reimburse you for your ticket some way if they don’t refund it, but come stay with me at my hotel here or in your own room at the hotel — I’ll take care of all of it for as long as you want and I won’t make any kind of demands on you.” “Write me,” she says. “It’ll give me surrogate pleasure reading about the wonderful experiences and people you’re meeting in Paris.” Doesn’t know anyone there, writes a little, walks around a lot, studies French at the Alliance Francaise every morning but gets to meet no one in his classes — Bulgarians, South Americans, Israelis, who only want to be with one another, and Africans who only want to meet girls-goes to bars young Americans and Scandinavians hang out in but can never open a conversation and nobody starts one with him. Calls Ricardo a month after he gets there and says he got a letter from Janine “and she said what a great cheap area yours is to live in, so I’m coming out by train to look around and wonder if I could stop by to get advice on what the good blocks are and so on,” which is all a lie: no letter so far and only wants to see where she lived, bed she slept in, guy she slept with, any new paintings of her, just any trace of her, and maybe Ricardo will also introduce him to some people, or give him names and addresses of Americans in Paris, who could become acquaintances or friends. Ricardo’s short — he thought him tall from his self-portrait — muscular, rough looking, talks tough, New York, paint clothes, paint flecks in his hair and on his nose, place smelling of oils, polite, laughs loud, gives him a beer, bisquits, hard salami, the best chair, hovel a mess, parakeet flying in and out of its open cage, two pussycats she took in and left behind, says “She’s a complex creature — we both know that — with no ambition or focus, which I didn’t mind — did you? — since it meant she was always here for me when I was hungry or horny or hungover or boorishly talkative or things like that — but which other men might not like, her always waiting on or for them, and she hated. That the case, she should’ve stuck in acting; she could’ve made a potful and name at it with her magnetism and face — the eternal childknockout — and she was superb at it I heard. Anyhow, years of my shit, she wanted someone gentler, quieter, she said, and who’d ultimately want to marry and give her little snotnoses and help her raise them, and I guess I fooled around on the side a little too much too, even giving her crabs once, but put that burning lotion on you and you get rid of them quickly enough, and she knew that part of me from the start but it all must’ve built up. She’s something though, right? — great cook, great in the sack, intuitive and ethereal and bright as they make them and with that right zing of cheer and throaty voice that gobbles you up — no wonder men at bars punched one another out and in every language just to have the privilege of buying the next bottle of mineral water for her.” No new paintings of her since for a year now he’s only been doing old or decrepit nudes and mad people and idiots of both sexes when he isn’t doing imaginary cityscapes. Wants to take Howard to a bar where she used to play darts and pinball and write poetry but he pretends to have a stomachache, “I think something to do with the water at my hotel which the propriétaire, if that’s for the man, said was safe to drink,” thinks why the hell don’t I tell him I can’t stand him and am immensely jealous because he knows all he has to do to get her back is phone her and act nice and apologize and say everything’s going to be peachy-keen between them from now on in and that even though he understands her all right she’s too fucking good for him and that she only lived with him and stayed in love this long and would go back to him because she’s a bloody self-destructive putz. Every time he gets a letter from her he goes to the small fenced-in park across from the hotel to read it, and if it’s raining, to the café a street away to read it over coffee and a brioche, even if it’s delivered in the third mail. Gets a writing fellowship to California and she says she’ll meet him at the ship when it docks in New York. She’s not there. Calls her at the apartment she’s sitting for and she says “I phoned your home for the exact arrival time and your mother asked me not to meet you, that I’ve done enough harm and shouldn’t even try to see you because if I do you’ll probably stay here and forget the fellowship. I’m sorry she feels that way but I can see what she means. My changeability has had a long string of messing things up.” “You really think so? Ah, we’re past that. Can I come over now?” “Love for you to.” “Where you going?” his mother says and he says “Janine, I have to give her something somebody gave me for her in Paris and was too breakable to send,” and she says “You’re nuts,” and his father says “A glutton for punishment; let him out of here, he won’t listen to us anyway.” Kisses her at the door. It was just to be on the cheek from his part but she puts her lips out, arms around him — he follows but lets his hands droop — and pulls him in, keeps him there. Gets an erection, backs away and says he’s sorry, “thought I could control it though it used to happen all the time when I was a kid — could barely get on the dance floor with anyone,” and she says “It’s natural so who’s worrying about it? And so many men are homosexual these days or letting it all come out what’s always been hidden or stifled, that I’m glad to see you haven’t changed. Just because it’d be so surprising, I think I’d become a nun if you became a homo, I mean gay.” They go out for dinner, hold hands on the table, say little, gaze into each other’s eyes, laugh about that, “What’s come over us, monsieur?” and he says “Compression, dilution, shrinkage, the aging process, Irma the Girl in Wraparound Body Plastic, the Little White Cloud That Cried, good ole Yankee soil, light and loose summer clothes, but don’t listen to me since I don’t know anything, but probably nothing, niente, yenta,” kiss hands (hers), rub cheeks against knuckles (his), knock off a bottle of Chianti, later make love. He thought it could happen and at the table devised a plan for the walk back and after to help it take place: act the way he did when he saw her at the Lipsatzes two years after their first big breakup: indifferent, distracted, uninterested, looking at everything but her (store windows, passersby, traffic, sky), talking — little he did and which had to be extracted — about uninteresting things: weather, world, hands in his pants pockets. At the door he said what he’d planned to: “Well, I’ll see ya,” waved (planned), turned (unplanned) to the elevator (if she didn’t say anything he was going to turn back to her and say “Oh, good night,”) when she said “This might be impertinent and maybe completely undesirable to you, but would you like to spend the night here? — you can,” and he said “Where, on the narrow couch?” She was shaking her head and smiling but he said “No offense meant, but after that tiny bunkbed aboard ship for nine days I need a real box spring and mattress,” and she said “With me; I wouldn’t have asked otherwise, but if there’s to be a discussion about it then we should forget it because I don’t want to have it in my borrowed public hallway.” “No problem, I’d like to,” and went around her before she could change her mind, which he thought she was thinking she might, inside, said he was very tired, “I’m going straight to the bedroom if it’s all right,” she said “Good idea; I’m pretty tired and a bit tipsy too,” no kisses, made sure not to touch her or smile, till she came out of the bathroom naked, turned on the fan and climbed into bed — he was already in it, wishing they’d shared a beer on the couch and he’d slowly taken off her clothes and then she’d helped him off with his. Thinks it’s going to be just this one time: way she turned over after they were done, no good night kiss, and moved away during the night each time he pressed up to her or put his foot on hers. “Something the matter?” he asked once and she said “Nothing, why should it be?” and he said “I hope it wasn’t my disinterested attitude before we went to bed and possibly even on the street — I was just thinking about other things then: ship this morning, being back, flying to California in a few days — I don’t even have a place there to stay yet or know how I’m going to get from airport to campus housing office,” and she said “You were fine, everything’s all right, and I can understand: moving around so much can do it.” Nah, something’s wrong: gaze and stuff at dinner were an act (not on his part) or the wine, or plus it, and going to bed with him, and he’s being realistic here, not self-pummeling, was probably the first of her every-third-year gift to him for being such a dopey faithful friend. He should know by now nothing he does will work with her; even if she said she loved him he wouldn’t believe it; he doesn’t know what she’d have to do for it to take; if she said she wanted to come to California with him, he’d let her, but still wouldn’t believe she’d stay. What would he care? She’d help him settle in, take away the jitters of a new place, few days’ lays, fellow fellowists or whatever they’re called would see he came with someone of substance or just beautiful and engaging and after she left there’d be other women out there: bigger, blonder, less something, more something, younger, fresh. If she said “Let’s get married,” he’d say OK and if she actually did it — he’d never push — only then would he say it took, but maybe even then he’d be suspect. So maybe after a couple of years of relatively untroubled marriage; probably only then, and also with a baby or when she was visibly pregnant with the first. So he tries making the most of it when he wakes up and she’s still sleeping. If there’s one time he’s going to remember her, this is to be it, but that’s never worked much either. Slowly pulls the sheet off of her. She’s on her back, knee up before it settles and rests, eyelids for a few seconds fluttering. Loves her body: hard, soft, no tan or extra bulge, light fuzz on her arms and legs; never shaved, freckled chest. Gently puts his face up to her pubic hair and skims his lips through it. Smells: no odor; inhales: there’s something, more of urine and vaginal cream, but not much; wants to lick it but doesn’t want to wake her. Could be she’s awake, curious what he’s doing, peering at him through the thinnest eyeslits. Maybe wants him to do what he wants to but doesn’t want to show she’s awake for it might stop him. If they only had a signal. Inspects her breasts, area around the aureoles, nipple tips, as much as he can see inside her vagina without parting it, legs, neck, arms, armpit, hair there, curves, midriff. To see if he can detect any change in her body since he saw her naked years ago. No new lines, scars, bumps, weight gain, gray. Face next to hers now; she’s smiling while sleeping but no fluttering. Is she up, maybe waiting for him to just get on top of her and stick it in? He’s ready and probably won’t have another chance, maybe ever. Her reasoning: doesn’t want him to think she wants it a second time when she does, long as he’s here; then he might think she wants him to stay. No, not how women feel or think. Time he wanted to rape her; glad he didn’t, her participation better than any forced lay, and of course other things: stigma, prison, her rage. And once in, which should be easy with last night’s semen and grease and if need be his spit, even if she objected and didn’t want it, he thinks she’d let him finish if he was quick. In a way rape but all she’d have to do was say get off and if he wasn’t coming at the time or in a few seconds, he would. Oscillating fan lifting her head hair up and moving her pubic hair every time it blows her way, plus the horripilation on her legs. “You up,” he whispers, “or just your goose bumps and hair?” Smile doesn’t turn smilier; she’s asleep, lids fluttering again, or is that a trick? Only that once last night, he wanted it again but she said kind of drowsily “My poor pussy’s conked out before I have, so not possible.” Wanted to say “You don’t have to do a thing, just stay there, asleep if you want,” but caught himself moment before he was going to say it, also dropped the grin. “What do you mean ‘poor’—I was too rough or went in too far?” “I think I have the beginning of a yeast thing in there, but nothing that should spread.” “Then maybe in the morning if you’re feeling better,” and she said “Fine… nice… what’re we talking of?… really, sleepy, sweetie, OK?…” and then seemed to be asleep, that kind of breathing. Kissed her shoulder, erection jammed against her behind, hoping she’d make a little wiggling move or something suggesting he stick it in. Bet if he had, halfway or less, quarterway or just the head or tip, she wouldn’t have noticed it. Should have, then moved the way he would and jerking it with his hand; probably so little left, wouldn’t have been a mess. Six-thirty but bright out; puts his arm across her, sheet up and feels himself getting sleepy. Next thing: she’s nudging him awake with her toes, sitting on the bed stretching, saying she’s been writing a play these days, neglected to tell him because she didn’t think he’d be interested, and is dying to get at it, so he’ll have to leave right after a quick continental breakfast, and jumps out of bed. “You see?” he shouts and from the bathroom she says angrily “See what?” and he says “Nothing, something to myself how I should try to get some writing time in today too,” and wonders what did I mean? but glad he caught himself again. Over coffee and rolls she says she’s going to her folks later for a few days, but they’ll write. At the door he wants to say “One question only; why’d you sleep with me if you were planning to give me the quick heave?” and going down in the elevator thinks “I hate being so fucking mature,” and slams the wall with his palms, hoping she heard it and knows what the sound means. That night thinks of calling her at her folks and saying “One question only; why’d you even want to meet me at the ship?” Next day thinks of calling her there and saying “Listen, what are you doing that’s so important in New York? You haven’t your own apartment; you’re living out of a suitcase; come to California with me. Not for loveydovemaking but because we’re pals. We’ll be around writers, you can write there and maybe even better than here. You say your play’s about out-of-work stage actors? Well, distance does it, I learned in Paris, writing better than I ever did about New York.” Goes to California. Lots of things happen. Comes back to New York for Christmas to be with his family, didn’t plan to but calls her, they go to a party, dance, holds her close and moves them slowly though not that kind of music, pot passed around but she won’t touch it or even pass it so neither does he, her head against his chest, eyes closed he sees, when out of nowhere he says “You of course know I’ve never stopped loving you since I met you, but didn’t I say almost the exact same thing last time I was in? — I forget,” and she looks up and says “Why do you?” and he says “Love you?” and she nods, kisses his chest, looks up again and nods and he thinks is he on to something here? maybe she wants to be convinced before she says she wants to go to California with him without him even asking her: personality, voice, looks of course, her hair, their sex, intelligence which he should have listed first, perceptiveness, humor, playfulness, even her changeability, her size, breath, shape, smells, kindness, gentleness, how she is with people, those she doesn’t even know, upbringing, way she drives, folks, everything, he can’t think of anything about her he doesn’t admire or like very much or love, her searches, curiosity he means, all the things she’s done and does, oh, they’ve had their differences, let’s face it, but her background, foreground, middleground, she’s laughing, ‘It’s true, I just feel tremendously good with you, holding you like this, dancing, sitting, just knocking on the door here before, and things that can’t be explained: biology, chemistry, psychopathology,” she’s laughing, prospect of babies, brushing her hair, cutting her toenails, sudsing her back, kissing the top of her head like this, does it, she’s laughing, “You name it; the full gamut; that’s why, now that you asked,” and she says “Thank you, sweetie, all very nice, really, I appreciate it, needed it too, but I don’t deserve it from someone so loving and good and after the way I’ve treated you,” and he says “Ah shucks, ma’am,” and she puts her lips up and they kiss and he thinks is this going to be it, tonight, tomorrow, she’s finally decided on him or at least for the time being and who knows till when? don’t say anything; no hopes up; just see. They dance some more, kiss, hold hands while sitting, woman she knows who wants to talk with her alone says “Boy, don’t you two ever separate?” they laugh, later she says “Why don’t I see myself home by taxi?” he says “No, I’ll take you, but by taxi,” when the cab pulls up to her building she says “You don’t want to take it while you have one? They don’t come around here much,” he says “Nah, too expensive; I’ll take the subway,” she says “I have money upstairs if you need,” “No, I’m happy with the subway,” at her door she says “It’s awfully cold out and the whole trip home for you an hour minimum if you don’t take a cab, want to sleep on the couch here?” and he says “With you? — oh, I shouldn’t have said that,” and she says “If we keep our clothes on,” “Then why not in bed if we keep our clothes on? — say, great idea, Howard,” “Because I know you,” and he says “Well, I know you too, so there— ah, I’m acting like such a kid,” “Because I know what you’ll want to do and why wouldn’t you?” and he says “Well, why not then? — it’s cold, we’re warm, I love you, you don’t hate me, we’ve made naughty-naughty together before and a couple of times swore we wouldn’t do something and then did and enjoyed it — hey, I’m making a bit pitch here, baby, a really big one,” and she says “Just the couch, with clothes, I’d love holding you all night,” so they get on it, no pullout, blankets over them which keep falling off and she picks up and both of them put back on, he on the inside holding her tight for one reason afraid she’ll fall off and then give up on it and sleep alone in bed, he can’t take his pants off, though asks, because he has no undershorts, she just in underpants and bra and socks, once puts his hand down her pants, she slaps his wrist lightly and pulls his hand out, “Too bad, for I swear it’d be wonderful if you let it or just left my hand in there, I wouldn’t let my fingers do anything,” “I’m sure so but no thanks, let’s go to sleep,” breakfast, kiss before he leaves, says he’ll call her, she says she’ll be around all week, doesn’t, not the next three weeks he’s in New York, hated the horniness, his cornballness, didn’t really sleep, tired entire next day, raised hopes though told himself not to, rest of it, no more, forget it, whole thing’s such delusory nonsensicalness, seeing her, wanting to see her, dying to sleep with her, pining away for her, walking the streets thinking of her and hoping he’ll bump into her, to have her love him, what shit, crock of, he could never understand her ever, get that, he’s sure of it, so good luck to the next guy, and in a way a lucky guy, her face, shape and spark, et cetera, for it could only be with a new guy, his with her is marked, and if she calls he’ll tell her or politely as he can say to her to get lost, no, that it’s best they don’t see each other, for him, her, in the long run and no explanation if she asks for one, which he doubts she will — she won’t, she’ll just say all right if that’s how he feels or what he wants — but thanks, he’ll say, and after he hangs up: but no thanks, you little skunk, none. Goes back to California. Lots of things happen. Writes her care of her parents three years later when he’s working for a big systems analysis firm in L. A. doing technical writing. Just to say how are you, been a long time, was thinking of her, what’s been happening, curious. Gets a letter from her from some small town in Northern California saying