Two days later, Ruth emails her thanks to him for the books. “They love them. I love them. It’s a wonder how you knew we’d all love them. They didn’t know which one they wanted me to read first and then help explain the myths to them. I said I’ll read one myth from the Greeks and one from the Indian book. We got on the couch and I read to them that way till each took one of the books to read by herself or just look at those amazing illustrations. Thank you again. You’re so thoughtful and generous. Ruth.” He doesn’t answer her. A week, two. She doesn’t email him after that last one. He thought she might, though what would she say? “Haven’t heard from you in a while. Everything all right?” That would be like her and nice. He doesn’t go to her reading and she doesn’t remind him of it. Nor the party before the reading, of course. Why? The day, or maybe it was two, after he spoke to his therapist and sister, he decided—“decided”? Felt very strongly that things would never work between them the way he wants them to. He’s too old. He looks too old for her. His hair is old; some of his skin is too. His body is mostly hard and lean but there’s flab in places he can’t get rid of that only old guys get. He walks like an old man sometimes, but that’s because he exercises with weights too much at home and the Y and as a result his back hurts almost every day and is bent because of it. She would never let him kiss her on the mouth and wouldn’t like him to hold her hand. Wouldn’t like him to put his arm around her. Probably wouldn’t even like being in a dark movie theater with him or have dinner in a good restaurant with him where he’d order wine. Wouldn’t even want him to pick her up to go to a movie or restaurant. Certainly no lovemaking. He wants so much to make love to her. From behind, from in front. Hold her from behind in bed and just kiss the top of her head and be kissed back like that. Wants to go to sleep with her and wake up with her and have her say “Oh, it’s so wonderful waking up to you.” Wants to go to Maine with her in the summer. But first to some hotel on the Eastern Shore, easy car ride back and forth, and go to a bird sanctuary there and seafood places to eat at and walk along the beach with her and so on. So on. He knew if he suggested any of those, he’d look ridiculous to her. So it would never work. It won’t work. Get it in your head: not even for a weekend or entire day. It’d just be lunch after lunch, every second or third week. And only maybe a movie—maybe she wouldn’t be a little anxious about sitting in a dark movie theater next to him. And maybe dinner out once or twice. But where they’d each drive to the restaurant in their own car, and lots of emails between them and he’d get depressed, but more depressed than he is now, because he’d want to be with her more. But it would have to come from her, but it won’t and it never will, and he’d be sad or just glum when he’d see her and because of it she’d say “Maybe our get-togethers aren’t good for you anymore, or as much as we’ve been doing,” and he’d say “It’s not the way I’d like it to be with you.” He’d say it, he knows he would. He’s always had a hard time holding in anything like that. “To be honest,” he’d also say, “as long as we’re talking about it, I’d like to see you a lot more than I’ve been doing—a lot lot more—but I guess it can never happen. You’re going to be annoyed at my saying this,” he’d go on. “Or alarmed or put off, or let’s just say it’ll scare you away from me and you won’t want to see me again once I say it. But you know what I’m going to say,” and she might say something like “Not exactly. It could be a number of things,” and he’d say “Name one,” and she’d say “Just say it, although now I’m thinking we should definitely not meet each other, at least for a couple of months if not more.” Or she’d say something close to that, but eventually in their conversation—their last one—he’d say “I’m going to say what I’ve been thinking to. What the hell, by now everything’s lost, so it can’t make things worse with you than they already are. And it’s probably wrong for me to say it and possibly for me even to think it, but I’m in love with you. Deeply, deeply, deeply. And want to be tender and loving and cozy and close and open and everything else like that with you.” She’d say “I thought it might be that. But you have to know I like you very much but not that way.” Or something. She’d say something that would trounce, or dash, or a better word, his fantasy with her. And if she did, and he has no doubt she will if he does say those things, it’d be something gentle and which she’d think would hurt him the least. He’d then say “Is it the age difference?” and she might say “For the most part, yes.” “So when you look at me you see an old man?” and she’d say “I have to admit it, yes.” “Oh, no,” he’d say, “that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.” “About yourself?” and he’d say “Yes. It sort of dooms me, not that I didn’t see it coming and couldn’t foretell almost everything you said.” “No it doesn’t,” she could say. “You need, if you want to love someone, a woman much older than I.” Anyway, he didn’t email or call her again. She didn’t email or call him again, either. Had she ever called him? Once. To say, an hour before their lunch date, that she’d be fifteen minutes late. “How did you get my number?” he said. “I know I didn’t give it to you. I took yours, that day we first bumped into each other at the restaurant when I was with my friends, but didn’t give you mine.” “The phone book,” she said. “Like the few people I know who haven’t given up their landlines, you’re listed.”
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, an
d 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 ce
ll phone, which I can see you’re using by the telephone number that came up, just snap it shut.”
Late Stories Page 26