Late Stories

Vera

He knew he’d hear from her soon, not about his wife’s death but just a phone call, since she hadn’t called for a long time. He answered the phone. She said “Hi, how are you? Just wanted to know how things are going.” He told her. She said “Oh, I’m so sorry. And here I blundered into the phone so cheerfully and full of hope. It has to be awful for you. If there’s anything I can do to help, I’m here for you.” “Thank you,” he said. “Right now, though, I can’t talk about it — it’s still too soon to — so I’ll have to hang up.” “I understand. Oh, my poor dear. Much love to you and your daughters.”

They’d been in touch for so many years. Twenty-five, maybe. For a while she called him about once a year, usually on or near his birthday. “I know it’s around this time,” she said a couple of times. He never called her unless she left a message on his answering machine in his office at school, and even then most times he didn’t call her back. For the next ten years or so she called him every four to six months, in his office but now a few times at home. Always to find out how he and his wife were doing. Abby said once “She’s just checking to see if I’ve finally croaked, so she can move in on you. You’re still a good catch, you know. Your looks, health, tenured position, writing, and our combined assets.” He said “Not a chance. With all the infusions and new medications and stuff you’re taking, you’re only going to get better the next few years, and she and I are only telephone friends. For some reason I mean something to her. I’m one of her oldest friends, she said. We go back more than forty years. One doesn’t have too many of those, so she doesn’t want to lose contact with me. Who else does she know who remembers her parents and the house she grew up in and her two Scotties? I don’t care much for her calls, but by this time I don’t know how to keep her from making them. But if you object, I’ll find some way to stop them.” “Why would I object? Anything that’ll happen between you two will happen after I’m dead. And it might even be good for you, a way to take your mind off losing me. And she’s still pretty and quite lively, you say.” “Well, that was a while ago, but what does it matter?”

Last time he’d seen Vera was fifteen years ago when he was in her city for a new book of his. Took the train up from Baltimore, she met him at the station, took the train back. They had coffee at the cafe in the bookstore. He was giving a reading there and bought a copy of his book at full price — thought it would make him look cheap to her if he took the author’s discount, which was offered to him — and inscribed it and gave it to her. To Vera, my dear old friend. She never mentioned later on that she’d read the book or any part of it or even started it, and he never asked.

About two years after that she called him to say she was staying overnight in Baltimore — she had an audition for a part in a play at the best theater company there — and he asked Abby, she said it was all right, and invited Vera for dinner. “But not to sleep here, okay?” Abby said. “I’d find that a little strange.” He picked Vera up at her hotel and drove her back. She said in the car “Your wife is beautiful, spiritually and physically. Such magnificent skin and hair — that of a much younger woman — and a lovely voice and manner of speaking. And so intelligent. I felt ignorant compared to her. She obviously adores you. And you’re so good to her, tending to all her needs and just the way you speak to her. I like seeing that, although it’s nothing short of what I expected of you. What she must think of me, though, for the way I treated you in the past.” “Not at all. She knows all about it and said that was long ago, when we were practically kids. Believe me, she never had a bad thought about you. That’s not Abby.” “Good. I didn’t tell you, by the way, and you were both very discreet about it, but once again I didn’t get the part. They said I was good and it was close but I was just a mite too old for the role. That’s always a good excuse. I didn’t think I did well.” “Nonsense. I’m sure you did well. And I’m sorry — for you and also because it would’ve been nice to see you on stage and have you over for dinner again, and we would’ve taken the kids to the play too. They would have loved knowing that we knew one of the main characters.”

Since that first phone call after Abby died, she called him about once a month to see how he was doing. “I’m concerned about you,” she said in her last call. “Your daughters away. You living alone after so many years with Abby.” “I’ll be all right,” he said. “I’m getting used to it — the living alone, I mean. As for my daughters — I miss them tremendously, but they come down for weekends now and then.” “Have you ever thought of visiting me? It’d be a good change for you, doing something new, and I’m not that far away. Two, two and a half hours by car.” “I never go anywhere. The local Y; the local food market; that’s about all. Oh, for a book at a nearby bookstore about once a month. I don’t think I’ve been out of Baltimore County since Abby died seven months ago.” “That’s what I’m saying. I’ll show you around here, take you out to dinner, and you can spend the night. I’ve a guest room.” He said “Maybe you’re right. Let me think. No, you’re right. It could be a major emotional breakthrough for me, just reaching the entrance to 95 North, and my kids will love it that I even attempted to get away from the house for a day. They’ll think, next time I might even drive up to see them in New York. Okay, I’m coming. But dinner’s on me. And breakfast out also, if we have that too.”