she’s been on the coast for a year, thought he might still be in California, wanted to write his old school on the Peninsula but wasn’t sure what department or that if she got the right one it’d forward the mail of one of its former grad students, didn’t want to ask his mother because of how she’s felt about her contacting him, living with a logger/master woodcarver and never been happier: California’s a dream state: the ease, people, nature, weather, opportunities and room — she doesn’t see how she could live anywhere else. If he’s ever around here, stop by; they’ve a guest cottage Milton built overlooking the ocean and mountains and she’d love showing him the area; though she can no longer stand the East, she still gets a craving for intellectual easterners with something to say, and he might like it so such he’d move up here. Few months later he’s flying to San Francisco for a job interview and calls her, thinking he can rent a car and spend a day with her. Man who answers gives him another number to call. She says she got married last month — not to the logger-carver but to someone, if he can believe it, and it was the greatest mistake of her life, she’d only met a few weeks before, and left him a day after the ceremony and is now getting an annulment. She’d rather not see anyone now and once this is over she’s driving straight to New York; she’s already got a sublet and gives him the address and phone number, years later his first book’s reviewed in a New York newspaper; she sends him a letter care of his publisher, congratulating him on the book and being reviewed in such a prestigious place, “even if she impaled and then poleaxed you before dragging your body through the mud — the stinker; imagine doing that to a first book and one, between her lines, that sounds so promising,” asks him to call her if he gets a chance. Calls: she’s married, husband’s a filmmaker, no kids but they’re trying, renting a house in New Jersey, taking courses in botany and library science at a state college nearby, doing volunteer work for the town library which she’ll become the paid librarian of once she gets her degree; since she hardly ever gets into the city, invites him for dinner out there. He borrows a car. Her husband’s not home when he gets there and they sit on the grass in the backyard, beer and cheese and crackers, she tells him the names of all the trees, flowers and shrubs and even the grass and weeds around the place and what bird and insect sounds they’re hearing, he says he always wanted to know things like that and about mushrooms and rocks and how to navigate a boat just by the stars, asks if she’s read any good books or new poets or seen any plays lately and she says she ordered his book for the town library but it hasn’t arrived yet so she hasn’t read it. “Of course I could have ordered it for myself from the bookstore — I looked for it just to browse through but they didn’t have it — but the price was a bit steep; we’re always short so never buy new hardcovers, even by good friends.” “I should have brought a copy for you and Braxton, but I felt that’d be pushing it on you.” “Good news is there are already six people on the library reserve list for your book — four from my pep talks about you — but since I work there, my name’s on top. After I read it I’ll give you another review.” “I don’t know if it’ll be favorable, since one of the pieces is about when our engagement busted up and is pretty close to the original.” “I’ve been written about before but nobody’s come near to getting me the way I see myself. I’d almost write about myself to get it right, but I found out I’m a lousy writer. Anyway, so long as you didn’t use my name or my parents’ names and disguised me a little — more to show you’re just not a reporter — write what you like.” “I forget what I called you. Jackson, and where the reader never knows if that’s your first or last name.” Wonders how come she never changes? Face, manner, temperament, same high pointy breasts and tiny waist and bouncy gait and so on, while he’s lost most of his hair since they first met, jowls and deep face creases, little heavier and slower but not much, less sensitive and responsive, darker, grimmer, more downbeat a person — almost everyone says so — doesn’t try as hard for good fellow-feeling or jokes. Phone rings and she goes to answer it, comes back with more beer for them and sits. For a moment he saw her white panties and he thinks a patch of hair sticking out there; skirt’s above her knees; same fuzz on her legs. Braxton, asking her to extend his apologies to him for being late and saying he’s leaving the office in half an hour and it takes him, she says, another half-hour to get here. Wants the phone to ring again so she can get up to answer it and then sit down opposite him again so he can again see her panties. What if, no this is ridiculous. But what if she said now, though she’s given and is giving no sign of it, “You think we can quickly make love?” Of course saying something a little before it. “You’re probably not going to like this idea, Howard…” “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been thinking, Howard…” He’d do it, is sure of it, since almost all he can think about now is putting his lips on her lips and then on her legs. After, he’d say to himself he’s such a bastard, she’s the only married woman he’d do it with who’s trying to get pregnant by her husband. He’d carry on with her in the city if she wanted, and for as long as she wanted, but always asking her to divorce Braxton before she gets pregnant by one of them — he wouldn’t want any doubt as to whose kid it is — and marry him. She did get pregnant and wasn’t sure whose it was but wanted to marry him, he’d say to get rid of it or prove through some tests it’s his. She didn’t want to get married but wanted to have the baby one of them had got her pregnant with, he’d have to assume it was Braxton’s or if it wasn’t that Braxton would be the father to it, and that would probably be the end of their relationship. Braxton’s nice, polite, tall, broad shoulders, build of an ex-college swimmer, big mop of hair, plain-looking, little fat in the face, pinholes on the nose, pants keep sliding down because he has no behind, quiet — maybe because Howard’s there and been so talkative — not very intelligent, it seems, though maybe he’s holding back there too. But one knows: way he responds, lack of questions, choice of words, things he picks to discuss, flat expression, nothing in the eyes; it’s surely what he’d like to believe. They seem close. Howard and she were inside by then and she rushed to the door when he came in and kissed him; before that, when she heard a car pulling up in front, she said “That’s Brax, I recognize the muffler,” and beamed, looked out the window, stopped their conversation cold. Braxton likes to skydive—“That’s his biggest passion,” she said; “we take vacations around it”—water-ski, rock climb, camp out, snorkel, chop logs into kindling, takes boxing lessons, used to fence, his reading’s mostly work research and magazines about these things. “Do you play chess?” she said in the backyard; “I forget, but if you do I bet he’d love to whip through a couple of games after dinner.” Go; “he’s become something of a master at that game too.” Writes and shoots industrial films and commercials for a New Jersey company but hopes to do serious filmmaking in the future. “Maybe you and Howard can team up on one of his stories or unpublished books.” “You never know,” Braxton says, “but it’s got to be something you can play in — I’ve never seen her in anything, so I want to get her back into acting one last time.” “I’ve lots of things for women; mostly, though they’re all pretty intriguing, they’re not very nice.” She tried skydiving once, she said; got so frightened that she felt she experienced death. “I saw myself splattering on the ground and everything after that, even my funeral, while coming down.” “Was I at it?” Howard said. “Just faces and my family and Braxton, but it was just one of many things, so very quick.” “It was a stupid question to begin with; I wasn’t being serious, though the thought of it makes me shudder.” She patted his knee. The house is small, simple, comfortable, but lots of art work she acquired when working in the gallery years before, some of it the painter’s. One of her by him, he thinks, frontal nude, but doesn’t ask and tries to keep from constantly looking back at it. If it were in the gallery or a museum and nobody was around he’d go right up to it to get a close look at the face and genital area. They have dinner. Time to shut up, ask a lot of questions that’ll take time to answer and just listen. At least stop trying to impress her, which he knows he’s been doing—“Publishing is an eleemosynary venture when it comes to my works…. The next book, which I’ve already got my advance for, promises to do even worse”—and by contrast trying to make Braxton look bad. It’s hopeless and wrong. “How come so suddenly silent?” she says. “My food no good and you don’t want to say?” “No, you’re the same great cook. Could be I drank too much beer in the sun and I’ve also been working late a lot, so I’m tired and should probably go while I can still drive.” They insist he stay the night; they don’t want him cracking up on the road. They give him the guest room, which will be the baby’s room, she says, “that is, if we ever have one.” “Sure we will,” Braxton says. “Three, four if you want — We’ve gone in for tests, everything’s clear, count’s up to par, the doctor says it’s a shoo-in — so don’t be surprised if you’re carrying in a year.” “I know, and one at a time please, sweetie — Braxton’s family’s noted for its twins and triplets every third conception. Both his sister and brother and also his parents with the three of them.” “Triplets? Jesus, I’ve never met anybody who was one,” and is sorry he didn’t know sooner because he’d like to hear about it. They share a common wall. He listens through it — then his ear flat against it with his hand over his other ear — but only hears mumbling for speech, the word “filibuster” from Braxton very loud, a light switch clicking on and off several times, no sex sounds. He shakes his penis a little, thinks he should do it into his handkerchief — maybe there’s even some good cheesecake in the magazines on the shelves above him — then thinks he’d only be doing it to say to himself he did it in their house, and goes to sleep. He has a quick dream of her coming into the room in a nightgown and holding a towel, sitting on the bed and jostling him awake: “Up, you up?” That was inevitable, he thinks, and wishes it had gone on longer. He goes to the bathroom late at night, when he comes back stands in front of their door thinking of them sleeping close, maybe a little entangled, after probably having made quiet sex — all the talk of conception and semen might have led to it or maybe they try doing it every night to up the chances of them conceiving. “Lucky fucking stiff,” he whispers, low. Braxton’s gone by the time he washes up in the morning and goes into the kitchen for coffee. She’s reading the paper there, in her bathrobe. They talk a little more and then he kisses her cheek, hopes they can do this again some time, she says “Without doubt we will. Braxton really liked you, thought you a very stimulating person and would like to get to know you better.” “I liked him very much too,” and goes. That’s the last time he sees her. Neither calls or writes again. Bumps into an actor friend of hers from when they first met who says he still speaks to her about twice a year and was out to her house a year ago; she and Braxton have two children and decided that’ll be it, though he wants more. Braxton’s still making industrial films and television ads but owns his own company; she’s a language arts teacher in a private school and writing children’s books, but none have sold so far and she’s done about a dozen. “She read me one; about a horse and a cow who get married because of some dumb farmer’s blunder; it was hilarious and ends with them producing some animal called a how.” He’ll give her Howard’s regards next time he speaks to her, whenever that’ll be. The gallery she worked at is having a twentieth anniversary party. He knows a woman — met and became friends with her at an art colony he went to that summer — who’s represented by the gallery and she told him about the party. “Look out for a beautiful blonde woman named Janine. Maybe not as blonde and beautiful anymore, I’m sure lovely features still, an intelligent kind of dignified look, and about so high. She used to work there — receptionist, hanging up paintings, writing some of the catalogs — fifteen years ago — but became close friends with the owner, even stayed at her apartment when she couldn’t afford a room or was between this place and that lover, and long weekends at her beach house, so I’m sure she’ll be there. Last name was Austin but now it’s Jameson or Jimson or Johnson — her husband’s first name is Braxton — and I only remember one of those was her last name or something like it when I read an obit of her father last year and it gave that name as one of the deceased.” The woman says “Maybe you’d like to go; I’m sure I can bring more than one friend,” and he says “Nah, I don’t know if I want to see her again like that — wangling an invitation. And I hate gallery parties; jug wines in fancy carafes and no chairs, and how would I tell it to Denise — that I’m going to a party where I’m almost sure to see an old girlfriend, love of my life till I met her?” The woman reports back to him. She did see a beautiful blonde woman, in her early forties but looked ten years younger, “asked about her, was told her name was Janine, went up to her and said I knew you. She was immediately all interest; asked me questions about you for an hour. In fact most of my talking time there I spent with her and was taken up by you. What are you doing? How do you support yourself? What do you look like? Where do you live? Is your mother still alive? Are you married or have you been since she last saw you and do you have any children? — somehow she felt you would by now, in or out of marriage. What’s my relationship to you? When I said ‘friend’ she gave me this double take, for she didn’t think you could ever know a single attractive woman long, as she put it, and just be friends. ‘Well, he’s changed — people do,’ she said, and then she asked what’s the woman like who you are involved with. She said you two were once engaged, but so many years ago that she forgets when. You never told me that. And that you were on and off with one another for a while after that, and much in love as she was with you at times, it never seemed to work out. She obviously has a high impression of your intelligence and talent and character and thinks you were the nicest man she ever was close with, other than her husband, who wasn’t there, by the way, or never came over to her while we talked, and she never looked around for him. Never for no one, in fact. She wasn’t one of those people at parties who are always darting their eyes about while you’re talking to them or standing with their backs to the wall so they can see everyone and be seen by everyone too. That says a great deal about her. When I told her of all you’ve written and also got published lately, she said she was going out the next day to buy everything of yours she could. That she hadn’t known you had stuck with it, but didn’t see why you wouldn’t, and what are some of the book titles and so on? I couldn’t remember one, not even the newest. But you know me; I’ve little to nil interest in books except for the art ones and if I did ever read one of yours I probably wouldn’t understand or like it, which is possibly why we stay friends — that I only talk about the covers.” “What’s she doing — she say?” “I think teaching. Or maybe she said she’s the principal of an all-girls’ school, or dean, or in admissions — head of it or assistant to head. I’m sorry, I forget. Also some artwork too, she’s doing — besides devoting lots of time to her children, of course — which she seemed too embarrassed to talk about, the art, maybe because I’m a professional painter and she thought it presumptuous talking to me of it. I should have pursued it because I knew you would have wanted to know what exactly in art she was in.” He wanted to ask about her hair, what style was it in and the color, but that would have sounded funny and he didn’t quite know how to phrase it, though he tried a few times in his head. And her body — was it still slim, with that tiny waist and strong legs, and energetic, or had it grown, got a little fleshy and slowed down? but he’s sure she would have said something like “You men — only interested in our bods, or mostly, and after we reach a certain age, go for the younger flesh and throw us away; I hate that,” and not answered it. Also what she smelled like — from the carnation soap she was famous to him for? Doesn’t remember even thinking of it last time he saw her, and forgets if it was in the bathroom of their house when he slept over? If it was, wouldn’t he have thought of it then? He doesn’t know. But he does remember that every time he did smell it — at her place or someone else’s — after he hadn’t seen her for a while, he thought of the smell and of her. But what’s he talking about? That soap wouldn’t smell on a person an hour or so after she washed herself with it; it’s perfume he’s thinking of, which he doesn’t think she ever used, and it’s someone else he’s thinking of who always had on one particular identifying kind. He says “Did she show you any pictures of her kids or say what sex they were or how old?” and she says “No, only that she has them; two, but I said that. What else about her? Nothing, except that she’s a lovely woman in every way. I felt immediately at ease and in rapport with her and could see myself becoming good friends with her if I had the chance, and of course why you were so attracted to her.” “In love with her. I could have killed myself over her. I think I almost did once. No, that was over someone else, much earlier on.” “Well, you were young, with her and all of them before her, and since no person’s worth killing yourself over, good thing you didn’t.”

