Late Stories

Just What is Not

They’re having lunch in a restaurant, their third time in a month, and he asks her what she’s been reading. She gives the titles of two books, “both of which I don’t think you’d like or even want to be seen with. They’re almost escape fiction, which for the past week I’ve needed to escape to because of all my work. But they’re light and easy to follow and with no big words to look up and they also help me to get through my own writing, when I have time for it. I don’t have to stop to understand another writer’s complicated entanglements of plot and profundities of thought. What have you been reading?” and he says “Anna Dostoevsky’s Reminiscences. Also, Joseph Frank’s biography of Dostoevsky. The abridged and condensed edition, as the jacket flap copy says, down to around nine hundred and seventy pages from what I think was around three thousand pages in four to five volumes. But I can’t part from one chapter in both books, rereading them over and over again because I love that particular time in their lives so much: how Feodor Mikhailovich and Anna Grigoryevna got engaged. Can I tell you it? It’s not too late?” She says “I have to pick up the kids in half an hour, but it’s only ten minutes away. So if you can give me the condensed-abridged version, I think we’ll make it.” “Anna was twenty and Feodor was forty-five or — six. He’d hired her — this was in Saint Petersburg, 1866—as a stenographer for his new novel, a short one, The Gambler. He’d dictate it and she’d write it down in shorthand and later at home transcribe it in longhand and next day he’d go over it. I think I have that right. No typewriters, then. You see, if he didn’t get it done in a month and turn it in to this very unscrupulous publisher he had a contract with, he could lose the rights to all his past books and maybe Crime and Punishment too, which he’d put aside for The Gambler and was being published serially and to great success in a magazine. Not his own: Time. Did you know he and his older brother Mikhail published a magazine called Time?” “No,” she says, “but go on. All this other stuff is interesting, but we haven’t that much time.” “They completed it in a month and turned it in. During that time he’d become more and more enchanted with her — in love, really — but didn’t think she’d be interested in marrying an old and sick man. You have to understand that nothing happened between them yet. So, in one of their many tea breaks — they took them between hour-long sessions of dictation — he said to her, and I’ve read this part so often I can almost quote their exact words—‘I have three possible paths to take.’ That’s Dostoevsky talking. ‘One is to go to the East — Jerusalem and Constantinople — and stay there, possible forever. The second is to go aboard to play roulette — a game that mesmerizes me,’ he says. ‘And the third is to marry again’—he had a very sad first marriage, and his wife died—‘and seek joy and happiness in family life. You’re a smart girl,’ he said. ‘Which do you think I should choose?’ She said ‘Marriage and family happiness is what you need.’ Then he said ‘Should I try to find a wife, should she be an intelligent or kind one?’ and Anna said ‘Intelligent.’ I forget her reason, and I don’t know why she didn’t say both. But Dostoevsky said he’d prefer a kind one ‘so that she’ll take pity on me and love me.’ After they completed their work on The Gambler, he asked her to stay on and help him with Crime and Punishment. And during one of their tea breaks from this book, he said he has an idea for a new novel after Crime and Punishment in which the psychology of a young girl plays a crucial part. ‘I’m having difficulty working out the ending,’ Dostoevsky told her, ‘and again I need your advice. In this novel, a man — an author — meets a girl roughly your age. She’s gentle, wise, kind, bubbling with life. The author fails in love with her and becomes tormented whether she could ever possibly respond to his ardent feelings. ‘Would you,’ he said, ‘consider it psychologically plausible for such an exuberant girl to fall in love with a much older man — one my age,’ he said, ‘and with all my physical ailments?’ Anna said ‘If she’s really in love with him, she will. She’ll be happy and regret nothing.’ ‘Imagine,’ he said, ‘the artist is me — that I’ve confessed my love for you and I’m asking you to be my wife. What would your answer be?’ and she said ‘I would answer that I love you and will love you all my life.’ And that’s how they got engaged.” He starts crying. “I’m sorry, but this happens almost every time I read this passage in both Anna’s and Joseph Frank’s books. I find it to be one of the most touching stories I’ve ever read. But what do you think of it? Am I being silly?” and she says “It’s a beautiful story. And if you said to me what he said to Anna, I’d probably say the same thing she did. No, I definitely would.” “You’re not fooling with me, are you? I couldn’t take it,” and she says “Absolutely not.” “Then I’ve said it to you,” he says, “and will say it again as many times as you want. Oh, my sweetheart, my darling Ruth. You can’t believe how happy this makes me and how happy I’ll be for the rest of my life,” and he moves his chair closer to hers, leans across the table and kisses her on the mouth for the first time.

