Late Stories (18 page)

We just lost contact.” “All that's understandable. What's your name, sir? Maybe she mentioned you.” “Don Wilson.” “Nope, I don't remember her ever talking about you. Though it's a pretty common name, ‘Don Wilson,' so I might have got it mixed up with others like it.” “Also,” I said, “by the time you were born, probably, Lotte and I had been out of touch for years, and then she had her whole other life. And, when it comes down to it, I doubt I was that much of a figure in her life, for the most part. Just to talk to on and off for about six years, though maybe a deeper camaraderie for one or two years. But I don't want to give the impression we saw each other that much. It was sporadic. But I better go. It's been nice talking to you, and again, I'm very sorry for your loss. And your name?” “I didn't tell you? Sybil.” “Same last name as Lotte's in the phonebook, or do you have your father's, or even a married name?” “It's not important, my last name,” she said. “Good speaking to you, Don. Or Donald. Mr. Wilson.” “Same here,” I said, and she hung up.

That First Time

H
ow did they wind up in bed that first time? The date started off with dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant in her neighborhood. They had arranged to meet there. She got there first and waited for him inside. It was on the west side of Broadway, between 114th and 115th Streets or 113th and 114th. The food was inexpensive. The restaurant didn't serve any wine or beer but you could bring in your own. She stayed at their table and he went to a liquor store a block or two away—she told him where it was—and bought a bottle of red wine and a cheap corkscrew in case the restaurant didn't have or couldn't find one. It was a good bottle of wine, better than he ever bought for himself. He wanted to impress her. He knew from their previous date, which was their second—the first was for coffee and a cup of soup each and an egg salad sandwich between them for lunch at a coffee shop—that she knew about wine. She once worked for a week harvesting grapes in the Champagne district in France and got paid with three bottles of very good wine and a bottle of champagne and room and board. He forgets what they ate in the Middle Eastern restaurant. Falafel—that he remembers—as an appetizer, and some dolma, also to start off with, but what about the main dishes? Important? Well, he'd like to get everything in, or as much as he can, but he'll let it pass. He walked her back to her apartment building. She asked if he'd like to come up. “Sure,” he said, “that would be nice,” or something like it. Did she say “for a nightcap?” No, that was at the end of their second date, after they had dinner at a Greek restaurant in her neighborhood.
“I warned you the food might not be the best,” she said, when he walked her back to her building that time. “So we'll cross it off our list?” he said, or something like it. “Although you did say it got new owners since you last ate there, so it might have improved.” They had Spanish brandy that second time in her apartment and he asked if he could sit next to her on the couch, which was really a daybed. After she said “Any place you feel comfortable,” and after he sat beside her, he made a move to her and she moved her head to his, and they kissed for the first time. They kissed a couple more times that second time and then she said it was getting late, or something like it, or she still had schoolwork to do tonight—he thinks that was it—and he said “I'll go,” and they went to the front hallway closet. He said he had a great time tonight, “I hope you enjoyed it too,” and she said “I did. Thank you for a nice evening,” and got his coat out of the closet and handed it to him. His muffler was in one of the arm sleeves—where he always put it at someone else's house, so he wouldn't forget it—and his gloves and watch cap were in the coat's pockets. He put the muffler and coat on and said “So I'll call you,” and she said “Please do,” and he made a move to her—his back was to the front door, hers to the closed closet—and she moved her head toward his and they kissed, the longest and deepest of their four to five kisses that night. “Whew,” she said after. “That one, honestly, took my breath away.” He left the apartment and she shut the door. He thought, as he waited for the elevator, “That was quite a kiss. All of them were. She's really something.”

But that third night. They had met at a party two weeks before. They were introduced by the woman who gave the party. She took him by the hand, walked him over to her and said “Abigail, I want you to meet Phil. He's also a writer, but not an academic. Now you two are on your own,” and she left. They talked for a while, about what she wrote and taught, about what he wrote. He said, when she
told him she had to leave in a few minutes—a ballet at Lincoln Center she had a ticket for—“Can I call you? May I, I mean?” “If you like,” she said, and gave him her phone number and her last name. The first date was the coffee shop in the West Seventies—between 77th and 78th Streets, to be exact, on the west side of Broadway. The second was the Greek restaurant. She gave him the address for that one and the location—between Amsterdam and Broadway, south side of the street. She got there first, as she did at the coffee shop and Middle Eastern restaurant, although he got to all three places with a few minutes to spare. Falafel, dolma, wine he went out to get—“I didn't know they didn't have a liquor license,” she said. “I've only had lunch here; stuffed pitas and Turkish coffee.” He said “It's fine; it'll take me a minute. But I can't think of eating dinner without wine.” How'd they pay for the lunch and dinners? She let him pick up the check at the coffee shop. Said something like “It's so small, I won't fight it.” They split the check at the Greek restaurant, although he'd wanted to pick that one up too. “I'm on a very generous post-doc for two years,” she said, “so don't think I can't afford it.” She said she thought they should leave more of a tip than he put down. “Anything you say,” he said. “One thing I'm not is cheap. And I've been a waiter—the last time just a year and a half ago—so I should make twenty percent of the bill, less the tax, standard procedure. Oh, even with the tax. What's it going to add to the tip, another five to six percent?” In the Middle Eastern restaurant he thinks he said—and he'd like to remember what main dishes they had there, but he'll give up on that—“This dinner's definitely on me.” “But you paid for the wine,” she said, “and it seemed like an expensive bottle. I have to contribute something to the check,” and he said “Please. The wine wasn't so much, and I want to.” “Then the next time it has to be on me.” “Good,” he said, “for that means there'll be a next time, or I hope it does.” “I didn't mean it like that, but I guess it came out that way. We'll see.”