Says to his mother and brother “Well, I’m going now to get the deli and stuff and take care of the house before all the people come, so I’ll see you.” His mother says “Do you have enough money?” and he says “You gave me more than enough, but if I need more, I have some of my own.” “No, I don’t want you paying for anything,” and reaches for her pocketbook. His brother says “He has enough — he told you — and if he doesn’t, you’ll give it to him later,” and to Howard “No tongue or fatty pastrami or meat like that. Just simple stuff, trimmed well, and get more than you think we need, because more people might be coming than we think. Also, we could use it while we’re sitting at Mom’s the next few days.” “By ‘simple,’ what do you mean?” and his brother says “Turkey, roast beef, lox, the best bologna, but nothing where the guests have to start picking off pieces because of the gristle and fat.” “OK, but I don’t want to be feeding and cleaning up after people the next few days. Making sandwiches, getting them drinks, people thinking it’s a restaurant we’re running, as Dad used to say,” and his brother says “That’s what you have to do when you sit. Not make things for them — they do that for you and serve you it and clean up after. But a lot come a long way and some around lunchtime and they’re hungry, naturally, also from sitting there for so long, so there should be food and pastries and coffee for them to help themselves. So get another can of coffee while you’re at it, and pastries too — little ones, big ones, but nothing with icing or that fluffy cream on it or goo in it. Coffeecakes and babkas — that’s what I mean you should get. Two or three of them, but simple ones, with mostly walnuts and raisins in them,” and hands Howard two twenties. “I told you, I have my own money and what Mom gave me,” and his brother says ‘Take it, I earn more than enough to play the sport, and I don’t want you holding back on what you buy.” He kisses his mother, brother, sister-in-law, says “I’m going to pay my respects a last minute,” his brother and sister-in-law nod, his mother seems to be off somewhere else, sitting erect, head arched back, eyes open but on nothing it seems, remembering, probably, maybe in a daze. Goes into the next room, sits on the front bench opposite the box, shuts his eyes, bows his head, folds his hands in his lap, hears the sound sonebody mentioned before and wanted to know what it could be: “There a pipe around that’s leaking?” Dripping, from the ice his father must be on, probably into a metal pan, from the sound of it, on the floor under the platform the box is on. Holes through the platform so the water can drip through? How do they do it? Something the rabbi insisted on if he was going to conduct the service? No modern refrigeration, which would be against his religious tenets? So why’d they get an Orthodox rabbi if his father hasn’t been Orthodox for forty years and they’d have to put up with this dripping? Going to be like this during the funeral? Then realizes; when the funeral home official — the salesman, really — showed them the caskets and then in his office asked lots of questions, like if they wanted their father embalmed, or rather “Of course you’ll probably want your father embalmed,” his brother and he said what for? He’s going into the ground tomorrow, around twenty-six hours after he died, so why do all that to the body and pay a couple-hundred more for it too? So probably on ice to preserve him for the funeral, which the embalming fluid probably would do, and where he won’t smell. Maybe that’s it, maybe not. Says “So I’ll see you in the morning,” closes his eyes again, lets whatever it is come in — nothing does; it’s all blank or flashing dots — and stands, moves his hand above the casket, then below the platform close to the curtain; doesn’t feel any colder. Thinks of lifting the curtain to see what kind of pan and the water, but maybe he’s got it all wrong; maybe it’s blood dripping, maybe something worse, and goes. Outside the home he thinks why didn’t he do what he was going to when he went into that room: hasn’t seen his father since in the hospital this morning, so open the casket to see the job they did on him and maybe for his last look. Forgot, that’s all, nothing deeper; got caught up in other things. Gets at the deli soda, seltzer, beer, coffee, milk, bread, sugar substitute, pound of this, two pounds of that, slice it thin, slice it thick, slice it regular, trim it a little more please, his brother says no fat, only the best, whatever’s the best, sure, salami too, nobody asked but he’s sure people will eat it and kosher salami’s supposed to be the finest, but only half a pound, same with the bologna, Isaac Gellis, any good brand like that, ham he knows they don’t have or nothing like it, right? sour and new pickles, lots of them, sour tomatoes, some of those pepper things with the long stems, couple of gefilte fishes, or fish for the plural, how do you say it? with plenty of carrot slices on them but not too much juice, it’s going to be eaten in an hour, cole slaw, potato salad, whitefish, nova, gravlax, whatever that is, he was told by his brother to get it, some of that spread there — chopped liver; of course — he thinks that’s it; maybe some roast turkey. Asks them to deliver but please make it quick, lots of hungry people will be flocking soon to his folks’ apartment from the funeral home and the food should be there when they come, and the counterman says “Oh, someone in the family? My condolences, all around, and don’t worry, our boy will be there before you, I bet, if you don’t get a cab and take it home right after you step out of here,” and he says “Don’t make it that fast; nobody will be there to receive it,” leaves, snaps his fingers outside, goes back and says “And could you throw in some of that nice deli mustard you prepare — enough for thirty people?” and stops off at a liquor store for several liquors, then at a bakery. At the apartment he opens the dining room table, puts a tablecloth on it — his mother told him which cloth — lots of paper napkins, no time to fold them into triangles, silver, plastic cups and paper plates — she told him where to find them — opens the liquor bottles and sets them on a side table with a pitcher of water and a few swizzle sticks, fills the ice bucket with ice, gets the cakes on dinner plates and puts them on the table with a bread knife between them, makes himself a drink, drinks it, makes another, pulls out two breakfront drawers of old photos his mother’s kept there since they moved from Brooklyn thirty-five years ago, buzzer from the building’s vestibule, forgot to get the coffee ready, buzzes the ringer in, deliveryman and lets him carry everything into the kitchen though his mother told him for what could be bugs at the store to have him leave the delivery at the door, gets the electric percolator going, slices the fish, pickles, tomatoes, puts everything on platters and into bowls, cleans a bag of radishes and garnishes the food platters with them, brings the platters and bowls to the dining room table, looks for serving forks and spoons. Arranges the table till it looks right to him. His idea, from right to left: tableware first, main food next, salads and accessories after, pastries last. Turns the kitchen radio on and is glad to get sad music: churchlike, possibly Bach, a cantata, maybe the Easter one or the Passion, for it’s familiar and Easter’s only days away. Makes himself a drink, sees there’s one in the dining room he didn’t touch and drinks it down, bourbon instead of scotch, starts on the new one. Soda and seltzer on the side table. Salt, pepper, mustard in a bowl on the main table. On the kitchen counter by the percolator: milk, sugar, sugar substitute in a dish, glass of teaspoons with the handles up, all the cups and saucers and mugs in the house. Phone rings. Doesn’t want to answer it. It’ll be somebody with his condolences but then it could be his brother about his mom. His mother’s cousin from Florida. Her condolences. He was the most wonderful good-natured man. Brought people together who never would have been. Almost matched her up with someone after her husband died but she decided taking care of one sick man for years and then burying him was enough. Just like his mother did but for twice as long as she and with his sister and dad, but she’s a saint. Which son is he, the oldest or youngest? Last time she saw him, but he wouldn’t remember her, was at a seder his parents gave more than twenty-five years ago. Funeral at Riverside? She won’t be able to come up for it, she never travels a mile from her home these days, but tell Mother she called. Beer he’ll leave in the refrigerator but how will people know it’s there? They’ll just have to snoop around or ask. He leave anything out? Phone rings. His father’s nephew. He couldn’t make it tonight but he’ll be there tomorrow. He knows it’ll be in the paper but sometimes they don’t get it right so what time’s the funeral? And because he’s not sure about these etiquette things, he’s expected to get there to pay his respects a half-hour before? So, what can he say? Uncle Cy’s the last one on the Tetch side from that age group and the oldest. Next it’ll be their generation. What’s he talking about, since they’ve already lost a few; both of them their sisters and his middle brother, right? Tomorrow, then, and love to Aunt Pauline. Toothpicks, for some of these people, and a few more ashtrays. But why encourage them? and last thing he wants after everyone goes and there’s still a mess is to empty and clean ashtrays. Gets the garbage can from under the sink. Phone rings. Though it’s only half filled, wants an empty can to start with. Takes it out to dump and then relines it. Newspapers; maybe now that his father’s dead, plastic trash bags. Collects all the photos he can find of a certain time of his father. Phone rings, yells for it to go to hell, doesn’t want to speak to anyone, no one, has enough things to do and is just plain drained and not in a talking mood, picks up the receiver, hand over the mouthpiece, presses the disconnect buttons and leaves the receiver off the cradle. Drinks, pours another, but doesn’t want to get sloshed, his mother might need him and there might be all that cleaning up, so puts it to the side. Beeping from the phone, drinks while it’s doing it, and then it stops. Leans about fifty photos of his father against the wall above the dining room mantel, tapes several to the wall above it. Graduation photo from high school he’s been told, though looks five years too old for it. Bar mitzvah photo: hat for an old man and too big, tefillin, prayer shawl, mantilla, poncho, whatever it’s called, face radiantly self-confident and mature while he in his official bar mitzvah photo looked like a shy kid. Rowing a boat. Swinging a bat. Feeding a duck. Throwing an apple down from a tree. Reading a newspaper on his favorite park bench. On their honeymoon cruise to Bermuda, back of it says. Sitting on bar stools at Sloppy Joe’s in Cuba, sign on the interior awning says. Glasses raised, he raises his, here’s to ya, pal, phone rings. When he put the receiver back on? What else he do he doesn’t know about? Should go to the john so he doesn’t have to when there’s a line for it. Goes, makes sure to zip up. Phone rings, ah shit. Deliveryman came and left twenty-something minutes ago so should be back by now: delivered, gave him a tip, that was it. Standing on a diving board ready to dive in, one-piece swimsuit but looking good and fit. Dad and she or just him alone and lots of other people, relatives at family functions, friends or associates at professional or fraternal affairs, half with their heads twisted around or chairs turned. Between Alex and him during a summer camp visit, hairy gray chest, big belly, skinny legs, galvanizing smile, his dead brother looking so ungovernable, though his father’s got them both around the neck in a good grip, with his wild curly hair and cocky face and dark suntan and budding build. Standing, if that’s him, with his arms on the shoulders of two buddies, with his basic training unit. His mother and brother and sister-in-law come in, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. Door never shuts. Outside buzzer and cigar smoke never stop. Opens a window but someone says too cold so he closes it. Phone always ringing or being dialed. They’ve been detained longer than they thought so go ahead with dinner. What’s doing with gold in Hong Kong and Tokyo? What’s he think about Nixon’s newest antics? someone asks him. Hasn’t read the paper or listened to the radio in days, what’d he say? Food being picked at or wolfed down and wonders if he should start cleaning up now or just bring in the kitchen trash can if nobody’s put something terrible in it or a couple of opened shopping bags and let everyone help themselves. His brother signals him with a finger, corners him. What’s with these photos? Thanks for the great job getting the food and setting up the table, but he go out of his mind? People haven’t said anything because they’re too embarrassed to. Sorry, thought it’d be nice, seeing him as he was, not sick as he’s been for years, and maybe his typical misdirected spontaneity and too much to drink. But this one he particularly likes: in his office bending over a patient, his dark hair, starched white smock, and look how rugged he looks and glittering his dental equipment is, and the photo seems professionally lit and taken, as if for a magazine. Was it? Brother shrugs, sort of doubts it, but it with the others if he can has to go. And look at this one of them in Paris, at the Café de la Paix of all places, which took them twenty years to get to once they’d planned it, and where he had what she called his first ministroke. Maybe that one should go right away because of its associations for her, and stuffs it into his back pocket. But he’s tired and it’s been a big one and last night at the hospital when he barely got a wink sitting by Dad’s bed, so he’s afraid he’ll have to call it a day. Please do whatever he pleases with the photos himself. Kisses his brother, says good night to his mother; she doesn’t seem to recognize him, then calls him Alex, corrects herself and calls him Gerald, then says of course it’s her youngest child Howard — she means her youngest son; Vera was her youngest child — but then she’s always been awful with names, and he leans over to hug her and she kisses his forehead. He’ll be in the boys’ room all night in case she needs him, he says, and good-nights to everyone he passes on his way to his old bed.

The baby comes out and doctor says “Got it, it’s a girl,” and starts to hold it up but says “But you knew that, right?” and nose is suctioned again, eyes cleaned, umbilical cord’s cut and quickly does some other things and hands it to the nurse who rushes to the warmer, pats the baby dry, says “Heartbeat’s normal, color’s a healthy pink,” weighs and measures it and wraps it up and brings it to them and says “So who gets her, Daddy first?” because his arms are out and he says “She’s still a bit dizzy and weak, I’ll hold it OK,” and takes it in his arms, shows it to Denise, who’s being sewed up while waiting for her placenta to pass, and breaks into such deep sobs that the nurse takes the baby from him and puts it on Denise’s stomach. Breaks into sobs during his wedding ceremony. Rabbi smiles, says “Let’s hold it a few seconds, people,” looks at his watch because he has to officiate at a funeral in an hour, he told them before the ceremony, and it’s a half-hour cab ride from here. Sobs when he hears a certain Bach cantata on the radio and the woman says “It’s a beautiful piece and a very lovely interpretation, I know,” and he says “It’s not that. I should have turned the radio off when the announcer said what number it was, for I know what it does to me and I didn’t want to screw up such a nice dinner.” “It’s done, so maybe if you want to eat, you should say,” and he says “It reminds me of my brother. A few months after that ship he was on got lost and probably split up and sunk, I bought a record of this same cantata. Not for it but for the much more exalting one on the other side whose number I’ve since forgot — thirty-three, I think. I played it, after I played the one I bought the record for a few times, and right at that sad part just before my brother popped into my head and I started sobbing more for him than I had since he was lost. To top it off, for about ten years after that, whenever I wanted a good cry, I’d put that cantata on. Though first I’d have a couple of vodkas or half bottle of wine, and would douse the lights — it was always at night — or just keep a low-watt one on and sit in a chair with another vodka or the rest of the wine and often with some poetry books to turn to two or three of what I knew were particularly sad poems, and my brother would automatically appear about five minutes into it and I’d sob uncontrollably. It rarely failed and would probably work for me today if I had the record and there weren’t too many scratches on it and the sound wasn’t too inferior to what we have on records today.” Sobs the first time he sees a certain Russian film. Went to the theater alone, it was about a year after his brother was lost, good reviews, a friend whose opinion he respected had told him it was a terrific film, interesting and moving and cinematographically near perfect, the second or third contemporary Russian film to hit the States since the new Soviet-American cultural exchange, sat in back, film was touching in places and light and a little trivial and dull in others and as far as he could tell very well acted and made. But the ending. Young soldier returning to the war front, never coming back, babushka’d mother seeing him off minutes after he got there, as he’d spent his entire leave getting home — powerful music, serious voiceover with a few words Howard could make out because of similar ones in German and English, closing shot of him on the bed of the truck that had taken him the last few miles to his village and will drive him back to the train, but before that shouting “There, there,” and pounding the truck’s cab and directing the driver down a country road, jumping out, kissing his mother — she was working in the fields with other women — soon the driver shouting “Come on, soldier, we don’t have time, you’ll miss the only train,” and they hug and kiss and paw some more and the driver honks and he climbs aboard, his mother and he waving to each other as the truck gets smaller and smaller as it drives to the main road. He sat sobbing when the Russian word for “The End” appeared and then the music stopped and screen went dark and houselights came on. It was an art movie theater so almost everyone had seen it from the beginning and was now leaving when someone coming up the aisle said “Tetch?” Newsman he knew from Washington. Introduced his wife, said “This guy and I covered Congress at the same time, used to interview Kennedy together right in the Senate cloakroom sometimes, since we each had a 50-kilo station in Boston and my outfit one in Wooster — Remember, Jack tapping his pen on your mike when he talked, then on his teeth while he was thinking till you had to tell him to stop? Clink-clink, he was killing the tape — This guy was a maniac reporter, all over the place. Three to four interviews going at once sometimes — his outfit just edited and aired them separately — and who once boxed me out of a once-in-a-lifetime interview with Nixon when he was veep and who no one thought gave single radio interviews. But he catches him flying through the halls and shoves the mike into Nixon’s mouth and starts asking questions, and when I see it and try to set up to join in, he says ‘Stubbs, this is mine, back off.’ Nixon’s just laughing but wouldn’t give me one after his was over. But I got him back with an excluso with Hoffa on some hearings and one with Lyndon on Ike taking too many naps and golfing days that for a while had that town upside down. But the real killer was when he gets one with Khrushchev, if even only for two minutes and in translation, by breaking ranks with the rest of us cordoned-off reporters and running with his tape recorder and gear up the Lincoln Memorial steps. ‘Who is this imp?’ we all later hear Nikita say through his translator on radio that day. Nothing much of substance — he’s sure he’ll enjoy his brief stay. But just to have got the first interview with English in it three hours after he steps off the plane? And then quickies with Mrs. K. and his son-in-law from Pravda or Izvestia and his wife — I wish they’d shot this guy. And you really could have been shot by either of the secret services for running up on them — you knew that, didn’t you?” “I knew but didn’t think. My boss was hot on my getting beats and I guess I liked the little notoreity that went with it. But listen, Mickey, and excuse me,” to his wife, “but I found the film so moving I still really can’t speak. I’m going to sit another minute.” “Sure, the movie? — I can understand,” and said they’d wait for him in the lobby for coffee if he was only going to be a few minutes, and he got up in a minute when the movie started but they weren’t there. Takes the woman he’s engaged to to the film a few months later. Doesn’t say what it did to him, just that it was a movie he remembers liking very much, thinks she’ll enjoy it and he wouldn’t mind seeing it again. At the end he’s sobbing so hard his shirt’s wet from where the tears dropped and she says “What are you crying like that for? It was sad but not that sad and it certainly wasn’t that convincing or great a film. Fact is, it was kind of schmalzty, if I can use that ugly word, and which hasn’t almost applied to any movie I’ve seen in years till this. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to belittle honest and open emotion, and I think it’s wonderful the way you let it flow so freely, but that overgrown boy and girl with those half-witted innocent expressions and twinklings of what we know will never be consummated love? And the mother — holy Horace, get me a double vodka straight.” “It just affected me, what can I tell you — maybe the music most of all.” “Leave it to the Russians: mother patriotism with no faults.” Calls his mother up every year on his sister’s birthday, never says why he’s calling, just “Hello, how are vou, what’ve you been doing?” and she always says “Fine, I guess; you know me: not doing much. Today’s Vera’s birthday, but you probably knew that,” and he says “I was thinking of it today too,” and she usually says “What age would she have been?” and he gives the age and she usually says “It’s hard to believe she would have been that old — she was twenty-six but so small and such a child,” and by then he’s feeling like crying and she usually starts in too till she tells him she can’t speak anymore and she’ll call him back later tonight if she can remember by the time it’s not too late, or tomorrow, does he mind? and he says no, not at all and puts the receiver down and sobs where he’s sitting till he can’t anymore. Sobs when he comes over to her apartment and says he might have the same thing Vera had, or at least the doctors think so. First tells her to sit, they drink coffee, she says “Like me to toast you a bagel? — I just took them out of the freezer,” and he says no, she says “What’s on your mind, you look so worried,” he says he has some bad news, she says “You and Dora breaking up again?” and he says “No, everything’s fine between us, or as good as it’s going to get, which ain’t hot and not the way I want it but that’s OK, we still have something and lots of good moments and I love her little girl and maybe it’ll get better, anyway she’s been wonderful about this,” and she says “What?” and he says “I think — the doctors think — I’ve seen two surgeons already about it, one of them Dora’s father-in-law — she still has a nice relationship with him even if she’s divorcing Lewis — anyway — she insisted I go to him when she saw the lump on my leg that wouldn’t go away — they think I could have the same thing Vera did, a neurofibroma, though in all probability — at least it’s as good a chance — it’s a synovial cyst—” “A Baker’s cyst?” she says. “Yes, and they’re going to operate — he is — as soon as — not Dora’s father-in-law but the other surgeon — he sent me to him, a neurosurgeon specializing in limbs — Dr. Michaels isn’t; he’s strictly brains — but as soon as this Dr. Vinskint gets a bed for me in the hospital he’s associated with, which is Memorial, I’m afraid, Vera’s old place,” and that’s when he starts sobbing, not for himself he later tells her and believes, but for Vera, “the poor kid, because what she went through, nobody should. Me, I’ll be all right, and I’ve lived past forty so, you know, I’ve at least had a shot at things. Though Vinskint did say — and don’t get worried; chances of it are slight — that if it’s what he hopes and generally thinks it isn’t and it’s really spread and is malignant, which it was with Vera but in most people it’s benign, he might have to take off the leg below the knee, which is where the cyst or fibroma is, behind it, though not then and there. He’d want me to wake up and think about it a while but I’d have to make my decision soon.” Vinskint wakes him during the operation and says “The biopsy report was just wired down from that window up there — you can’t see it — and the pathologist said it’s the cyst, which is what I thought and hoped it was, but we had to make sure, and I’m taking the rest of it out as long as I’ve got you opened up. You should feel very fortunate and relieved, Mr. Tetch, which I’m sure you are,” and he says “Thank you, I do, I am,” and they put him out. After, people say — a doctor cousin especially who berates him for not coming to him for a third opinion—“I could have told you over the phone what it was by your description of it and it could have been drained with a needle in any doctor’s office for two hundred bucks”—that he should complain to the hospital and its medical board and some even say he should sue the doctors for malpractice — the one who first diagnosed it and referred him and the one who operated on him — but he doesn’t like to sue and hates getting involved with lawyers and it’s Dora’s father-in-law and Gretchen’s grandpapa and he doesn’t want to hurt their relationship with the man and his own with them. Is dropped by a number of women over a period of about three years after Dora. Some in a week or two, some in a few months, and it hurts a little sometimes but no stronger reaction than that. But with the one months before he meets his future wife — the last woman he slept with regularly before her — he sobs when she tells him it isn’t working out between them anymore and she’s calling it quits. She asked him to meet her at a bar near her job after she gets off from work and he starts sobbing in one of the front booths. She looks around, seems alarmed, tells him to stop, please, this is a place she comes to almost every day for lunch or a beer and it’s a good place to read and draw — the lighting and they don’t bother her after they clear away her plate or glass — and now they might think she’s afraid to think what, and what’s all his blubbering for anyway? They never were that close. It was an affair of convenience — affair’s even too weighty a word for what they had. He was coming from someone, she from someone else, they both had been given the ole heave-ho so felt good meeting up with someone nice so soon and someone who didn’t give them each a hard time and want to spend all his hours with her or she with him, like the last one with her did before he kicked her out, and they had some fun, were companions, helpmates, bedmates, had similar interests — of course still do — and were even helpful in other ways like when she took care of his mail for two weeks when he was away and he helping her move into her new apartment and also helping her paint it with her — but now she feels it’s gone about as far as it could or should, that it’s sort of reached a point where it has to develop or just stop — he’s still sobbing — and since it never can go any further — they both know that — and please stop crying, stop it, people are looking, it’s too damn embarrassing and uncalled-for and unfair, because he couldn’t have felt anything more for her up till now than a slight attachment, and look at their ages, he’s almost twice hers and should want someone closer to his own, at the most ten years younger, just as she does with a man but the opposite way around, so please, cut the blubbering or will he at least just spit what it is out? and he says he was thinking he’d like to marry her and have a baby, so maybe that’s why he’s so sad and disappointed — says this when he knows it’s out of desperation and a lie and he wouldn’t know what to say or do if she said yes or give her time to think about it — but she says what? he crazy? Where’s that come from? This some sick stupid joke on his part? It’s a lie, she knows it, blubbering didn’t work so now he’s offering-suggesting — bullshitting to her about marriage and kiddies just to get her back for a week, maybe even just to fuck tonight, and let’s face it, before he drops her dead flat because he’d be so frightened and perplexed if she ever said yes. For how can he think marriage and babies? How can he? — tell her, tell her. He says nothing, just looks at the table, and she says sure one day she’ll want a baby, but when she’s ready, which she’s not and won’t be for years — five, six-she has her education to finish, her art to develop and think about, some other experiences including other men to go through — just as sure one day she’ll want a young husband as her children’s or child’s father — but also when she’s ready, which she of course right now isn’t. And why a much younger husband than he when she is ready? She’ll tell him. He unloaded that bomb about marriage and babies on her, she’ll unload this on him. Because of the personal energy-level thing, for one reason. Between him and someone much younger. And because she wants someone with the same or close-to-it cultural attitudes or values and interests rather than differences and different frames of reference or frame of references or frames of references or whatever the hell he called them — what he liked to talk about a lot, she should say: culture, morals, values. And just someone to look at who’s younger and less line-ier in the face and who’s hairier in the head and less on the body and not so gray there and firmer, solider, more athletic, less serious, less done in by life, less seen-it-all in life, just less a lot, she’ll say, plus more juvenile in humor and spirits even. So anyhow, don’t tell her it’s the marriage-baby thing why he said he blubbered, because it’s not, they both know it, so come up with something better or nothing, for all she cares now, and he says, wiping his face, maybe it’s because so many women — he thinks this is it, because he’d like to get at it himself — women young and older but none younger than she even when it first started, have dumped him in the last few years that it secretly took its toll and culminated in that dumb what she called blubbering before. But OK, no marriage, forget babies, though he does eventually want to have them before he gets too old and weak to pick them up and carry them — maybe that’s the problem too. But just leave him here — she should go — and let him figure out what it really is if it isn’t what he just said, and she says she does have to be someplace now but he promises no more scenes here? — remember, this is her place almost every weekday and it’s already been embarrassing enough for her here today, and he nods and she says he’ll pay? for she’s had a pie and two beers and there’s his coffee, and he says he has enough on him, and she says leave a dollar as a tip too — two, even — that should smooth things over with the bar, and he says will do but just go, and he leaves right after she does, no thinking about it, there’s nothing to think about it anymore, he could see she’s had it with him, she’s probably got another guy and didn’t want to say it, she already gave him crabs a couple months back from some guy she met when he was away for those two weeks, but she at least told him when she found out she had it and gave him enough of her prescription medicine to cure it, and she calls that night, says he all right? he says yes, thanks, she says good, well that’s all she wanted to say, and he says thanks for calling, that was very considerate, but would she like to do something tonight? and she says after that scene today and what she said about him he still thinks she’d want to screw with him? and he says who mentioned screwing? — just to go out, a movie, he feels much better, whatever she’d like to do — a bar, even, or someplace for a bite — and she says didn’t he hear her today? She doesn’t want to see him again ever. She only called out of concern because he was in such terrible shape today but she can see even that was a wrong move, another reason why they’re so incompatible — that’s the word she was searching for all that time in the bar — they’re incompatible, because he takes things — looks at things — so differently than her — he looks at them as if he’s not twenty but sometimes thirty or forty years older than her and not because she acts much younger than she is either, and he says thank you, that’s very nice, what he wanted to hear, she’s a sweetheart, really, but if she has a few seconds more he’d like to say this — something he just came up with but had thought hard about since the bar and nothing insulting, so don’t worry — but the reason why he felt so bad about himself today and did that sobbing was because he thinks after her he’ll never get anybody, that she was the last one or possibility of one, that he has no job, no prospects of one, no money besides, and at his age, well he must have felt his whole life was hopeless and still does in a way, foolish and hopeless and on a terrific decline, and she says is he pulling one on her again? and he says when did he ever? and she says come on and he says absolutely, he’s not pulling anything, and she says then no, it’s not hopeless, it’s never hopeless, what’s hopeless is getting into the bag of thinking it is, but with him it’s probably just his thinking it is tonight, but tomorrow he won’t think that, she assures him, or at least not to the degree of tonight, and the day after hell think even less than like tonight, and he says maybe she’s right, maybe he’s wrong, she’s got a good point, he usually makes things seem worse off than they are, so thanks, and now he also wants to say that if she ever changes her mind he’d certainly like to see her again and yes, if it resulted in it then to end up in bed with her anytime in the future she’d like, so if she ever reconsiders, though he knows what her feeling now is about it, give him a call, and she says did she hear right? yes she heard right, well she’s going to tell him something now also, but something insulting but she also hopes constructive — if it keeps him from contacting her again that’ll be constructive enough — and this will also be the last words she hopes to ever say to him, unless he’s going to be one of those annoying-type schmos where she’ll be forced to get an unlisted new phone number, and that’s that an idiot — is he still listening or has he hung up? and he says go on, shoot — an idiot is someone who’s never going to learn anything in life and, she wants to add, not because he’s unwilling to either, and before he can say does she mean him? she hangs up. They never speak to each other again, he never bumps into her, sees her on the street, nothing like that, or meet any of her friends or hear anything about her till four years later, on a Broadway bus heading uptown, a woman waves to him from a seat when he’s walking up the aisle, he stops, says hello, she says doesn’t he remember her? he says he thinks he does but forgets from where, she says she’s Aluthea, Carrie’s best friend when he was going out with her a few years ago — she was in fact at the same party he met Carrie at — remember? she went out with his crazy friend Bernie for a while till she found out how crazy he was, and he says oh yeah, he remembers, asks how she is, then how Carrie is and she says Carrie’s married, living upstate, on something like a farm, her husband has lots of money and bought it, and he says that’s nice, he’s married too and not only that his wife’s two months away from having their first baby — a girl, though they weren’t supposed to know but the obstetrician’s nurse blabbed the results of the test — vindictively, they’re pretty sure of, but that’s over and done with and asks if he can sit and sits next to her and says is Carrie anything like that? — a baby, maybe two by now, even if it seemed she didn’t want to get married or have kids for about ten years — her education and art, she used to say, and she says her art’s not as important to her anymore and she’d like to get pregnant but hasn’t been able to, and he says well, they’ll go, if they haven’t already done so, for pregnancy tests, and maybe a tube will have to be blown through with air or whatever the process is, or fertility pills, though one has to watch out with those because you can wind up with triplets, and she says oh no, her doctor says that as a couple they’ll never be able to have children, that she’s simply unable to because of some incorrectible malfuction with her ovaries — not even an implant’s possible, it’ll just reject, all of which has devastated her for she’s been saying there’s nothing she wants more than to have a baby, and he says he’s sorry, it must be a hard thing to accept for somone so young, and hard for her husband also, and thinks how strange, for if anyone was built to have a kid and then nurse it, it was she, which was probably mostly what attracted him to her, her large tall shapely body, perfect but just bigger in every way, and she says it’s been a lot more than hard for her — she’s become a wreck over it, principally because her husband doesn’t want to adopt a child, he only wants to have a natural one, and he says an adopted one is natural but he of course realizes what she means and doesn’t know what he’d do if he were in the husband’s position but hopes they can work themselves out of the dilemma, and then his stop comes and he sees someone’s rung for it and he says good-bye and hopes they’ll see each other on the bus again sometime and to give his best to Carrie and walks home feeling bad for her but doesn’t say anything to his wife about meeting the woman on the bus and has never told her about that time in the bar. To her, Carrie’s just someone he saw one day a week for a while till she gave him crabs or a short time after that and the last person he slept with, though months earlier, before he met her. He’s thought of the sobbing scene lots of times since it happened, not for a while though till he bumped into Aluthea, and never could come up with what precisely brought it on and then kept it going for so long, since he doesn’t think he ever sobbed longer as an adult, and was always ashamed of it and glad he never met Carrie again. He wonders if Aluthea recalled the sobbing scene, since she must have known about it from Carrie, and if anytime while she was talking to him she thought of him peculiarly. Anyway, the culminating explanation — that her dropping him so unexpectedly came after so many other women had dropped him or had refused to go out with him when he heard about them from a friend and called or met them at a party and asked and by someone he thought would be the last to do it — she in fact had said several times that if anyone dropped anyone it’d be he — probably comes as close to why it happened as anything he can think of. Thinks why again. Yep, that’s about the best he can come up with. Sobs when his second daughter comes out but not as hard as he did with the first. “Wow,” the obstetrician says while she’s stitching up Denise, “I never saw a man react so emotionally to the delivery of his child.” “You forget what he was like when Olivia was born — much much worse,” Denise says she said when she later told him what the doctor had said, for he was sobbing too loudly and ferociously to hear either of them.