He drove to her apartment near Philadelphia. During dinner he thought she’s still so lively and funny and beautiful. In great shape too. Slim, very fit; tight behind. She even shows cleavage of a woman thirty years younger. Same with her skin. Hardly a wrinkle on her face and neck, and nice texture to her hair and just a few wisps of gray. “How can you look so young?” he said. “Pardon me, but we’re almost the same age, and I’ve gotten to look like an old guy.” “No you haven’t,” she said. “And it’s not through surgery. You know I’d never do anything like that to my body. It’s exercise, yoga, long walks every morning, and lots of filtered water and harmless facial oils and creams. And of course healthy organic foods, which is why I chose this restaurant and why it’s a bit pricey. As for my hair, this is its natural color. What can I say?”

He slept in the guest room. “Oh, one problem,” she said when she invited him to come. “I’ve only been here a few months and haven’t a spare bed yet. I’ll buy it this week. I’ll need it sometime. For instance, if my son ever decides to visit me.” He knew she was short of money, so he said he’d like to pay for the bed. “It’ll probably cost no more than a motel room would, but so what if it costs more.” She got it at Ikea, set it up. He gave her a check for it when he got there.

He didn’t sleep well. The bed was uncomfortable. And it was a hot muggy night and she didn’t have air conditioning because she never liked it, nor an extra fan. “Take mine,” she said. “The heat doesn’t particularly bother me.” “Wouldn’t think of it,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He was hoping, as he lay in bed for hours, that she’d knock on his door and say something like “Would you like to sleep in my room with me? With the fan and cross-ventilation, it’s much cooler.”

They had cold cereal and yogurt and coffee for breakfast. He said he wouldn’t mind a slice of toast and butter if she has, and she said she was all out of bread. “I should have planned it better. But the nearest natural food market is ten miles from here and I only do one shop a week.” Then they walked for more than an hour along an old restored canal. “I do the same route daily,” she said, “even when it rains. It’s so tranquil. I get my most inspired thoughts here. Poems; even stories, I’ve begun writing. And ways to bring in enough money so I can quit my awful job.” His older daughter called him on his cell phone after they got back and asked how he was. He said in front of Vera “I’m having a great time. I’m so glad I came.”

He said to her in her building’s parking area before he left “It’s already past one. I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time.” She said “Why would you think that? From now on I’m going to make it my duty to see that you start thinking much better of yourself.” They kissed goodbye — a friendly kiss, lasted no more than a second — and during the drive home he thought he hasn’t been this happy for a long time. Things are looking good. Just that she allowed him that quick kiss on the lips.

He called her that night. Thought for about an hour whether he should do this and then thought why not? He wants to know. She said “What a surprise to hear from you so soon.” “Wrong of me?” and she said “No, I like talking to you. We’ve a lot to say.” “Listen,” he said, “I want to be frank and direct with you. What else can I be at this stage in my life? Do you think something new and promising has started between us?” “It’s a very distinct possibility.” “You know what I mean, of course,” and she said “You don’t have to spell it out for me.” “Oh, that makes me feel good to hear you say that. So let’s do it again, but soon, and how about this time you visit me? I’ll show you around. No canals. But there’s a beautiful reservoir just a half hour from me, and lots of other attractive places. And Baltimore’s a fairly interesting city, if we want to do a little exploring there.” “All that might be nice,” she said. “Let me see which of the next few weekends I’ll be entirely free. I’ll get back to you.”