So they were in her apartment on their third date. After he hung up his coat, with his muffler, gloves and cap in it—she'd hung it up the first time he was there—she said “Care for a little brandy again? Same bottle as the last time. Actually, it's cognac.” “Even better. But only if you're having one,” and she said “I'm not. I've had more than enough to drink tonight. But you have one without me,” and he said “All right. You broke my arm. It's very good cognac,” or something like that, and sat on the couch. She was standing a few feet from it. Was he being too obvious, sitting where he was? he thought. He didn't think so. There were only two places to sit in this part of the room, the couch and armchair. All the other chairs in the room were hard wooden ones around the dining table. He thought if he sat on the couch there'd be a good chance she'd sit there too when she did sit down. He just didn't see her sitting in the chair. He didn't want to first sit in the chair and have to ask again if she'd mind if he moved to the couch. She came back from the kitchen with the glass of cognac and handed it to him and sat on the couch. He didn't have to point to it or say something like “Why don't you sit here?” He wanted to start kissing her again. After a little talk and maybe holding and rubbing her hand. And from there, while they were kissing, get his hand on her back under her shirt and then around to the front and, after feeling her breasts through her bra, or just one of her breasts, get his hand on her breasts under the bra and then try to take the bra off by unhitching the hooks in back. But what was it that got them into bed about a half-hour after they sat down on the couch? Once they were in bed there was no chance, of course, they wouldn't make love. Did he say something to get them there? Did he say—somehow he thinks he did and then again he thinks he didn't—after they'd kissed a number of times and he had his hand under her shirt in back and was inching it around to her breast—her left breast, because she was sitting on his right—he
thinks he got that right—“Shouldn't we just go to bed?” or “To your bedroom?” or “Would you like to make love? I mean, more than what we're doing?” Or “Why don't we . . .?” “Why don't we” what? Or did she say—he seems to remember this too—while he was trying to unhook the bra straps in back—“Why don't we go to the bedroom and continue there?” He's not sure about the “and continue there.” But that she said the rest—“Why don't we go to the bedroom?”—seems to be—he's almost positive now it was—what got them there. Wait. Didn't she say, after one of their long kisses on the couch that time and she pulled his hand off her bra or breast or away from her back, “By the way”—he seems to recall this, or is he imagining it? No, this is what she said, after they came up for air from a kiss and she continued to hold his hand she'd pulled away—“By the way, I appreciated your not trying to push me into bed the last time you were here. I wasn't ready. Besides, I still had work to do that night and also had to get up early the next morning to prepare for my class later that day.” “I knew it wasn't the right thing to do,” he said, “so I didn't. I thought, if it happens, it happens, though I wouldn't mind, and I'm certainly not going to try to push you, if it happened now.” And did she say “You wouldn't mind?” and look at him as if he'd said something funny or peculiar? She did, and he quickly followed it up with something like “What I mean is I'd like very much for it to happen now. But if you don't want it to, that's okay with me too.” That's about when she said “Then let's go to the bedroom,” and maybe “and continue it there.” She stood up, let go of his hand and went into the bedroom and he followed her, his first time there. He thinks he said, after looking around, “So this is where you work,” or said it as a question, and she said “Ah, you noticed. My sloppy desk, the academic books, my typewriter in dire need of a cleaning.” “You looking for a typewriter repair place?” and she said “Yes, you know of one? My regular one went out of
business, just as the one before that one did,” and he said “I'll write down its name for you later. They do both of mine, and they're good and not expensive and they love manual typewriters.” That's almost word for word what they said then. He knows; they brought it up a few times over the years. The funny incongruous things they said that first time before they went to bed. She sat on the bed and he sat next to her on her right and moved to her and she to him and they kissed. While they were kissing he put his left hand under her shirt and unclasped her bra and pulled it loose in front and with the same hand felt her right breast under the bra, but maybe he's getting the right and left business mixed up—not important, though he definitely remembers sitting to her right—and she said “Let me get ready; wash up before we get too involved in this,” and did something she only did that one time with him, touch his nose with her forefinger as a parting gesture, and went to the bathroom. It was a few feet on the left down the short hallway between the bedroom and living-dining room, directly opposite the linen closet. She came out about ten minutes later, barefoot and in a bathrobe. It was pink, fluffy, given to her by her parents as a birthday gift years before he met her, in the end lots of terrycloth strings hanging off of it, especially from the sleeve cuffs, but she didn't want to get rid of it or for several years wear the new terrycloth robe he got her for her birthday. “It's so comfortable. I've grown so used to it. It's like my old cats. I'll wear yours one day,” and she did, about five years later. He sat on the bed all the time she was in the bathroom. When she came out she said “Aren't you going to undress? You haven't even removed your shoes. Change of mind? Too late, you know.” “I'm sorry,” he said. “I was waiting for you to come out so I could go in,” or something like it, just as what she said was something like it, and really, just about everything he's said and will say they said was something like it. She sat down next to him and he took off