His brother comes back, walks through the door, says “So Howie, how are you, how’s it going, what’ve you been up to?” “Alex, what is this? you gotta be kidding,” pinches himself, slaps his face, “Still gotta be a dream,” bites the inside of his cheeks, shuts his eyes for a few seconds, then says “It isn’t, you haven’t gone away, I still don’t believe it but I’m gonna make the most of it,” rushes over to him, hugs him, kisses his shoulders, keeps his arm around him while he yells “Denise, Olivia, Eva, the babysitter, hurry in here, meet someone you’ve never met before, my brudder Alex, lost at sea years ago, thirty years, in ten it would’ve been forty, in twenty it would’ve been fifty, thirty: sixty, and by then I’d be an old man but still I’m sure mourning several nights a year my dear lost brudder, crying some days too — jeez am I glad to see you, meet the family,” and points to the staircase when he hears someone coming down, it’s Eva, says “Babysitter’s gone home, Mommy told me to tell you… who’s this?” and he says “My brudder—brother,” “But I know your brother — Uncle Jerry, and this isn’t him,” “This is my other brother, the one I’ve talked so much about — you know, on a ship, lost at sea, terrific storms in the ocean, the North Atlantic to be specific, ship probably split apart or by some fluke rolled over by the waves, life buoy washed up on the Irish coast, only thing of the ship ever found that they knew belonged to it, we thought him dead, sweetheart, but here the guy is — ask him something, tell him to say where he’s been all these years and how he got here and that he’s your uncle, my and Uncle Jerry’s brother, your grandmother’s middle son — God am I happy, and we got to call her up quick,” and runs to the phone, dials, woman answers, he says “Is this LaDonna or Sojourner?” “Sojourner,” she says, “Well hi, this is Howard, Pauline’s youngest son, a fabulous practically unbelievable thing’s just happened, get me my mother quick,” and she says “She’s napping — should I wake her?” and Alex’s waving his hand no, and Howard says “One second please” into the phone and covers the mouthpiece and Alex says “I don’t think we should spring it on her like this — the shock of it,” and Howard says to Sojourner “No, tell her I called and will call back later and don’t mention anything about the fantastic or unbelievable part of why I called — how is she, by the way?” and she says “As well as can be expected — you know, we took a walk down and back the block today — it tired her out — and not eating very much but not because she has no appetite — she only wants to stay slim, she says — she’s quite a vain woman — while I tell her good eating shows good health and good looks, and she still won’t listen when I say not to smoke so much — she says she’s not inhaling but I see it — and also not to drink before she retires at night — scotch for sure not, but not even water, for it gets her up to void and if I’m not by her side right away she tries for the potty herself and sometimes falls,” and he says “Thanks, thanks for everything — I’ll call,” and hangs up and says “Oh boy, Mom’s in lousy shape, and of course Vera and Dad died,” “No, I didn’t know but by now expected as much,” “Yeah, you were lucky not being here — both eroded so slowly — and also lucky in a way with Mom, avoiding the quick slide this time, but then there’s all you kissed — missed — but see what he did before, Eva, about my not waking Grandma up? — he was almost all the time right, this brudder of mine, your uncle — Christ, what would I have done not having him around when I was growing up? and Christ, what I would’ve done if he hadn’t disappeared — I was only twenty-four, hardly on my way, and he was my best friend and the serious drinking I fell into — really, why the thirty-year silence, Alex, unless the details are too disquieting for witty-kiddy ears?”—“Do you mean me?” Eva says and he says “No, I meant cats, it’s an expression, ‘Here, kitty-witty, nicht disquiet bischen ears,’ but one that’s probably too far in the past for you to understand, like ‘the bum’s rush’ is for me, which was Dad’s — remember, Alex? and do you know if it meant fast and if fast then fast as you run away from the bum or fast as the bum rushes away after he puts the touch on you? another expression of his—’Don’t put the touch on me in front of people,’ when we wanted a dime for a comic book and saw the best opportunity to get it — a dime then, sweetheart, think of it,” “What’s a dime or a comic book?” and Alex says “Before we talk about my long silence, let me tell you your Eva’s a doll — what I’ve missed and not kissed not being around from the time she was born — if you want, come and give your unc a juicy squeeze, my beautiful niece,” and opens his arms and she shrinks from him, runs behind Howard and holds onto his legs while looking through them at Alex, when Olivia comes down, arms loaded with books, “I heard from upstairs but had to get these first — Alexander, your brother, impossible and you know it, Dada — a person can’t swim up again after thirty years below and say ‘Hi, I’m alive,’ and spit some water out that might be gagging him”—Eva’s laughing—“Oh, they can pump water out of some drowned persons when they haven’t drowned for very long and make them breathe again, and sometimes even after an hour if they’ve been in very cold water, with ice floating on top and snow in the trees, because it lowers the body temperature and heartbeat and I don’t know how but you’re saved — I read that in one of my Nancy Drew books,” and drops the books on the floor and starts looking through them—“I can’t find which one it’s in so you’ll have to trust me — so who is he, Dada, a friend of yours impersonating your brother to trick us for some reason? — maybe it’ll fool Eva but not me,” and she sits on the couch with the books on her lap and starts reading, and he says “Olivia, show some respect — it’s your uncle, my brother, this is a miracle till explained otherwise — even if you don’t fall for it because you think you’re so smart and have better things to do at the moment, please get up and kiss him,” and she slams the book down—“If you make me lose my place!”—and goes over to Alex and puts her cheek out and looks pained, he closes his eyes and kisses her, looks content, says “Ah, another honeypot you got, you apotheosized kid, and with such a smooth cheek too”—“That’s because she hasn’t shaved yet”—Olivia clenches her eyes tight and hands into fists—“Only kidding, my sweetie — for some reason, Alex, she’s never going to shave-only kidding, my sweetie, but by now you know me, though Alex doesn’t — he stopped dead with me at twenty-four: easy with the jokes, not so with the other things,” caresses her face, she looks up at him and pops him a kiss, “Oh this gal’s bright, good, sensitive, imaginative, creative — sounds like a college reference I’m giving but she’s gonna be the artist in the family — compared to her we’re has-beens who never were, unless you’ve done something startling and long-lasting under another name since we last heard from you and it can be converted,” and Alex says “Don’t worry, all the material you’ve probably used about me the past thirty years is still valid and not dated, if it was done well,” and he says “Me? — strictly fiction; only non-fict I’ve writ was called Why I Don’t Write It,’ which proved its point by reading unbeingable and where no magazine asked me for one again, but let’s start unraveling the snarl as to where you’ve been so long and why all this time you didn’t clue us in, but darn, here’s Denise — just when I thought I’d get an answer from you — though wish you’d met her previous to her present condition — she had such lively eyes, like the sea,” and she comes downstairs slowly—“Howard?” “I’m here, dear, just a few steps farther,” “How many?” “Seven, not counting the floor”—clutching the rail with both hands, foot edging to the end of each step before going over and dipping to the next one till she nudges it, then, toe poised over a step: “I can’t make it this way — I’m scared I’ll fall,” and he says “Just five more steps not counting the floor — for Alex,” and she starts to cry, Alex says “Go to her,” he says “No no, this’ll help — I want her to learn how to do it or else we’ll have to sell this place at a loss to buy a ranch house,” “You can move her to the first floor,” “I want to be with my wife in our bedroom upstairs — I’m a beast: I need my warmth, her smells, my sex and her breasts,” she gets on her knees and crawls down the steps backwards, holding onto the balusters, stands at the bottom, “Watch when she smiles,” he whispers to Alex, “nobody has one like her — it lights up blown bulbs even when they’re not in the sockets, and if they are, even when the lamp’s unplugged — our whole globe could run for a year on the electricity her smile gives off, our sun is a dark dewdrop in a deep cave at the peak of the Ice Age by comparison, our solar system could spin another min with a single glint of that facial detonation and if she had her old eyes back, for days,” she grabs a cane off the bottom of the banister, “Where are you fellas?” “Over here,” Howard says, “up two, down three and then weave around another staircase,” and she faces them and says “Alex, what a delight finally to meet you and especially when we thought you’d perished, and what a change your being here will have on Howard and in turn on the children and me — you’re the chief reason he sleeps so feistily at night and acts like a caffeine neurotic during most of the day,” and she pokes the cane in front of her hitting a bunch of things and then getting the tip caught under the rug—“I can’t use this rotten stick,” she shouts, holding it above her as if she’s going to throw it, “it’s for cripples, not blinds,” “Oh oh,” Howard says, “now we’ll never see her smile or not much of one — anyone got a match or flashlight?” “Go to her,” Alex says, “stop pitching for laughs,” and he says “No no, believe me I’m doing the right thing — she’s got to learn to walk with it or else she’ll stay in her room under the covers all day be it this place or a ranch house, and then why would I disrupt my life to give up this great place at a big loss to buy an overpriced ugly ranch house besides sticking the kids with new playmates and a different school?” “Because she’s your wife and their mother and you’re supposed to help, support and etcetera her,” “Listen, happy as I am to see you — giddy’s the word, rapt, ecstatic, beside myself, though I don’t entirely show it — and much as I’ve missed you — agonizingly’s how I’d put it, heartstrickenly, sickenly — you can’t come back after thirty years and second or third thing — Olivia, have you been counting? for she’s the math whiz here,” but she doesn’t look up from her book—“tell me how to ruin my life — run it, I mean, ream it, wreck it, rot it, rue it,” “I can advise you when you’re being a little too cruel where it hurts — you always had that streak in you but I thought by this time you’d have muzzled or domesticated most of it,” “And if I always had that then you’ve always had the ability not to clam up or mind your own bizwax,” “That can’t be constituted an ability, even if I were a clam,” “The know-how, know-too-much, know-it-all-how-do-I-tell-my-schmucky-bro-how-to-conduct-his-life, and knack’s the word I meant, skill, trick, touch — but I have to live with her and have lived with her and in her absence do most of the things for the house and kids-shopping, mopping, slopping — nobody ever thinks of that, rarely, let’s face it, unfairly, so why don’t you just wise up or get lost?” “You said it, I didn’t,” and Alex goes over to Denise, takes the cane from her and puts it back on the banister, kisses her hands and leads her to the couch and sits her beside Olivia, squeezes in between them, whispers something into her ear, she slaps her thigh and smiles (she never did both at the same time with me, Howard thinks, or one after the other; thinks again: no, never, far as he can think back), the houselights go on when anyone who could have turned them on is in the living room several feet from the nearest light switch, and even if that person could have reached a light switch it wouldn’t have turned on all the lights on the first floor and in the stairwell and on the porch right outside the front door, Alex whispers something to her again and she smiles and slaps her thigh at the same time: air conditioners, radios and television upstairs, washer, dryer, humidifier and probably all the lights downstairs, toaster, dishwasher, food processor, juice squeezer, kitchen radio, stove light and fan, “Stop smiling,” he shouts, “and Alex, stop whispering funny things to her — with so much power on at once we’re bound to blow a fuse,” Eva sits on Alex’s lap and kisses his hand, Olivia kisses his other hand and then puts his arm around her shoulder while she reads, “This is what I was most afraid of if you ever did come back,” Howard says, “not only that you’d outshine me intellectually and perceptively and with general all-around sensibleness but that you’d outdo me as a writer with the work you came back with or were now working on, show me up in front of my kids with your gentleness and equanimity and all the rest of those things, make my wife enjoy herself twice as much in your company than mine — three times, four, five, jack up the utility bill in my house where I couldn’t afford paying it, and start a kissing-hand habit in my family and maybe eventually on our street and in the neighborhood when before my family was doing just fine kissing one another on the cheek and head and lips and as neighbors we were doing fine also with a mere nod or hello-well, go on then, she’s much better off with almost anyone but me, and maybe the kids ditto, and if she stays in the family with you, even better, since I’ll get to see her at functions and such from time to time and also my kids,” and he stamps out of the house, hoping Denise will call him back and the kids will run after him and Alex will say he’s sorry and what does Howard mean and maybe something stupid besides, juvenile, injudicious, senseless, obscene, all the interior and porch lights of the other houses suddenly go on at once when the sun’s straight up or an hour to the side left or right but bright, through the living room window sees his girls, turned around now with their knees probably on the cushions and their elbows on top of the couch’s back — Alex and Denise smiling and talking continuously, one or the other or both at the same time, energetic talk, lots of face gestures, he can’t see it but thinks from the way their arms are positioned that they might even be holding hands — waving at him forlornly, curiously, bewilderedly, for a few seconds Olivia staring him in the face with a look saying you know darn well what you’re doing’s totally wrong and absurd, he waves back and whispers “I’m your daddy, honey, don’t look at me like that, and besides, you know how horrible I feel so don’t make it worse,” says loud enough for them to hear if they can hear him through the closed window and door and with all the appliances in the house going, for he didn’t see anyone get up to turn them off, “I swear I never wanted to leave you two, it was the last thing on earth I wanted to do, in the world, the universe, whatever’s more than that, for you mean everything there is to me and leaving you is like a death that’s quick but pain filled and unforeknown and-foretold — I don’t quite know what I meant by the last part of that but it sounded right and may be — that I’ve always loved your mother from the minute I set eyes on her, second, instant, and that instant to maybe a minute after it across a room filled with partygoers, chatter and tobacco smoke — some day if either of you want I’ll tell you about it and exactly or as close as I can get to it and if my memory by then’s still good, how I felt and what I remember her response to me was when I finally did get up the guts to go over to her to introduce myself — it’s true she and I have had our spats and brawls but we seemed till now to have been able to talk them out, I don’t like her illness any more than you do, condition, affliction, hate it, damn it, would kick its ass in if I could, but occasionally it gets to me in other ways, that she can’t do almost anything she used to like helping with the cooking, cleaning and shopping and your homework and getting you kids to your various activities and schools and just seeing the things around the house that need picking up before someone trips over them and breaks a limb, so all the extra work I have to do, and while I’m at it all those tedious to good books with the horrible readers of them on tape she gets I also if I’m in the house have to listen to, I didn’t want to storm out of here looking and acting like such a fool, I don’t like pretending I know where I’m going now and what I’m going to do, I’m in fact trying to find out why I did what I did before by talking about it and related things here with you,” they wave only their fingers this time and turn around, Olivia putting Alex’s arm around her shoulder and holding it there and with her other hand holding her book close to her face, Eva back on Alex’s lap and kissing his visible hand, Alex and Denise laughing now and jabbering when the laughing stops, they don’t turn to the window once, he doesn’t understand it, if he were Alex he’d look and see what he’s doing out there and then tell her and then for them both to smile and wave to him that it’s all all right and to come back in, he wishes he knew what they were talking so actively about, vigorously, spiritedly, he’s glad his brother’s back, nobody can hear him but if he said that aloud and someone could hear him he’d want that person to know he’s happy as can be to see his brother after thirty years, happy he’s alive, looking well, intelligent, everything intact, glad he’s able to make Denise laugh, glad she’s laughing, that his kids love their uncle, glad everyone there’s happy and having such a good time, though wishes things could be switched around a bit to a lot — brother back, that unchanged, healthy, intact, etcetera, Denise laughing, smiling, animated, both animated but he seated between them holding their hidden hands and Eva on his lap and Olivia on the other side of Alex or Denise with her arm stretched behind whomever she’s sitting beside so her hand’s on his shoulder or neck, patting it, habit she got from him when he used to pick her up to comfort her before she could even walk or when he’d walk her to sleep, or just resting on or stroking it, goes to the dogwood tree in the front yard, only tree there, centered in the small lawn, doesn’t know why he went to it or what he’s going to do there, stare at it? walk past it and then where? snap a branch off and toss it over or into his hedge and then what? all the streetlights on the street and the cross one go on at once though the sun’s still almost straight up and bright, never liked the tree even when it blossomed pink or gave on a hot day enough shade to sit beneath, which he never did, always preferred sitting in the rocker on the covered porch and close enough to the railing to put his feet up, little table by the chair to put down his newspaper or book and drink, its branches are sharp and have scratched his arms when he’s tried to mow close to it and the top of his head once when he bent down under the low branches to get the mower right up to the trunk, is that it with all dogwoods or just pink-blossoming ones or just his: low branches and sharpness? all or most of the house alarms in the neighborhood go off, four or five of them, loud almost simultaneous hum starts up from what seems like all the air conditioners in the neighborhood, though it can’t be fifty degrees out, fifty-five, he wasn’t serious before about her smile and what it could do concerning electricity and giving off energy and moving solar systems and stuff, it was what literary people, even people with just literary pretensions, and of course some nonliterary people who happen to know the word, like to call, well, like to call, exaggeration for want of the fancier literary word he can’t come up with now but which sounds Greek and has some part that sounds like bell or ball in it but always slips his mind when he wants to use it, bill, bull, boll, but he’ll see: usually two days at the most, three, after he can’t recall it he comes across it in a newspaper article or magazine when he hasn’t seen it in one for months, sees an ant crawling up the tree trunk and immediately drops to his knees under the branches, resights the ant and squashes it with his thumb, then thinks why’d he do that? it wasn’t in the house or heading for it and even if it were heading to it, it was just one, he probably wanted to take something out on something, let off steam, thinks of slapping his hand against the trunk for the same reason, beating it, then maybe both hands and then maybe his head, to take it in his hands, which would have to hurt by then, and slam it against the trunk till he gets too dizzy or tired to or collapses or his head splits open, but that would make no sense either unless he wanted Alex or Denise to come out to help his head, which he doesn’t think he does, and though a gash wouldn’t bother him much or the blood — his head got knocked around plenty when he was a kid, though never self-inflicted, with scars dotted along the sides and his continuing baldness revealing a few forgotten creases on top — he wouldn’t stick himself with the pain that goes with those slams, flicks the ant off his thumb, sees several more crawling up the trunk, “You you-yous,” holding his fist over them, crawls out from under the tree and goes into the house, doesn’t know why, maybe to sit between Alex and Denise, put Eva on his lap, Olivia’s hand on his shoulder or back and even patting it for her in case she doesn’t, for one thing to finally find out where he’s been for thirty years and how’d he get here, for another — well, lots of anothers but one’s just to apologize to them all for his behavior before — nobody’s there, shuts off all the appliances and lights, looks out the living room window to the lane of grass between his house and the shrubs that belong to the next, out the kitchen door to the backyard and swing set, shouts for them and then goes upstairs, shuts off Denise’s typewriter and all the appliances and lights, she could be showing Alex his studio and the guest bed in the basement, even making up the bed for him if he’s bushed, for he might have come a long way in a few days, not had much sleep — runs the two flights downstairs, front door knocks, shuts off all the appliances and lights there and the sump pump which continued pumping when there was no water left to dump, upstairs, front door ding-dongs and knocks though doesn’t remember shutting it, looks through the small door window to see if it’s Alex or Denise — window’s too high to see if it’s the kids if they’re standing close to the door — a woman, shuts the porch light, opens the door, strangely familiar, not strangely but queerly, familiarly, family, it’s — she’s — he’s sure what his sister would look like if she’d lived another twenty-four — five — four years, “Hello,” she says, “How do you do, but I’m sorry, if this is for my wife, for she doesn’t seem to be here though she was a few minutes ago,” “No, I’m not here for her but would love meeting her and the children eventually,” “Then if it’s for anything like some organization or charity — a donation, something to sign, a petition, and then a donation for the costs of printing and distributing the petition and keeping the organization going — we don’t do that here — it’s my, not my wife’s, repudiation or reaction against or whatever you want to call it of all door-to-door solicitations and canvassings, no matter how — not ‘important,’ not ‘good’ in the sense of the right thing, moral, virtuous, not ‘upright,’ not ‘upstanding,’ but a certain word I’m looking for—,” “‘Well-intentioned, well-meaning, high-principled’?” “That’s right — any of those, but we don’t, much as we might approve of what you’re pushing — supporting — canvassing for and want us to join, give to, support or sign, anyway, along those lines, and you should see me — hear me — when I get them over the phone — I’m rapidly — rabidly — against the private home phone being used for solicitations and ads of any kind and the recorded ones — you know, or maybe you don’t, but the ‘Hi, I’m Chuck Computer and are you sure you have enough cemetery plots?’