He goes to a reading his former department invited him to. There’ll be drinks and dinner at the faculty club after, which he’s looking forward to a lot more than he is to the reading. He can’t stand readings and hopes this one will be short. He’s sitting in the auditorium with about thirty other people, waiting for the reader to be introduced, when someone kisses the top of his head. He turns around; it’s Ruth, smiling at him. “Wow,” he says, “what a surprise, seeing you. And what was that thing on the head for?” “That thing was to show how I feel about you,” she says. “And how did I know you’d be here? Fiction reading? You a fiction writer? I guessed. I bet you never thought I could be so calculating. And you haven’t said if you’re glad to see me.” “Glad? After what you said and did? Yes. Very. Very. Couldn’t be gladder. Here, come around and sit beside me, unless you’re with someone.” She leaves the row she’s been standing in, excuses herself past two people at the end of his row and sits beside him and takes his hand and presses it to her cheek. He’s about to say something to her when the chairwoman of the department taps the podium mike a few times, says into it “Can you all hear me in the back?” Someone in the back yells “You’re good.” She thanks everyone for braving the elements on this cold and blustery night and starts to introduce the reader. He whispers to Ruth “I was about to say I’ve been invited to dinner after with the writer, but I’m not going to go to it now.” “No,” she says, “go, and see if you can get me to come with you as your date. They’ll do anything for you. It’ll be fun and, as usual, I’m starved.”

He bumps into Whitney in Whole Foods. “You look like you’re in a rush,” he says, “but don’t go anywhere yet. Freya, my older daughter’s here with me somewhere. I want you to see her after so many years.” “Haven’t got time,” she says. “Got to meet Harold. But we have to get together. We can’t keep relying on running into each other at these places. Lunch? This Friday? Twelve-fifteen? An odd hour, but it fits in perfectly between my Pilates class and picking up Hannah at school on an early day. New restaurant I love. I’ll email you where, and it’ll be my treat.” “Oh, no,” he says. “Always on me.” “Don’t argue with me,” she says. “I’ve been working out with weights and can’t be pushed around as easily as I once was.” She writes down his email address. “Now, big hug,” she says, and hugs him and goes to the checkout area with two containers of prepared foods. She’s a good friend of Ruth’s. Or used to be and probably still is. They were grad students together in his fiction-writing class, or maybe she was a couple of years ahead of Ruth and they became friends when Whitney stayed on a few years to teach expository writing to freshmen. She emails him the directions to the restaurant from his house. They meet, talk about their children, her husband—“Still like two lovebirds,” she says. “We got lucky.” Their writing—“I’m back at it after an eight-year hiatus,” she says. “You, I know, never stop.” The fiction writers who graduated with her when it was still a one-year program—“Most have given up,” she says. “Larry Myers became a lawyer and is already a partner in a high-toned firm, and Nancy Burnett is a college dean.” “I always forget their names once they graduate, unless they publish books that get reviews in the Times or they stayed in Baltimore and I keep bumping into them. You still in touch with Emma and Ruth, two whom I remember.” “Just Ruth. You know she’s getting a divorce.” “I do,” he says. “We’ve met a few times. She’s also, I think, dating someone in Raleigh, since she drives down there every other weekend. I didn’t ask why.” “That’s over with. It was just casual. I suppose not worth the trip anymore, though he used to come up to see her every other weekend. The guy she really has a crush on, which you must know by now — stop pretending — is our own Philip Seidel.” “Come on; what are you talking?” he says. “She’s given no signs of it. And to be completely honest with you, though please don’t repeat it to her — I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable and stop her from having lunch with me again — it’s me who has a crush on her. Imagine; my age and with someone so much younger. It’s stupid. Though it’s also nice to know I can feel that way about someone again, but that it can never work out has made me miserable.” “She thinks you think she’s too ditzy, or frantic’s more like it — even scatterbrained sometimes and silly. You should try going through a rancorous divorce one time, in addition to everything else she’s doing.” “No, no,” he says. “I don’t think any of that about her. I think she’s wonderful, capable, smart, the rest of it — everything good. I only have the best feelings for her and I know what she’s going through.” “Tell her. I’m sure she’d like to hear it. You can even mention the crush you have on her. I know her and I know it won’t unsettle her.” “Maybe when I get home I can call her and tell her a little bit of it,” and she says “What’s wrong with now? You don’t have your cell phone with you? — because believe me, now would be a good time to call.” “I never leave the house with it unless I’m driving to Maine.” “Then use mine.” She hands him her cell phone — his is about ten years older than hers and was his wife’s — tells him how to use it and says if he wants, she’ll absent herself for ten minutes or however long he needs. He says “Not necessary. And I forgot her number — I’ve only spoken with her on the phone twice — and she probably won’t be home.” “Then she’ll have her phone with her. Her number’s the oh-four, six-seven one on the phone number scroll.” He goes outside and calls. At the end of it he says “This is too too good to be true. Let me pinch myself again. There, I did it, and it still seems real. See you tonight. I’ll bring a good bottle of wine — a great one: Chateâuneuf-du-Pape, my favorite — and a beautiful plant to remember this call and which you can replant in your garden. Now, how do I end this talk?” and she says “If you mean turn off Whitney’s cell phone, which I can see you’re using by the telephone number that came up, just snap it shut.”