He called her three days later and she said “Was I supposed to call you? I forget. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s not such a good idea I come down. I doubt my old buggy could make it both ways, the train will be too costly, and I’ve a ton of work that’s piled up at my job and it seems it’s going to be like that for weeks.” “The work you might be able to do here. I’ll leave you alone. And I’ll pay for the train fare. I’ve two spare bedrooms, but I’ll put you up at a bed and breakfast if you prefer.” She said “That might be better — the B and B or an inn. It’s sweet of you to offer all this. Let me see. I’ll get back to you.”

He called her a few days later. “Tell me. Am I bothering you by being so persevering?” he said. “No, I can understand why you called, and I apologize for not calling you. I thought about it — knew what I wanted to say — but kept putting it off. I’ve decided we shouldn’t meet again except as platonic friends.” “Wow, there’s a word I haven’t heard in a while.” “People don’t use it anymore?” “I’m sure they do,” he said. “And a platonic friendship is what I want with you too.” “No you don’t,” she said. “Be honest. You want romance, love, sex, marriage, constant companionship and the like. And you should have all that, after what you’ve gone through, just not with me. I don’t think it’s the right thing for us and I don’t see that it’ll ever be.”

He was once engaged to her. Almost fifty years ago. He was 24 and she was 23. She broke it off a month or two before the wedding. The ceremony was going to be at his mother’s apartment and the reception, for the twenty or so guests, in a closed-off section of the Great Shanghai, a restaurant on a Hundred-third Street and Broadway. “I’m not ready,” she said. “It’s too soon after my first unfortunate marriage.” Two years before that, when they’d been seeing each other almost every day for three months, she suddenly disappeared on him — couldn’t be reached by phone and her parents and a couple of her friends didn’t know where she was, when he called them, and she gave no indication she was home when he rang her downstairs buzzer in her apartment building and then her doorbell several days in a row. She’d started up with a much older guy she’d briefly dated and had been in love with the year before. They got married and she had the marriage annulled in less than a year. He got a job as a reporter in Washington soon after the breakup with her. Two years later he moved back to New York as a news editor. He called up friends of hers, a married couple he’d gotten to know while he was seeing her, asked the wife how they were but was really more interested in finding out what Vera was doing. She told him about the annulment and invited him over for dinner and said would he mind if she asked Vera to come too. “I’m sure she has no interest in seeing me,” he said. “Not true,” she said. “She’s spoken about you highly several times.” “Well, if she’s there, she’s there.” She came. They had lunch the next day and were sleeping together in a week. They got engaged in a few months and a few months after that she broke it off. Three years later, he was coming back from Paris, where he’d gone to write and learn French and possibly get a news job or something in writing or editing. He got a letter from her while he was there and after that they wrote each other about once a month. She knew he was coming back but didn’t know how or when. She called his mother, who’d previously given her his Paris address but wouldn’t tell her the name of the ship or when it’d dock in New York. “She’s trouble,” she told him. “You’re too blind to see that. She’ll just make you sad again. I never should have told her where you were in Paris or that you were even in Paris. Bucharest, I should have told her.” “Come on, I’m twenty-eight,” he said. “Much better now in dealing with things like that. If it doesn’t go well, and with our history, no reason why it should, tant pis, as the French say. Not to worry.” He called her. They went out to dinner and slept together that night. Next morning, while they were having coffee in her kitchen and he was about to ask if they could spend the day together or get together again that night, she said “I have to confess something to you. It is nice seeing you again. But last night, and this morning when you pushed me into it again when I definitely didn’t want to, I did what I promised myself I wouldn’t. I’m not saying the first time wasn’t fun. But I’ve done enough harm to you. It’s not going to work out the way you want it to and by now you should be able to see that as well as I. You don’t want to get hurt again and I don’t want to hurt you and then feel guilty about it again.” “You’re right, I don’t,” he said. “And you can sure do it to me — oh, boy, can you. And I’m not going to make a big scene over it. You’re safe from that, anyway. I’ll just leave.”

Fourteen years later he met Abby and they got married in three years. About twenty-seven years after that he visited Vera and the next day invited her to visit him. She’s called him several times since — around once every four months, he’ll say. And when he learned how to receive and send e-mails on Abby’s computer, she’s e-mailed him a few times too. Always wanting to know how he is and what he’s been doing. He always says on the phone “I’m fine, keeping busy, writing something new. How are you?”