—the worst, though I wouldn’t go so far as to start or give to or canvass for a campaign against them,” same long straight dark hair combed the same way though now streaked a bit gray, hollow cheeks like hers the last few years but more like a model’s high cheekbones so less out of illness—“Vera? — I mean, it can’t be but who else could it but it can’t, so excuse me,” “Howard,” she says, “even if I knew this was your home, for a while I was undecided it was you,” “But it’s impossible, I take back what I said, or if Vera, then you just happen to have the same name as my dead sister, quite a coincidence I’d say, seeing how you look a lot like I’d imagine her to at your age,” “But I am your sister Vera,” and he says “But I was in the room with you — her — when she died,” “You went out of it for ten minutes at the end when I supposedly croaked,” “That’s true, how’d you know? but she was so close to death when I left her — her looks were of someone dying, the darkness and paleness, the depletion and stress, and they’d asked me to leave or else I left to go to the toilet or because I needed a break from seeing her in that condition all night and early morning or just for a coffee to revitalize me after a sleepless night and maybe a bun because I was starved, and when I came back minutes later the door was closed and a nurse behind it wouldn’t let me in — I’m almost sure that’s how it happened, at least one of those or a combo with the coffee and bun and definitely the nurse not letting me back in and from what I saw through the door crack before she shut it on me there were lots of people in white working busily around her and calling out for things,” “A nurse came in when you were sitting beside me, took one look at me, felt my pulse and told you to leave and then called in what I like to call the goon squad — the emergency team of medical people and machines who are there to revive you but also there when all your chances with them are up and they’re pulling out the plugs and cleaning you up,” “Was that what happened with her, you’re saying?” “Sure, they pulled them out of me but I was alive and hale after, though my urethra and arms sore from the catheter and IVs, just as I was hale when all the tubes, needles and plugs were in,” “That’s ridiculous-she was in and out of a coma the whole night before and morning she died — I know because I stayed with her, swabbed her lips, mopped her brow — dabbed it and her lips and with water on a rag dabbed her tongue tip — she looked so sad, her eyes so weak and breathing so bad, hair so wet — I dabbed that too — all over her was this cold sweat — oh, the poor thing, why does someone so young have to go through so much woe and pain — anyone, old or young, but with her it was from when she was a little kid and went on and got worse and worse for twenty years — she even asked me — one of the last things I could make out because of her weak voice coupled with her trouble in getting her thoughts together and expressed — maybe an hour before she died when she all of a sudden jumped out of it and had unusually lucid speech for her at the time — why it had to be she who was sick for so long and had lived so abnormally and was now dying,” “I never said that about dying,” “That’s true, she didn’t, but what she said was, if my memory serves me right which it does rarely — variably, and locking me with her eyes while saying it — anyway, ‘How come me, Howie?’ or the old ‘Why me, why me?’ for she was, to illustrate how sick she’d become and what she looked like then, down to around sixty-five pounds from her usual hundred ten—’usual’ meaning eight or nine years before, because her weight loss started long before the end, and sixty-five was just the doctor’s educated guess — she could have been sixty, fifty-five, since there was no reason to weigh her and if they had wanted to she was too weak and frail to be moved — the gist of it is that from the moment she was put on the hospital’s bed everyone knew it was going to be her last living place,” “It was all an elaborate ruse, that last night and day — my decline at home, phoning the doctor what to do, ambulancing me to the hospital and so on,” “A ruse, the weight loss and dying eyes? — I went to her burial — the funeral first and then the burial and a year later to whatever they call that ceremony where they put the monument up and say some prayers over it,” “That’s what I’m saying — it was all an elaborate ruse,” “Look-it, for argument’s sake let’s say you are her, but she — Vera — you would never have pulled it on Mom — for years she worked like three nurses and suffered so much then and for lots of years before and after — we all suffered but those two were very close and she was her mother so she much more,” “Mom was in on it — everyone was but you,” “But why, just for argument’s sake?” “To get me away from you,” “Oh come on, if you’re going to concoct some cock-and-bull story at least have it make a little sense,” “You stuck your finger in me once and moved it around inside for a while and kept it on my clitoris when you thought you finally found it and pushed down hard on it till I felt I would scream and right after you took your finger out — my eyes were shut, I was pretending to be asleep, I was too young to know what to do, too frightened and confused to stop you — you threatened to kill me if I told anyone — you said even if it took ten years from the time after I told anyone you’d kill me when I wasn’t looking or prepared for it with whatever means you had — a gun — you said you could get one — with a knife, a bat, a brick, an ice pick — with the belt you were wearing then by wrapping it around my neck and you took it off and held it tight by its ends and snapped it — by this time you must have known I was awake though I was still pretending not to be, looking at you through the thinnest eye slits, though you also must have been unsure if I was awake when you did it with your finger to me, because you said ‘You’ve heard me warn you and speak about this for the one and only time and if you’re really as asleep as you look, then OK, and if you don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, even better for you,’ so that’s why it was all an elaborate ruse, nobody wanted me killed or for you to go through what they knew you would — remorse, prison, that you were an excitable guy so might be killed there or end up killing yourself — everybody believed your threats, even though they were made more than a dozen years before I told anyone what you did, and realized the consequences if you killed me, they said you had it in you to or to yourself or both because you could never take the shame of anyone knowing what you did to me with your finger and threat and then killing me, but they didn’t want to ask you to go away to live somewhere else because they thought you’d come back on the sly to kill me or, away from them watching you, kill yourself, so they sent me away, Jerry knew where I was, Dad, they all saw me from time to time, I went to live with relatives of one of Mom’s friends in Wisconsin, they weren’t well off and could use the money for my room and board, the doctors and nurses all knew of the elaborate ruse, even the ambulance men who drove me that last time were in on it, the hospital orderlies and dietician on my floor who I only secretly got to use when you were away from the room,” “Wait, let’s say for argument’s sake again in this cock-and-bull story that’s at least a bit better than before — all the names and most of the facts right and things, so more believable but still with a few holes — I’d already been out of the house working for a number of years, and didn’t they ever think of therapy to help me get over it?” “Everybody knew your views on it — you’d said plenty of times you had nothing against it for anyone but yourself,” “I’m not saying I would have changed my mind but it’s possible I might have,” “As Dad used to say about you, you were always too much of a hard nut,” “He said that to whom?” “To you, to me, and as for your out-of-the-house stuff, the folks got you to move back for a few years soon after I told them, didn’t they?” “I came back from my Washington job with little money — no, that was after Alex died, which he isn’t by the way-dead, but I’ll tell you more about that later, or I won’t, for who are you to tell it to? and California’s where I came back from a month before she died and had no money and my father was sick so I stayed to have a place to live and to help my mother with him for what turned out to be a few years, but anyway, for argument’s sake for the last time, and to me this is the clincher who you’re not, let’s say you weren’t as sick as you looked in the hospital the day you didn’t die, what happened to your illness? for you were diagnosed chronic progressive or some term by the time you were twelve, and after you didn’t die but to me you did — and believe me I wouldn’t be talking to you like this if you really were Vera, I’d be all over her in happiness if she were alive and miserable talking seriously to someone about her death — your doctors tried consoling us by saying you lived longer than they ever expected, though credited it mostly to Mom’s meticulous unsparing nursing of you,” “All part of the elaborate ruse, and the good country living might have had something to do with my complete recovery, and maybe just being away from the threat of you, or else I’d been misdiagnosed from the time I was five, repeatedly operated on when I never should have been, or some spectacular unaccountable remission that plenty of terminal people get and which eventually wiped away all my illness’s signs except the surgery scars, but I’d been slowly getting better or not worse for years, you never saw it because of all your living here and there and only coming back for days or weeks and then paying little attention to me because maybe you thought I was so ugly and deformed or you worried I might allude to the finger incident,” “Not true; the scars did scare me sometimes, especially when they were fresh and that tracheotomy one when it was still almost a hole, but I used to take you to dinner and movies — not many but some and especially when I lived in New York with Janine — your first Indian food at a place called the Bombay, those Shanghai somethings or another at 103rd and the other at 125th under the el — you defiantly ate with a fork and called Janine and me phonies with our chopsticks, which I loved you for doing and saying what you wanted,” “So you did it occasionally, or irregularly, or biannually, but as for me then, I wasn’t off crutches yet but no new flareups of the disease for years, so when I did have that last setback it was all part of the elaborate ruse, our aunts, uncles and cousins knew of it, most of my church pals and all our folks’ good friends, we had a makeup artist come to the house when you were out for an hour that last day to make me look suddenly worse, and then the next days at the hospital to make me look comatose and then dead, she was dressed like an orderly and then like one of the nurses who rushed into the room to supposedly pull out the plugs, we even hired an out-of-work director to stage the whole thing, of course the rabbi at the funeral was in on it, I wanted a minister but Dad said ‘Born a Jew, and since we’re surviving you, die a Jew — if you outlive us you can have it the way you want,’ the funeral home people knew of it — I was already on the plane to Wisconsin so couldn’t see, much as I wanted to, your reaction and how everybody else acted, the body in the casket was around my weight in two fifty-pound sandbags, which is why Mom ordered the casket to stay closed, not because she thought people would be put off by my last looks, the cemetery owners, even the gravediggers there and all the guests, except the ones who only learned about it through the obit, at the funeral, burial and unveiling,” “Unveiling, that’s the word I wanted,” “In the end it benefited you as much as me, as you didn’t go to jail or anything like that and I didn’t live around you with the threat of your killing me hanging over my head and you possibly even trying to diddle me again,” “I never would have done either, ever, I was just a kid saying and doing kid things, I passed her room, or went to it intentionally to speak to her or catch her nude, her nightlight was on, saw her sleeping on her back or thought she was sleeping, but then probably woke her with what I did, nightdress above her waist or a few inches below it or right on it, anyway, her legs pretty much open and pubic area exposed, everybody was out, I was getting a quarter an hour to act as the sitter, I got excited at what I saw as I think would any kid my age, the line of hair above her crack like a short pencil-thin mustache standing up, the crack itself for the first time, I’d never seen one even on a baby at a beach, maybe mothers and nannies suspected me even at an early age and immediately covered their girls, once my mother nude from my room into theirs when they thought I was asleep if they thought about it but I was too young to understand what it was to get excited and she was all hair there and prancing around fast, so not good for an extended look, I felt horrible for years about what I did to Vera, for a few seconds at the funeral I was glad she was dead so the secret would go with her, since neither she nor anyone else ever gave me a sign she’d told or they knew, in fact on that last hospital day I whispered to her almost up against her ear how sorry I’d always been about it and said what it was explicitly, something like ‘Your vagina that time some fifteen years back when I put my finger in, it was the most despicable thing I ever did in my life and I apologize a thousand times for it,” “No you didn’t, I was conscious every second you were there, except the night when I slept, but you say it was the last day, and I’m telling you you never said anything about it, if you had I would have stopped the elaborate ruse right then or soon after, somehow made a miraculous recovery, got the makeup artist in once more, been discharged, gone home, gotten much better under Mom’s care and lived a normal life there with the family and you, all things forgiven, for it would have saved us all a lot of time and trouble and the folks a tremendous expense: fake hospital care, for no matter how hard Dad tried finagling it he couldn’t get Blue Cross or Cancer Care to pay, the funeral, burial and unveiling ceremonies and gravestone, and my airfare to Wisconsin and living costs out there till I was able to get a job, and so on, even the regular postman knew, Mrs. G. at her bakery down the block, Morris the candy store man, most of the butchers at Gristede’s, I became a dental hygienist thanks to Dad who heartbroken when none of his boys became dentists settled on the next best thing for me, married a vet who specializes in farm animal teeth and gums and help him run his practice, because of all the different treatments and operations I had when I was a girl I couldn’t have any children that weren’t stillborn, I’m a doting aunt to several of Ted’s nieces and nephews and less so, since I never saw them as much, to Jerry’s kids and now even their kids, do you finally believe me or do you want to phone Jerry or Mom for proof? — you once complained that my painting by numbers was for morons and bought me a real paint set and canvases I felt too unequal to to ever use, you once took me to Janine’s Christian Science practitioner because you thought as long as nothing else was working maybe that would, you once, because of the red-and-black plaid flannel shirt I took from your drawer and wore—,” “What made you come see me now?” “Why put it off longer? why not have done it sooner? one time I was all set to fly in to tell you when I got a bad flu and then changed my mind, what you don’t know will hurt you? what you do know might kill you? why bring up old bilge or why not work it out before you’re dead? for you might get hit by a falling brick tomorrow like I heard happens in the city or one in some punk’s hand and then I’d always be sorry we didn’t talk of it, or I could find I’ve had another kind of cancer for years and go in three days flat, so who knows? reasons for doing can be just as good for not, Ted said do and don’t, Jerry said don’t and do, Mom said ‘What’s best for you, what’s best for you both,’ Dad said to clam it since knowing you’d been duped for so long might give you even more reason for doing me in, Alex never said since he was drowned or his ship blew up or something before I told anyone, but now you say he’s kicking, good, I want to reunion with him too, for one thing to explain why I stole his ship fare from his drawer which stopped his round-the-world trip for half a year which I guess ended up with him getting on a different one coming home that now never went down or did but without him — I liked having him around, didn’t want to see him go or me be the last child at home, but mind if I use your bathroom? — tiny bladders run in our family — remember Mom dashing in from the street and leaving a pee line on the floor?” and he points the way, says “What am I saying, I mean doing, for it’s not as if I see you every day? — oh Jesus, Vera, this is more than I can say, both of you back the same day,” kisses her hands, says “I feel so bad what I put you though starting from that time in your room, I also want you to meet Denise and our girls, they’re going to love having a blood sister-in-law and aunt from me — Denise is an only child and all of what would have been her relatives right down to the last second cousin were murdered or worked or frozen or starved to death during World War II, and also please, whatever you do, don’t tell my kids what I did to you — no threats but I will feel rotten if they find out,” and puts his arms around her and kisses her head, she says “You still retract like you used to because of the ugly scar down my back — for my sake try to get used to it if you’re going to hug me,” and he says “I always thought I did it in a way where you didn’t notice, I’m sorry, and go to the bathroom, you’re jumping around as if you have to,” and she goes