They’re having lunch in a restaurant, she comes back from the restroom and he says “I have something to tell you. It’s very serious and I’m willing to take the consequences, which I know will be awful, but I can’t hold it in any longer. You probably already know what I’m about to say,” and she says “I think so, yes.” “I didn’t want it to come out. I knew nothing good could come from my saying it. But there you are. I’m sorry.” “I’m sorry too,” she says, “but you’re right. You know yourself that something like that could never work out. For one thing, and it’s the main thing — you’re really very sweet and smart and generous and I like you, but there’s the age difference. For instance, say something did develop between us: when you’d be eighty-two, five years from now, I’d still be a relatively young woman. And in ten years, you’d be eighty-seven and I’d only be entering, or would have entered it a couple of years before, early middle age, but I wouldn’t be considered old.” “Like me now,” he says. “Funny; doesn’t feel like it. Maybe you think I’m bullshitting you for argumentative reasons, but I feel young — thirty years younger than I am, and maybe just entering middle age, not that I’m sure when middle age begins, ends, and how many years it is. Anyway, we shouldn’t see each other anymore. I know I couldn’t. No more lunches and no movies and dinners we talked about going to — Gertrude’s for fried oysters; Petit Louis for whatever they got, and so on — terminatively postponed. And don’t phone me. No emails either. No communication between us. I want to try to get you out of my head as fast as I can. I’m done with my lunch, by the way. I can’t eat anything now.” “I can’t either,” she says. He pays up and they hug outside the restaurant and go to their cars. She emails him about eight months later. Nothing between them since the last time at the restaurant when she ended their friendship or he did. He did. In it she writes that both her daughters are fine and a delight to her. She’s officially divorced now and she’s okay by it. She thought she’d take it harder. Her writing’s going only so-so, and she’ll explain why momentarily, though she still managed to publish two stories since the last time she saw him, and if he’s interested she’ll tell him where he can find them. But more important and why she’s writing him: she’s been diagnosed with the same disease his wife had. “I’m scared. You told me how horrid it got for her, especially her last five years. They tell me it’s a very bad case and that I’m pretty well along with it. Unbelievable as this seems to me, I’ve even begun using a walker. There I am, shuffling, shuffling. Not the one with wheels, but I guess that comes next. I’ve had to cut my teaching load in half for next semester, which cuts my billfold in half too, I’ll tell you, but what can I do? — I only have so much energy. I’ve tried to keep my illness a secret from everyone but my mother and chairman and dearest friend, but now it’s so obvious — shuffling, shuffling — I can’t hide it anymore. I hate hitting you with this bad news. But we got close as friends, so I thought it wrong not to let you know or for you to hear it from somebody else. I also in the future might come to you for advice, since you lived with it with your wife for twenty years, right to the end, you said. So. Maybe we’ll talk. Love and hugs. Ruth.” He calls her that night. They talk about her illness, what medications she’s on and doctors she’s seeing and experimental treatment she’s participating in, and then he says “Listen. This is all very gloomy and dispiriting, I know, but there could be a positive side to this also. At least for me, and I hope for you too. I thought this over since I got your email, so here it is. I still feel warmly to you. I think I once told you that you’re my favorite person on earth, other than for my daughters.” “I don’t recall that,” she says. “Maybe it was in one of my over-the-top emails to you, when I was still stupidly fantasizing a, shall we say, romantic relationship with you, or I just thought of saying or writing you it. But what I’m saying is I can take care of you if you ever need me to and help you out with money too. I have enough, and I have more than enough time to help you.” “I wouldn’t want your money,” she says. “Thank you, and I mean that, but I’ll make do.” “But how about what I said about taking care of you, if it had to come to that, which it could? And this is not a one-shot offer. I’d do it till I’m too sick and weak to, which I don’t see myself becoming.” “This is very interesting, what you’re saying,” she says, “because my greatest fear is that eventually nobody will take care of me except people I pay to, and I’ll have little income and savings for that. My mother’s too far away