in, shuts the door, turns the faucet on, “Just like Mom,” he says, “with the water going, so nobody will hear,” “You say something?” “The faucet — Mom — I don’t think I spoke about this with anyone in the family — used to even turn it on to teach us how to pee in the bowl — she thought the sound of it, which still gives me the urge to go if I’m in the john or at the kitchen sink and the water’s on,” phone rings, “It’s Dad,” he says, “has to be, the triumveral — which lots of people must have already coined — return, or march,” and picks up the phone and says hello, “Will you accept a collect call from Simon Tetch?” a woman says, “Sure, put him on, I won’t even ask how he’s there, since I saw him right before my eyes die — no going-out-of-the-room-at-the-last-moment on my part — and then a day later get buried, and his body I saw at the funeral,” “Howard,” a voice like his father’s says, “how’s my boy, and good to hear you, and how I got back I’ll level with you straight off — I wasn’t dead or faking, just some look- and feelalike coma that even had the doctors and morticians fooled, and then I pushed and crawled out of the box and above ground like I’ve pushed and crawled out of every spot I’ve been in, whole and better and a lot smarter and tougher from it and ending up standing on two feet but this time in need of a little cleaning,” “And this was when — yesterday or the day before after almost twenty years — how was the food down there?” “It was some time ago — you figure it out, you’re the one who was always making with the plots and angles and complications, and you probably still are, if I know you, only because you couldn’t turn up anything better to do — but I’m here and that should be enough,” “You know, reasons have to satisfy me logically, plausibly—,” “Oh plausibly, with your flossy words, well I got them too: abomination, ridicule,” “All I’m saying is your explanation doesn’t quite make it, but I’m glad you called,” “Good, since my life’s much easier when you’re not being a wise guy, and listen, I’m sorry for the reverse charges, which shouldn’t stand you much as I’ll be brief, but I’m at a booth and had no change on me,” “No problem, glad it didn’t stop you from calling, and let’s face it, Dad — do you think I can say this? — you were never one much for making calls from pay phones if you first couldn’t tell the operator you lost your coin in the slot or got the wrong number, or even from the one at home, so maybe it is you on the phone,” “Why you being so sarcastic? and it was you who was always the big sport with our phone — calling pals in California — that homely stringbean and her kid you once lived with out there — but you never picked up the tab for it, never even asked to see the phone bill,” “I used to leave a couple bucks by the phone if I made a long-distance call and with a note saying for my California call at such and such a time, and I called from home because I was living there then, helping Mom take care of you, which was a promise I made her and OK, I wanted to do it too, and if I went out to call it would have cost me twice as much because of I don’t know what implausible justifications the phone company gave — operator assistance for a while, but when I could dial direct from a pay phone if I put in the right change after a recorded voice told me how much?” “You never understood even with the local calls that it’s extra charges after the first three minutes, and that piled up into big phone bills, but did you put money down for those?” “So the phone bill was a few extra bucks a month because of me, so what? — you knew you were never going to see your last buck and you had a free nurse’s aide in me minus my room and board,” “I wasn’t made of money is what I’m saying,” “And I’m saying you had enough dough stashed away to take care of the little extra a month on the phone bills, and I’ll pay you back everything you still think I owe you for those calls, with interest and interest on the interest, for I’ve money, a regular job, not a tremendous salary but enough to get you back every last red cent of it,” “Forget it, it’s over and done with and I don’t want to be petty, but you used to make me mad with that business and other things — my liquor, for instance, swilling it like a dozen drunken Irishmen at a wake but did you once bring a bottle home?” “Sure I did, probably more than I drank, booze for Mom, booze for me, wine, cordials, beer, soda when I was drinking brandy and soda,” “When, if you didn’t keep it in your room? — you never brought and you drank too much and the best stuff I had too, the scotch and my one bottle of rare Crown Royal I was saving for special occasions, and then you watered the bottles, don’t tell me, ruining the liquor for me when I was finally able to have my one shot a month,” “While you’re at it why not bring up the refrigerator—,” “Just tell me first, did you water my Crown Royal?” “Yeah, I don’t know, I might have watered a bottle or two of something — it was late and I was probably exhausted but couldn’t sleep or just keyed up from having taken care of you and needed a drink — one of your big fecal spills, for instance, which I’m not blaming you for — and I’d run out of my own booze and Mom’s was empty too and I thought you might be checking the bottle level the next day, but if I took an inch of it it was a lot,” “Three or four inches, if I remember, and not because I measured and checked it but because of its taste, but what about the refrigerator you started mentioning before — how you used to stand in front of the open door all day?” “That too, but I was thinking about your complaints of how much I ate,” “You nearly ate us out of house and home, but you were fidgety from taking care of me maybe, which led to all your overeating, so like you I shouldn’t blame you there, but with the open door you acted as if we had lots of stock in Con Ed — you also acted as if the refrigerator bulb and the food spoiling inside were replaceable for free,” “Then you should have got a see-through refrigerator door, for how else could I have seen what was inside?” “You could have come to it the way I did, with an idea what you wanted to eat and what was inside,” “Mom was constantly buying different foods, so I didn’t know what was inside,” “And you were constantly eating but I don’t think buying it,” “You wanted me to set aside a special little section of the refrigerator for myself with just the food I bought?” “I wanted you, since you weren’t shelling out for your own upkeep outside, to contribute something to the house — food, alcohol or money — for no matter how little you earned with your sub work at school you always still could have given in a small cut,” “What about how much you were saving on nursing care with me and Mom?” “Listen, with my own mother — my father I couldn’t do it for because he just keeled over one day and died — but with her when she was sick I paid for round-the-clock nurses in the hospital and then a live-in one for her at home till she died,” “You were such a good son — that’s what you liked to stress — and what lousy sons we were, or just me,” “Not lousy, you just always thought you knew better than me so never did anything I asked, and you also never chipped in a dime to the house,” “You became a dentist early and made much more than I,” “I was paying half my parents’ living costs when I was working two jobs while going to dental school, but it could be I had more incentive than you kids, coming from a background where we had almost nothing,” “You went into everything else, why not my Gentile girlfriends next?” “I’ll go into them — which ones? — you had so many, one uglier and skinnier than the next, and you lived with some, you brought them to the house for dinner so we had to entertain them no less, one Kraut you even had stay a week and don’t let’s forget again that especially ugly stringbean one and her kid you lived with at the house for a few months,” “A couple of weeks — we were supposed to for a few months, while she went to some accelerated interior design school, but it was obviously upsetting you and in turn Mom and us, so we moved out, and I did ask your permission first — you forget that or just don’t want to remember — I called from California and wrote and in both the call and your letter back you said though you don’t entirely approve of the arrangement, you gave your permission,” “I never gave anything, your mother must have even though I told her not to,” “And that Kraut for a week was a Dane I met there whose parents put me up for a while, and she was a friend, that’s all — we had similar interests in art and literature and looking at cathedrals and so on — and we slept in different rooms in her home and ours,” “Oh, you were shtupping her, don’t tell me — you thought you had a shlong ten feet long that had to be used every night or it would become standard size — well then you should have used it in your own home — I hated all your Gentile girlfriends, there was never anything to them, no looks or brains, with probably tight anti-Semites for parents if they had any money — you were throwing yourself away on them just to get laid,” “You liked them well enough when they were around, and they were always pleasant to you, much more than you rated, seeing what you thought of them — Janine, for example — she made you laugh, held your hand when she talked to you sometimes, treated you with plenty of respect, and if you thought she was ugly and skinny then you have less of an eye for beauty than I ever thought, for weren’t you always boasting you married one? or maybe you only started keeping your glasses filthy when I met her,” “I forget this Janine, most of them looked like the next one, maybe there was an exception some place, but rich, beautiful and Jewish is what I’m saying I wanted for you and you should have too and could have got, for if they have everything a Gentile girl does but also’s Jewish, what’s so wrong with it? — fewer problems, for one thing, because you’re mostly from the same background so understand each other from the beginning, and Jewish girls are as sexy as any — more so most times — maybe it’s in the religion or what’s not in it or what they learn at home — to give a man who gives them a good life everything he wants — and you had the looks, height and brains to get one but you never took advantage of it — then you lost your hair like me — I told you you would — but not like me you didn’t have any money to make up for it, and you were drinking too much and not taking care of yourself in other ways — clothes, even though I said if you were interested in a Jewish girl I’d buy you an entire wardrobe to date her — your beard sometimes, other times a mustache — nobody even knew who you were because of these quick-change acts with your face — and your old sneakers, no socks with them sometimes, you were getting to look like a street rummy with all of this, so then why would they want you?” “I still had a youthful face — it’s genetic, from Mom’s side — and I didn’t shrink or lose as much hair as you at a comparable age or my brains, but I didn’t happen to meet a Jewish girl I liked then, maybe just circumstance,” “You didn’t meet them because you didn’t want to have anything to do with them — they were Jewish, so not as good as far as you were concerned — no small features, stick legs, no invisible nose or breasts — Jewish was trafe for some smart-aleck reason — you only wanted Gentile because they were different from what the rest of our families had and you could shove them into my face because you knew I hated it — consider yourself lucky one didn’t foul you up for good by getting a baby from you and making you pay through the nose for it,” “How do you know one didn’t?” “First of all you had no money for payments to her if she did,” “I’m only talking about the baby part,” “That’s just what they’d do — out of marriage, even when living with their own husbands but from someone else, and right after she screwed with you she’d screw with him and then with both of them smoking a cigarette after she’d tell him she’s pregnant by you and he’d come with a gun after your head, but don’t even insinuate to me you and one woman did, I don’t want to hear it not even as a joke, because if it’s true then you’re finished in my eyes and because of your cavalier attitude to it, in the world’s,” “No, I’m sorry, it never happened, probably I was lucky, and now I’m married and have two wonderful girls and my wife couldn’t be nicer, and she’s Jewish, what do you know? though it had nothing to do with it — I just, well, met her, and she turned out to be that — in fact when I first saw her I thought she wasn’t,” “And it made you more attracted to her,” “No, I was just attracted to her, Jewish or not — the smile, the face and hair, from across the room without her even saying or even looking at me, and her body,” “A full body, what I’ve been talking about, one you can grab and that fills out a dress,” “Some women I knew had full bodies,” “You’ve had them all, I know — big, skinny, one with all legs, another with all neck, you said like a swan’s, I said like a beer bottle — long hair another one had down to the floor and what a mess, one with hair like a marine recruit,” “That’s because it was burned in a fire and had to be cut short,” “Blacks, whites, mostly WASP but a few Chinese thrown in,” “She was Philippine,” “Short and squat, like a baseball catcher, not to mention that greasy thick hair, though if I had my choice I’d take them over the blacks — you made me sick with what you did, but you at least showed the common sense for once not to bring the black to our house,” “I didn’t want to humiliate her,” “And us?” “I didn’t want to tamper with your sensibilities either, though I doubt Mom would have minded — the woman was a very well respected modern dancer, had advanced degrees in other fields and came from a fine professional home,” “So why didn’t you marry her if she was that good?” “She was too rigid sometimes, maybe we were both too self-conscious about our being together and the remarks and stares we got, I found her dull a lot and didn’t love her though she said she did me, so that was why we broke up — I don’t know for sure but I’m glad we did because of what I eventually got,” “A sick woman,” “When I married her she wasn’t, but you’d leave her because she got a disease? — that’s not what Mom did with you,” “We were already thirty-five years married — with yours I would have found out better before I married that she was sick,” “There weren’t any signs,” “Did you look hard enough, did you notice? — you just saw the great body and face and pretty blond hair and wanted to stick what you thought was your big prick in and she’d be impressed, and then you got hooked like all schnooks do with simply having a chunk of pussy always around for them and said ‘May I?’ or ‘Would she?’ and of course she does for by then she’s over thirty and maybe knows she’s got a little illness and getting worse and will probably need lots of taking care of later and her folks can’t live forever and besides all that you finally landed a decent job and dressing better and so forth,” “I was dressing just as badly, maybe better footwear because I discovered sneakers made my feet ache when I walked in them a lot and also now underpants and socks — I could afford them,” “Anyone could afford them, you were just too much of a slob to wear them — pissing the last few drops into your trousers, you didn’t notice but I did, the stains — anyway, I’m saying she was no dope, she knew that no matter how sick she was to become you were the kind of guy — you probably even bragged about it — to stick with her for life, which is all to the good but bad for you,” “How so if I’m helping her? and let me tell you that sometimes I’m not such a nice guy about it too,” “Maybe because you sensed something wasn’t to Hoyle, because to throw away the rest of your life on someone who might have fooled you into thinking she was well when you met her or popped the question?” “That’s not it at all, but you left out dentistry — just want to remind you,” “What about it — I loved the field, yanking out stubborn teeth, fixing the ones that stayed, measuring and then finishing off the plates to perfection and people walking around with them in and complimenting me on how good they fit, besides all the money and the kibitzers who were always dropping in,” “I’m referring to my not going into it,” “You’re proud of it, so you bring it up, but you broke my heart when you stopped taking the sciences in college — you had the personality like me for dentistry — outgoing, unassuming, a boy from the boys — you could have shared my office half time and done what you wanted the other half — write, painted, taken the piano — or we could have had two offices between us and once I retired and you bought me out you would have owned them both — one in the Chrysler building which I always wanted — imagine, that tall a place and so important in architecture, which you must have liked, and up till the last time I checked not a single dentist in it,” “I was terrible in the sciences,” “You could have ignored that you knew I wanted it so much and tried harder and passed and then forgotten them when you got into dental school because you don’t need them there, once in it’s all practical stuff — in fact you can still go back to college, get all the predental subjects out of the way in a year and then go to dental school, people have done it this late in their lives — that famous peaceful man who studied medicine in his forties, then went to Africa with his degree and I think his organ but unlike that guy, since he only wanted to be away from the world, you could make lots of money, take that tiny house of yours and triple it in size, or buy a new one, a ranch house so your wife doesn’t have to walk up the steps and fall down them like in the one now, or a city and country one both, two cars instead of one, garages in the house for when it snows and to keep them from being swiped off the street, drive to your office and garage your car there too, and your girls could have their own ponies, not just dolls of ones, and go to the best of private schools, and you want to go on vacation you get another dentist to cover your practice, like you do for him, and off you go for a month with your wife and a special nurse for her if you want and a nanny to stay with the kids at home, and round-the-clock nurses all the time for her at home if it ever gets that bad, for who else is going to do it and now you haven’t the means,” “Me, I will, I teach college so I’ve time, also because I don’t want nurses around and no nannies for the kids, I want us to bring them up ourselves, I don’t even like a housekeeper in the house for more than a few hours a week — just to clean up in a way I can’t, spots or clumps of dust I never see — I like my quietness, nobody around but the family or at least for extended stays, and if we have to move to a ranch house, which is what, the one-floor family house? then we’ll do it since I make enough to live OK, but I don’t want my girls spoiled with too many things they don’t need, trunks stuffed with dolls, closets with party dresses and dressers with sweaters and hose, certainly not private schools at so early an age unless there are killers or idiot teachers in the public ones they’re assigned to, and nothing to do with ponies or any of the horsey-set pets, just what I need are pony turds all over my yard and the cult of the equine inside, and as a teacher I get longer vacations than a month, we like going to Maine all summer to a simple rented cottage overlooking the ocean and doing our nonschool work there,” “You can buy that ocean cottage and a piece of the ocean, then add a couple of out-of-the-house studios with bathrooms and little kitchens in them so you both can work to your hearts’ content, but probably not in Maine since you want it to be a spot you can go weekends to summers when you have to be at the office and for skiing and short drives up all year,” “If I make enough doing what I’m doing maybe I will buy a cottage on a Maine beach, two bedrooms, where we can each work in one, maybe a little room for a guest, but nothing big where we have to do a lot of furnishing and cleaning up, but look, you got to believe I once really wanted to become a dentist, not to make a great living, or so I sold myself the idea then, but to go to very poor areas here and abroad and work on rotting teeth, but after a few predent courses I knew it wasn’t for me — truthfully, you loved working on mouths, which I admired you for a lot — I love people to have healthy and pain- and stink-free teeth — while I couldn’t even cut up an earthworm in bio — I had to have this bright premed seated at the same lab table do it for me on the q.t. and I still only got a D,” “You can get used to everything, I found — I nearly fainted when they made me dissect a cadaver’s head in my first year at dental school, but I wanted to become a dentist so much that I didn’t let it stop me, and you don’t have to be the kind of dentist I was — you like kids so much you can specialize in their teeth and hand out stickers and cheap toy trinkets after, or only work on gums, implants, adult braces — those guys make more than anyone alive except one kind or another drug or Wall Street thief,” “Fine for you, which I also admired, pushing through with what you couldn’t stomach, but I’ve no interest in making a bundle and since teaching only takes about thirty hours a week max I have some time to do what I really like to too,” “And where’s it all get you? — you have to check your checkbook every time you fill your tank with gas,” “Not anymore, but what else you want to say to me while we’re at it?” “What else could there be? — we just about covered it all,” “Alex, what’s got to be your thirty-year gripe against me but never expressed,” “You’re the one with the full head of guilt so you get rid of it — me, I don’t let it bother me day to day,” “But we’re on the line, talking instead of yelling about things for once, so let’s use the opportunity,” “Forget it, arguments when you’re desperate never get you anywhere, also because I don’t want you paying too big a bill for this call,” “What’s the difference, it’s my money, and what the hell’s it for?” “The difference is you don’t want to piss it all away on AT&T,” “That’s you again — chip chip chip, cutting back on the X rays when you took care of my teeth, so later with other dentists costing me three root canals,” “I was no good with my kids’ teeth — it took me a while to realize that — I didn’t want to hurt them so knew I wasn’t going to drill too deep,” “Then what about winding through streets you didn’t know rather than directly over the bridge to save on the toll, probably costing you another gallon of gas besides?” “That was before the higher prices — seventeen, eighteen cents a gallon so who cared? and you saw streets you never saw before and who says we always got to go the way they tell us or because it’s straight and new? and I’m not talking here about anything but the actual gas, streets, bridges and such so don’t make another meaning of it,” “But if it’s an important phone talk — like if you’re ruining your kids’ teeth with your sensitivity or wasting your passengers’ time with your meandering route — I’m saying when something might just possibly come out of it to clear things up once and for all or smooth them out?” “Who could know what you’re talking about from that? and I can’t help it but we’re running up a phone bill that’s beginning to make me sick,” “Look, give me your number if you can and I’ll call right back — trick I should have thought of before to make you feel easier with how much this is costing me and which I picked up from you whenever you were going overtime on a pay phone — that and banging the side of the box same time you dropped the nickel into the slot which somehow recorded it as a quarter,” “I didn’t do those only to save — I got a kick putting one over on the system, something you should try more of to make yourself not so rigid, but OK, I can see you’ll never let up, and somebody declared it truth day today and your pockets are burning and got to be put out, so Alex and that last call of his from England, right? and what you said in it, especially after I pleaded with you beforehand, knowing your fast mouth and mind of your own, to keep your trap shut,” “I thought he’d want to be here if Vera died and not days after she was buried,” “But she didn’t die, which I knew she wouldn’t — she’d taken a turn for the worse, something she’d done before after one or two of her operations and lived, so I told you if he called, which we expected since he knew she was going in and he was that kind of brother, and asked how she was to say ‘Not bad, in fact pretty good,’ for I knew he’d fly straight home if he knew the real shape she was in, but what does the big brain say? — he says ‘Dad’s not giving you the complete lowdown, the operation was a flop and it’s possible she might die,’ and I yell on the extension ‘Don’t listen to that jerk — he’s just jealous you’re away playing and he’s working — she’s fine, a little set back but she’ll be OK, stay where you are, you paid through the nose for your trip so have fun while you can, get your traveling bug out of your system and then come back and be serious again with your life, just keep us posted with your address if we think, which I don’t expect us to, you should come back suddenly and we need to telegram,’ but he says you wouldn’t lie to him on this, he thanks us both, me for trying to spare him so he could continue traveling and you for telling him the score and he’s taking the next flight home, and then something must have lit up in you — misgivings or some serious thinking over that you were changing matters when they shouldn’t for otherwise you never would have given in, but you compromised with me for once by telling him he doesn’t have to run home so fast, that he could enjoy himself some more by taking a ship back, which were cheaper than planes then — maybe even a freighter which you said could be an interesting finishing experience for him, and I remember him saying ‘You mean it about Vera?’ and you saying ‘Indubitably for sure,’ which was a code saying between you two when you both totally went along with something, and that you had perhaps overdone her sickness to him somewhat and that he has that much more time — oh, I could have slugged you because if I was him you certainly weren’t convincing me — but he fell for it — for a very bright guy he had a sudden dumb moment — and did what you suggested, found a cheap freighter in a couple of days and sent us a telegram that he was on his way and when in Boston it would get there, and then two weeks went by, we got worried, three—,” “I don’t know if you know or if this is the appropriate time to bring it up but I saw him just before — I forgot to mention it — Vera too, not together, one after the—,” “Good, I’d like to see them too, but think of all those years your mother and I went through when you didn’t see him — nobody did and all because you wouldn’t listen to me — you thought you knew better — you wanted him back because you were gloomy over some floozy who dumped you that week he called so you wanted your best pal to talk about it with plus to take over some of the hospital-sitting chores you did in Vera’s room then too,” “Maybe that was part of it — a small part, the girl, who if I recall was nice, and my wanting his company — but I really did think Vera was that sick and would die,” “Why, where was the evidence?” “Something about the way the doctor spoke and looked at me earlier that day told me she was even worse off than he said,” “Come on, he was just another arrogant Mt. Sinai doctor — they all look as if they’re about to spit on you,” “No, it was something else,” “What, his eyes? you didn’t like his tie? the way his Adam’s apple jumped up and down when he said ‘no, yes, goddamnit’? because I was there too — right outside her room, right? and outside through the little window down the hall it was just getting dark — you asked if you should contact your brother overseas to get him home and he said he didn’t think her condition was as grave as that right now,” “If he used the word grave, maybe that was it,” “He used the word serious, bad, urgent,” “I still felt he was holding back — this business that a positive attitude on our part — and of course it’s better if we actually believe what we convey and can get the patient to laugh about his condition — will make her feel good and possibly give her that little extra she needs to pull through,” “So it’s what did it, so why knock the guy?” “My attitude to her and often Mom’s and her sisters’ was usually dejection and pity, and you and Jerry only came to the hospital for a half-hour after work,” “I had to make money for the medical bills and Jerry had his own family to support,” “I wasn’t complaining, just saying, though I will admit — not boast — that I took two weeks from work — future vacation time — to be there and help, and she was mostly in and out of sleep all the time so she hardly noticed us till she suddenly popped out of it one morning — we weren’t even there, an aide was — and quickly got better,” “So, good hospital care and the doctor urging us to a happy attitude with her helped her survive,” “She survived because she was still young and relatively strong and probably had it in her not to give up so quick and the week’s sleep and IV gave her the rest and extra strength she needed,” “No, she survived mainly because she wanted to see Alex-she loved him like she did nobody but your mother — and the longer we kept him away from the hospital the better, for if he had flown back as fast as you first wanted she would have taken one look, smiled, given up now that she saw him, and died,” “Ah, I could never win an argument with you or even make much sense to you in a discussion and I shouldn’t have even started trying,” “That’s because I’m talking what you hate to hear most: reasonableness and speaking the truth,” “The truth according to Dada — no, I’m Dada to my kids, and Daddy and Papa, while you were just Dad, which was all right, while Mom, now that I think of it, is still Mommy, Momma, Ma, but anyway it’s just winning the argument, your truth, or drubbing your fellow discussant, while mine, which isn’t a truth but conduct, is not,” “You’re way over my head there, sonny, and maybe even over yours, but where you like to be, alone, looking down, sarcastic,” “But before you said I was a boy from the boys,” “You once were but something happened and now you’re not, but listen, this call’s gone way past the point where I can tolerate it costing so much so I’m hanging up,” “But I have the dough I told you and am willing to spend it for this so stop worrying,” “I’m sorry but I just can’t stand AT&T taking you for a sucker,” and hangs up, “I also forgot to mention that if Alex hadn’t taken that freighter he might have got the plane he was supposed to return on a couple of months later and it might have gone down, but you would have said ‘Did one go down that we know of?’ and I would have said ‘We didn’t check then but one could have and we wouldn’t have known,’ and you would have said ‘The planes when they go down you hear about and I would have made the connection then no matter how much and how long after I was mourning him,’ and I would have said ‘You see, I can’t win an argument with you or even hold even in a discussion,’ and you would have said something that made me lose the argument or disgusted with the discussion even more such as ‘Because your arguments aren’t logical, you’ve drunk too much and maybe in the past took too much dope which has made your brains unsensible, you don’t connect things intelligently the way intelligent people are supposed to so maybe you’re not as intelligent as I thought and some people have said,’ and I would have said ‘Since when have you thought that, and what people, because nobody’s told me?’ and you would have said ‘ There you go again, trying to squirm out of it by putting yourself down — when insults and intelligence aren’t working, try a little humility and self-hatred, right?’ and I would have said ‘Oh boy, you sure got me there, Charlie,’ and you would have said ‘Oh boy is right — you got yourself long ago, strung yourself up’s more like it, and don’t you by now know your father’s name?’ and I would have said ‘I was just parroting one of your expressions, but your name, your name, your name — no, I don’t want to say it, it’s not nice,’ and you would have said ‘Go on, say what the hell you like, we’re family,’ and I would have said ‘I suppose once in my life isn’t too bad — your name, dear Dad, is gelt,’ and you would have said ‘What’s with the “dear Dad”—to make me feel better? but if that is my name, then you have none, which makes you and my relation to you what?’ and I would have said ‘Geltless?’ and you would have said ‘No, it makes you more but what, I hate to say,’ and I would have said ‘But you’ll say it,’ and you would have said and I would have and you and I and on and on like that till maybe I hung up before you did,” and hangs up, knows it’s useless but knocks on the bathroom door, no answer, says “Anyone in, for if anyone is, say so, or I’m coming in,” nothing, goes in, empty, seat’s up the way he left it last time he peed even though he told himself then to put it down after, puts it down, goes outside the house and runs to the back, side and front yards looking for Vera, Denise, Alex, his girls, sits on the rocker on the front porch, tells himself to wait, if he sits long enough one of them will come, never likes not to know where his girls are, hopes they’re safe, prays without praying they are, should he make himself a drink and bring it out here with a book or newspaper? it’s past five so time, no, just stay seated and wait, how many moments of quiet does he get like this? no mowers going in neighbors’ yards or cars zipping past, shuts his eyes, cups his hands over them to keep out as much light as he can and to make it easier for him to think if he wants to think, thinks one thing missing: Alex got away but how? — Vera and Dad were explained OK or as well as possible for now but Alex? — he got away as the ship was sinking but how? — the ship was sinking or had sunk and he swam to a lifeboat or climbed down to one from the ship, if he swam he had to swim fast and hard because the water was so cold that one minute in it he’d die of shock before he drowned, nobody else in the lifeboat or someone or several other people in it but they all died, and it ended up on a remote Irish beach in a week and he decided — he had lots of time to think in the boat what he’d do if he survived — to fake his identity for a year to be away from all his past obligations and ties — he knew how much it would hurt his family but he wanted to have more time to think about life and just do what he wanted to like write — something might have happened in the lifeboat, too much sun, rain, being alone for so long, the cold, always being wet, no food or anything to drink, almost no chance he’d survive, patterns of the stars, he might have hallucinated a lot, had a religious experience of some kind, some deep change when he saw all those men on the ship and in the lifeboat die — he’ll work it out thoroughly when he has more time — or Alex lost his memory when the ship crashed or the shock of the cold water or in the lifeboat and the sun and cold and he wound up on an Irish beach and wandered around for a while till he was found, or it could have been drugs on the ship days before the accident, some fall when the ship was hit or going down, a fight one of those nights or he was breaking up one and someone slammed his head with a bottle or club and his memory going that way and thirty years later suddenly returning after he struck his head against something or another fight or breaking up one or he simply came out of it or through drugs or was in a coma for almost thirty years and only recently came to, or his lifeboat ghosted to shore, he walked to a village, faked an English or Scottish accent and convinced the Irish authorities he was a drifter or hiker, found a job, room, cottage, bought a typewriter or just used pencil and pen and lived alone under a fake name and wrote for what he thought would be a year but it stretched to two, three, ten, thirty, or he was picked up in the lifeboat by a passing ship, sort of a slave one which he only escaped from this year, or one from a Communist country he defected to if it’d keep it a secret for a year, when he planned to leave, but it stretched to thirty and somehow the authorities forgot, there could have been an Irishman or Norwegian in the lifeboat and Alex told him he wanted to escape his old life for a year and the man helped him get false papers, place to live and a job in his country, or the two had talked it over on the ship days before and happened to wind up in the same lifeboat alone or with others but the others died, or just with the man, no talk about escaping his old life, the man died and they looked alike and he took his papers, dumped him overboard and when the lifeboat landed or was picked up he passed himself off as that man, planned to do it a year but did it for thirty, married, children, grandchildren, wrote a number of books under the fake name or a pen name if he took someone else’s name and always refused to be interviewed or photographed, especially for book jackets and publicity shots, till he had an experience — drug, religious, someone close dying, through another head injury or something he read in a newspaper or magazine or saw in a movie — and decided to see his family in the States and explain everything and ask their forgiveness, or he only did it a few months — maybe all he’d planned to — when he tripped and hit his head or got into a fight or was breaking up one when someone clubbed or punched him and he banged his head against the bar or floor and lost his memory and only came out of it this year, few weeks ago, days, their car pulls up, girls waving to him from the back seat and shouting “Daddy, Dada, hiya, hi,” wife smiling from the driver’s seat and saying “Hello, sweetheart, can you help me with some packages?” “Oh, you bought some more goodies again, huh?” and she says “Groceries, things we needed, and paint and brushes and stuff at the hardware store,” and he says “Oh, you got some heavy work cut out for me again, huh?” and she says “In a way, but nothing you didn’t say you wouldn’t do,” and he says “Wait a minute, wait — I didn’t say? I wouldn’t do? — does that mean I said I’d do it?” “Eva’s room — we agreed on it, it needed a paint job years before we moved in here, and I’m not suggesting you have to start today — even this week if you don’t want,” and he says “Just kidding, and it’ll look nice — that room needs some cheering up,” and goes to the car while she’s positioning herself to get out of it, kisses her through the window, “How are you?” “Fine thanks,” she says, “and you?” “Fine also — some work done, a little thinking, a little rest, a gorgeous day,” “Girls,” she shouts and he turns around alarmed and sees they’re at the curb, goes over, says “You weren’t going to cross without one of us, right?” and Olivia says “No, we were waiting here like we’re supposed to,” and takes Eva’s hand and he says “Good, my beautiful smart girls, but while we’re here let’s practice it — look both ways before you cross,” “We already did,” Olivia says, “You have to do it just before you’re going to cross — also the side street in case a car’s coming out of it or stopped — if one’s there let it go where it’s going to or park before you cross,” “We know,” Olivia says, “you’ve told us,” “And of course, Eva, never cross the street alone or just with Olivia,” “I know,” she says, “can we cross?” “OK, coast’s clear,” he says, waving them across, takes his wife’s walker out of the passenger front seat, brings it around, opens it, asks where she’s been, “Out, shopping, you can see,” pointing to the back of the car where the packages and paints must be, “But why didn’t you tell me? — I assumed everything was OK, but next time,” holding her arm so she can step out of the car and grab the walker, “no matter how steeped in my work you think I might be, whenever you’re going out for more than a half-hour or so without my first knowing it, knock on my door or leave a note or later call me,” and then stands in the street looking both ways while she crosses it.