and she’s getting old and I wouldn’t want to burden her. Same with my kids, though too young, and my sister’s even farther away than my mother and has her own growing family to attend to. Friends have said they’d help. But other than driving me to places and bringing me food when I’m no longer able to prepare it and things like that, I can’t expect much more from them — certainly not the dirty work. Claude, God bless him, has said he’ll take on more of the parental duties. But nobody but you has offered to help me the way you said you would, or has the experience to, when things get really bad for me. So, yes, unless I come up with a better solution, and I doubt there’s one, I’ll take you up on your offer.” “See how things work out? You can even, in time, stop renting your house, which’d save you a bundle of money, and move into mine with your daughters. I’ve plenty of room and will make even more room if I have to. But up till then, and again, only if it comes to that, I’ll be here for you any time you want and for as long as you want or need me to. I’ll marry you, even. Not ‘even.’ I’d want to. It’s in fact what I’d love to do. And we can share the same bed if you’d let me share it with you, although that doesn’t have to be part of the arrangement if you don’t want it to. All up to you. But all right. Or have I once again blown it with you by saying too much too early? And forget the bed and marriage part. I don’t want to chase you away.” “We’ll see about all of that,” she says. “Tell you the truth, I’m kind of drawn to the idea of that sort of companionship too. So, my dear, while I can still cook, would you like to come for dinner tomorrow night? I’m going to make something Moroccan — my specialty. I think you’ll like it.” “What do you drink with Moroccan other than tea?” and she says “I like ice-cold beer. But if you prefer wine, a chilled semi-sweet sauterne would be good.” “Then I’m there with a couple of bottles and dessert. Is six okay?” “Six is fine.” “I also want to say,” he says, “that starting tomorrow I’ll do everything I can to get you completely well again so you won’t have to need me or anybody else.” “That’d be appreciated,” she says, “and it’s nice of you to say it. But you know as well as anyone it’s not the kind of disease where that can happen.”

She goes to an academic conference in San Diego, comes back and emails him. “Hurray, I’m home,” she says. “Too many writers at the conference, but it was still fun. I missed you. I didn’t think I would. I didn’t even think I’d think of you. But I did, a lot. Why didn’t you email me while I was away? I’ll be sitting at my computer the next three hours, grading papers I put aside to go to the conference, so take me out of this drudgery and write me soon as you can.” He reads her email ten minutes after she sent it and writes back “Why, did I promise to write you? I thought of it, then thought you’d be too busy, and I also didn’t think you’d want me to. But call me, please? When you have time. I want to hear with my ears those missed-you words directly from you. Or I’ll call you. Are you still there? Over and out.” She writes right back: “Let me call you. I started it. Shut off your computer and let’s just talk.” He shuts off his computer and stares at the phone, which is on the table the computer’s on. About three minutes later, she calls. “Hi,” she says. “Sorry for the delay. I had to find your number before I could call. So, I’ll repeat what you want me to say. Are you listening?” “I’m listening,” he says. “But you don’t have to repeat it. You might think that too silly and it’ll reflect badly on me.” “No, I want to. I missed you. I thought of you a lot. I didn’t think I would, but I did. I know I never showed it before — affection, I mean, other than a friendly affection. . does that phrase make sense?” “Yes.” “Is it a phrase?” “I think so,” he says. “Some writing teacher I am. But I now think the way I think you think and that’s that we have something going here. Do you still think that way, if I’m right about what you think?” “You’re absolutely right in every way you said,” he says. “So when could we next see each other?” “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she says. “Claude’s got the kids for the weekend. You can pick me up or I’ll pick you up and we’ll do something. Movie. Dinner. Anything you want.” “I can’t wait,” he says. “Movie and dinner. Why not? Now you’ll want to get back to your papers.” “Yes, that’s very considerate of you to think that. We’ll talk tomorrow — by email or phone — to see what time.” “Tomorrow,” he says. “I really can’t wait, but will have to. Oh, I’m so happy now.” “I am too,” she says. “Happy that you’re happy and happy for me. It’s exciting. But now drudgery calls. I’m hanging up, okay?” “Okay. Me too.”

He can tell by her emails and how she acts and what she says when she’s with him that she isn’t interested in him the way he is with her. She’s funny, dry, conversational, doesn’t seem to want to be hugged or touched by him and only offers her cheek to be kissed. But he could never hide his feelings for very long with any woman he was interested in. He’s been a good boy, you can say, not letting anything slip out that might reveal how he feels about her. But he’s tired of just this friendship and wants more. Real kissing, lovemaking, exchanging endearments, that she’d only be seeing him, and so on. He’s not going to get any of it, so should he just tell her how he feels and make that the last time they see each other? Or should he not say anything and continue to meet her for lunch every other week or so as they’ve been doing? He’ll say something, get it out, say it all, in fact, and that this should be the last time they meet. “It’s been fun,” he’ll say, “but it’s become hard for me to see you when I feel this way and get nothing of the same thing back. Oh, saying hello when we first greet each other at the restaurant isn’t so bad. But near the end of the lunch, when I know it’s going to be over soon and I won’t see you for another two weeks, and definitely when we say goodbye and you head for your car, are very difficult for me to take.” That’s what he’ll say, or something very much like it. So they meet two days later. Another of their lunches. They talk about the books they’re reading, movie she saw, what her daughters are doing, her cat, the novel she just turned in to her literary agent, what they should order. “Want to split a sandwich and salad again?” she says. “Or just a side salad and each of us a cup or bowl of soup and the sandwich we’ll share.” The food comes. “Dig in,” she says. “My soup looks good,” he says. “Want to try it?” She says “You don’t have to ask me twice,” and he passes his soup to her, she takes a spoonful, says “Delicious.” “Have some more,” and she says “One dip’s enough. I have a whole bowl to devour. I’m afraid you won’t want to taste mine. The shrimp in it.” “Right,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to chance it. I’m a three-time loser.” “Wise move, then. Though I’ve never heard of a four-time loser.” “That’s good,” he says, “good. But look. I have to tell you something. And I hope what I say doesn’t disturb you, but I have to get it out.” “You didn’t like the story I gave you the last time.” “Damn,” he says, “I forgot to bring it with me. No, I liked it a lot. I’m surprised I didn’t already tell you. It’s a terrific story, and I’m not just saying so — probably the best of yours I’ve read. But it’s this — and I’ll mail you back the magazine first thing tomorrow.” “Save it for when we next meet,” she says. “There’s no hurry.” “Okay. We’ll see. But listen to me. I’ve never been one to hide my true feelings. Not that I haven’t tried, but I always fail. It’s just not me.” “What are you trying to say?” She puts her spoon down. She looks serious. “What I’m saying is I’m glad the feelings I have came. I haven’t felt this way since Abby died. And it feels good, but also disappointing, because nothing can come of it.” “What?” she says. “You must know by now. This will have to be the last time we meet.” “I must know that this will have to be the last time we meet? Why? I like our meetings. I look forward to them.” “I’m saying because of my feelings for you.” “You mean they’re more than just friendly? If so, I’m glad. Because if you’re about to say you have strong feelings for me in an amorous way, shall I say, and I know this is no joking matter so I’ll try to keep the jokes at bay, and also the rhymes. But I have, and I was afraid it might backfire on me so I never expressed it, similar feelings for you. Now, is that what you were going to say? If so, I’m glad. I’m repeating myself, but I am. The big question is why you would have these feelings for me.” “Don’t be silly,” he says. “Sorry. I meant that in a nice way. I could ask the same of you, but sure, I can say. You’re beautiful, wonderful, smart, kind, a terrific writer, funny, joyful — all those words. Did I say ‘smart’? I did. Exuberant too. More. You make me happy. I think of you almost constantly. I see you in my head most of the time I’m not with you. I feel you’re perfect for me. The other way around, I don’t know. I want to be with you always, and other things. What about you?” “Well,” she says, “I wouldn’t go as far as all that with you, but much of it is the same. Do you mind if I take your hand? Hold it, I mean?” He puts his hands on the table and she takes both and kisses one. “Oh, dear,” he says, and starts crying. “God, you’re such a softie,” she says. “Another thing I like about you.” “My age doesn’t bother you?” “Are you kidding? No more than my age bothers me. Now,” she says, putting his hands back on the table, “we should get back to our food. Then we should pay up and leave an extra generous tip — this time you have to let it be my treat entirely. It’s not fair, you paying all the time,” and he says “This time you get whatever you want.” “And then we should go to one of our cars — where did you park?” “In the parking area right out front. Got a good spot.” “Then we’ll get in my car, since I’m in the enclosed parking area upstairs and it’s more private, and seal this with a few big kisses and an enormous hug.” “I can’t wait,” he says. “Neither can I,” and she picks up her spoon, he hasn’t started yet on his soup, and eats. “I don’t think I can eat anything now,” he says. She says “Nothing’s going to stop me. You know me by now. Always hungry.”

They meet for lunch almost every other Wednesday or Friday, the two weekdays she doesn’t teach, and always at the same restaurant. It’s a five-minute drive from her house and a little more than that from her kids’ schools, and after lunch she usually picks up one or both of them. The restaurant became their only one for lunch after the first time they went to it. Good imaginative food and great coffee at moderate prices, not that a more expensive place would bother him. It’s a cheerful and attractive place too, always crowded at the hours they go but with a low noise level, and plenty of tables and counter space, so they never have to wait to sit down. He also likes that you seat yourself wherever you want and the service is informal and fast. Almost every Saturday or Sunday for the past two months — if it’s a Saturday, he doesn’t go Sunday, and the reverse — he goes to the restaurant alone. It’s only ten, at the most fifteen minutes from his house by car. He goes there mainly to bump into her. She told him she’s often there on weekends, sometimes just to buy bread and muffins at the restaurant’s bakery there, most times for lunch with her kids or a friend. When he’s there alone, he sits at the long food counter, which has a clear view of the rest of the restaurant, opens a book in front of him or, if it’s Sunday, the Times book review section, orders a cup of soup and a coffee and looks up every thirty seconds or so to see if she might have come in. If she did, he planned to get her attention by waving at her and then, if she was alone, invite her to join him — at least for a coffee — at a table or the counter if there was an empty stool next to his or two empty stools next to each other somewhere else at the counter. If she was at a table when he came in, he planned to go over to it and say something like “What a nice surprise,” or “It seems we can’t get enough of this place. Well, it’s that good,” and if she was alone or with her kids or someone, hope she’d invite him to join them. If it were a guy she was with, he wouldn’t sit down with them if asked to. He’d say “No, you’re busy, and I’ve got some things to do too,” and go to the counter, order, read, and try not to look up at her again. He probably wouldn’t even stay in the restaurant if she was with some guy at a table. He’d just turn around, hope she hadn’t seen him, and leave. Anyway, he goes to the restaurant one weekend day a week for two months with what he knows is only a small chance of seeing her there. Then — it had to be a Saturday because he’d brought along a book to read — he’s sitting at the counter buttering the chunk of bread that came with the soup and wishing he’d instead asked for a dish of olive oil he could have got for the bread — and sees her standing on the bakery line. He puts down the knife and bread and waits for her to turn his way — he’s about thirty feet from her — and when she does, he waves at her. She doesn’t seem to see him, maybe because she’s not wearing her glasses, and looks away. He waits for her to look his way again, but she doesn’t. He goes over to her, says “Hi. What a surprise.” She says “Oh my gosh, it’s you. How nice.” He stands with her on line. She’s here alone, meeting no one; her kids are with their dad. He says “Same with me. Had nothing to do. Been to the gym already and wrote myself out for the time being and decided to take a long break and have some soup. Care to join me? I’m at the counter, but we could get a table.” She says she could eat something and the counter’s fine with her. Even preferable sometimes. “You can rest your arms on it and there’s more room to put your things.” She gets an Irish soda bread—“It’s great toasted, and Saint Patrick’s day is this week. Not that I’m Irish, though my hair might be”—and three cranberry muffins and two croissants. “Did you know they also make brioches?” she says. “Better than any I had in France. I practically lived on them there, and the five kilos I put on showed it — I was the only adult in France to gain weight — but they don’t have them today. Boo.” She pays up and they go to the counter. A man on the stool next to his, without being asked to, gets up and moves to another stool so they can sit together. “People are so thoughtful in Baltimore,” she says. “It’s a good city to bring up your kids.” She digs into her shoulder bag and gets out her glasses. “Now I can see who I’m talking to. I’m so absentminded. I forgot I took them off and I also don’t know why I did. Usually I lose them when I do, unless it’s when I put them on my night table when I go to sleep.” She looks at the menu, says “Remember. Keep your mitts off my check.” “Got you.” “I mean it.” “I know. But I’m thinking, what a coincidence, seeing you here. What are the chances of that happening?” “With me,” she says, “since I come here so often — restaurant, bakery, sushi bar, confectioner’s stand, juice and smoothie bar? — it should almost be a given I’d run into you every time you’re here.” “Truth is,” he says, “you once told me you come here a lot, so I was sort of hoping you’d pop in. And I’d say half a minute after I had that thought, there you were, buying bread. I’m glad, of course. It’s been a busy day so far, but too quiet. I haven’t talked to anyone, and I’m not saying this to get sympathy, since I spoke to my daughters on the phone last night. If I hadn’t bumped into you I might not have said anything to anyone all day, except the server here with my yellow lentil soup and coffee and a pad of butter, which they always forget, for my bread. Just writing and exercising. What a dull day sometimes.” “The writing part doesn’t sound too bad,” she says. “I get so little time to.” She turns over his book on the counter so she can see the front cover. “Oh, I read this. I think you assigned it to us in class.” “Maybe I suggested it, since I never gave the grad students anything to read other than what manuscripts they were critiquing the next week. Did you like it?” and she says “I don’t remember a single thing about it. Maybe I didn’t read it if you didn’t assign it. It was fourteen years ago and we had plenty of other work to do.” “This is my third time with it,” he says. “Since I hardly ever reread a novel, it’s got to be one of the few I really like. And actually, and this might get me in trouble, and it has nothing to do with books, I’ve been sort of fibbing to you. I left my house hoping you’d be here and thinking, because I figured weekends would be when you come here the most, that I very well might.” “Might what?” and he says “You know. Bump into you here.” “Oh. Okay. You’ve got a confession, then I got a confession. While I was driving here I asked myself am I going there to buy baked goods and have a cappuccino to go or stay? Or more to possibly run into you, since you said once that this had become your favorite place for lunch.” “Did I?” he says. “I don’t remember, but I must have because it’s the truth.” “Wait. There’s more. I also thought that if you were here I’d fib, as you put it, that my running into you was unplanned. Why I took off my glasses when I left the car, I don’t know. Absentmindedness again, perhaps. Because how would I be able to run into you if I couldn’t see you?” “Maybe you thought I’d see you,” he says, “and would go over to you and say ‘Hi. What a surprise,’ which’d make it seem even more like an accident on your part. But let me get this clear. You’re saying that at least part of the reason for your coming here was in the hope of bumping into me? If I got it right, that’s infinitely better than anything I ever hoped for today. I’m overwhelmed. I might not sound like it — I know I don’t. I know what my voice sounds like — though that might come from my shock at hearing what you said — but I am.” “Good,” she says. “You’re overwhelmed and I’m happy and relieved.” “I’m happy too. But for the same reason I also might not sound like it.” “Good,” she says. “That’s what I want you to be. Okay. And now that we got that out, they have my absolute favorite soup today — winter squash with couscous and kale — which seems to be the favorite of half the people who have soup here. So before they scratch it off the menu and replace it with one I like but not nearly as much, let me order it. Then we can really talk, although maybe not here.” The server asks if she’s ready to order. She says “Bowl of winter squash soup, Portobello mushroom sandwich cut in half — you’ll share it with me, I hope,” she tells him—“field green side salad and a cappuccino.” “I’ll take another coffee,” he says. “And please make sure the check for my order and his coffee goes to me.” “If that’s the case,” he says, “I’ll have a cappuccino too. Only kidding. Just another coffee, please. Regular. No milk.”

To hell with it. Call her. Get it over with. Tell her how you feel. You won’t be worse off with her than if you don’t call. For what could be the worst that could happen? No more meeting her for lunch? Well, that had to happen. So better now than later. Because being with her that hour to an hour and a half every other week has become too much for you. You get more depressed, after, every time you see her. So he calls her. Uses the house phone because the reception’s better than on the cell, and picks up the receiver a half-dozen times before he finally dials her. “Hi,” she says. “How nice. And how unusual too, a call from you. I like it better than emailing. And you’re not going to believe this, because I know people are always saying this on the phone, but I was just about to call you.” “Oh, yeah?” he says. “What about? Because in all the time we’ve known each other recently, I’ve received only one call from you and that was for the first time we had lunch. I called you and got your answering machine and you called back.” “First tell me why you called. Just to talk?” “More than that,” he says. “And I’ve a feeling you’re going to be so put off by what I say that I doubt you’ll want to tell me why you were about to call.” “What could you say that I’d get so upset about?” “I didn’t say ‘upset.’ I said ‘put off.’ Though maybe you will get upset. All right. I know we’re supposed to meet for lunch next week. But I think that should be the last time, and if you feel uncomfortable after I tell you why I think so, then maybe we shouldn’t meet even then. I’d hate to lose our friendship, since I’ve really enjoyed our lunches. . well, up to a point. They’ve been a little tough on me too, which I’ll also tell you about. But the main thing I’m going to say. . In other words, what I feel I have to say—” “Come on, out with it. Then, after we talk about what you said, if you want, I’ll tell you about my intended call to you. And I mean it. My hand was practically on the receiver, ready to dial. And I seriously doubt our friendship would be compromised by anything you say. Though it could be when you hear what I have to say.” “I want our friendship to become deeper,” he says. “That’s what I called to say. Or a little deeper at first and then much deeper and then as deep as anything could get between two people, or as close as it can be to that. Am I making myself clear? Are you upset, uncomfortable, put off? I don’t see how you’re not, at least one of them. And I’m saying this over the phone, you understand, because I don’t see how I could have said it in person at our lunch next week.” “It’s so ridiculous,” she says. “You’re going to think I’m lying. But in my call to you I was essentially going to say the same thing.” “That’s impossible.” “You see?” she says. “But you couldn’t have been thinking that. And now I definitely don’t know if I should even believe you were about to call me when I called.” “Believe me, Philip, believe me. I don’t know how it happened, the two of us with the same thoughts about the other and then calling the other, or about to, at almost the exact same time to say it, and probably also the same reason for not wanting to say it face to face. Do you know, if I had picked up my receiver a few seconds earlier to dial you while you were dialing my number, I would have got a busy signal after I was through dialing and you might have too, although I’m not sure how it works. And then both of us might have had, after we put our phones down, second thoughts of calling with what we wanted to say and not called. Isn’t that strange?” “We would have said what we felt we had to say, sometime,” and she says “I don’t know, though I guess so.” “I’m sure of it. I at least know I would have. I would have called you right back, hoping you’d just got off the phone, or kept dialing your number no matter how many busy signals I got till I reached you.” “Mind if I change the subject a little?” she says. “Would you like to come by later to tell me why you wanted to move our friendship to something resembling more a romance? And I say ‘wanted’ rather than ‘want’ because it seems, with just this phone call, it’s already moved there. I’d like for you to. The kids will be here, but we can still have a nice quiet talk. If you’d rather do it another time, that’s fine with me.” “No, tonight. Name the time,” and she says “Sevenish? The kids will have had their dinner.” “Sevenish it is. God, this has been some day. One hard to believe.” “Incidentally, I didn’t say it but I’ll say it now. I’m very happy you called.” “I no longer have to tell you how I feel,” he says.

“Did I ever tell you the story how Dostoevsky proposed to his future wife, Anna Grigoryevna Snitkin? Or ‘Snitkina,’ if you want to do it the Russian way.” “You have told me it,” she says, “but tell me it again. It’s a lovely story, I remember, but I forget most of it. She was much younger than him, am I right?” and he says “Twenty-five years. He’d hired her as a stenographer — a new profession in Russia — to transcribe his writing and dictation of the novel he was writing, The Gambler. He had to finish the book — I think he even started it at their first stenographic session — in a month. All of October, 1866, I believe — or he’d lose the rights to all his previous books published by the publisher he’d signed a contract with for The Gambler. The writer was taken advantage of like that then, far worse than anything that goes on today. The Gambler wasn’t one of Dostoevsky’s better books. In fact, if you want my opinion, it’s pretty far down the list. Maybe because—” “Just go on with the proposal he made to her. I’d much rather hear about the writer’s life than get an analysis of his work. And you yourself have said that’s how you usually read bios of writers — skipping the book critiques.” “Got ya,” he says. “How did I ever end up with such a wonderful woman?” “Is that what Dostoevsky said about her?” “No, that’s what I’m saying about you,” he says. “Although now that you mention it, he did say something very much like that at their wedding reception, I think to her mother. ‘Look what I’ve married,’ he said. ‘The dearest girl in the world.’” “He called her a girl?” she says. “Well, he was considerably older than her. And maybe that’s how all women then were referred to, no matter what their age, except the babushkas. A different time. As a woman, not one I would have liked to live in. And I remember how difficult it was being Dostoevsky’s wife. Their poverty and his gambling and depression and epileptic attacks. But the story. Finish it. Then we have to pick up my kids, if you still want to go with me.” “I do, I do.”