his shoes and socks and put the socks in the shoes and then the shoes under the bed on the side they were sitting on. He did this every night with his shoes or sneakers if he was still wearing them when he was undressing for bed at her place. If he didn't put them on again the next morning and switched, let's say, to the sneakers, if he had put the shoes with the socks in them under the bed the previous night, then the next morning he put them in the bedroom closet. And the socks? He sometimes wore them two days in a row, especially in their earlier days when he still had his own apartment and hadn't moved into hers. He turned to her and she was smiling and he moved his head toward hers and she kept hers where it was—he's almost sure about this—and they kissed. “Now undress,” she said. “Shoes aren't enough. It's getting cold, sitting here in just a robe. I want to get under the covers with you.” He probably said something like “Me too, with you,” and he undressed and folded up his clothes and put them on a chair and said “All right, here?” “Anyplace,” she said. She was under the covers by now—bathrobe on the floor, and the color of the robe was peach, not pink, same color of the terrycloth robe her parents gave him for one of his birthdays and which, though frayed and full of holes, he still uses—looking for a moment at his erection. He went into the bathroom, said “Excuse me” first; “some things to do.” She said “If you want to brush your teeth, and I'm not saying you have to, although it's always a desirable thing to do, use my toothbrush. Only one there, in the holder. Toothpaste's in the medicine cabinet. It's okay with me. If we can kiss, we can use the same toothbrush this once.” “Thanks. I will,” and he went into the bathroom. He doesn't remember brushing his teeth. He had to have, though. He must have peed and then wiped the head of his penis with a towel there or tissue or a piece of toilet paper and then flushed the toilet, probably washed his hands and face too, and come out. Only one bedlamp was on, on her side,
the right, the side they hadn't been sitting on, and he got under the covers and they kissed and felt each other and made love. He thinks that's how it went. Light on or off? He forgets. But he thinks the rest of it is how it happened. Third date, Middle Eastern food, cognac, kissing, her looking with no discernible expression at his erection for a couple of seconds, toothbrush, washing up, and so on. Maybe more of it will come back to him some other time. But he's thought of it a number of times over the years. Ran it through his head. Talked about it with her. “Were you lying on the right side of the bed? Were we sitting on the left? Did we make love with the light on or off? What main courses did we have for dinner that night? And it was a Middle Eastern restaurant, yes?” “Yes,” she said, “but the rest I forget.” “Did we make love only once that night?” She didn't remember. “How could I remember?” she said. “Once. Twice. Is there a difference? If it was twice, I was probably half asleep by then.” “And the next morning. Did we do it again?” She can't help him with that, she said. “But where are you going with all this? If you're using it for something you're writing, please disguise me. Make me tall and a brunette with dark eyes and long slim legs. And don't have him marry her. Don't have them have two girls. And have her have a dog rather than two cats. Though if it has to be cats, don't make them Siamese.” “Don't worry,” he said. “That's not my plan.” So why is it so important to get as close as he can to what actually happened? Really, just something simple, and hasn't he already said? His first time with her. And just about everything in his life changed after that, or he could say it was never the same, whatever that means. No, it's true. He can say that, or just about. And it's been almost thirty-five years. December will be thirty-five, four months from now. Sometime in December. He doesn't know the exact date. Wishes he did. Has tried several times to narrow it down to it, but never could. Asked her, but all she could say
was “It was a weekend day, close to Christmas. But not after Christmas, because then I'd be on winter break, and I know I had classes the following week.” He was with her for thirty years and a few days. One breakup early on that lasted a month or so, but she always said it was three. He hasn't made love with any other woman since that first time with her. And hadn't made love with another woman for two to three months before he met her. Hasn't even kissed another woman since their second date a week before their third. He means, where the kiss meant anything. Just cheek kisses. Brief lip kisses hello and goodbye. Nothing more. She was the last with the big ones. Did she get on top of him—the position he liked most—that first time? And if they did do it twice that night, did she only get on top of him the second time, a position he doesn't remember her ever complaining about, except for the two or three times she fell off, though he doesn't think it was her favorite. He doesn't know which was. Never asked, and she never said. Maybe them all, at one time or another: front, side, she on top, he from behind. No, that one she found a little difficult and not as exciting, she said a few times, but she usually let him. Or did he get on top of her, whether they did it once or twice that night, and only do it that way? Probably only him on her. Did they make love any other way but the most conventional one that time? After a bit of foreplay by both of them, he sticks it in? He thinks that's all they did. Felt each other's bodies with their hands, lots of deep kisses, and then he got on top and put it in, maybe with her help because it was the first time. But their mouths only kissed, nothing else. He thinks, mostly because he likes doing it so much and having it done to him, he might have started sliding down the front of her body, maybe reached the navel—that's what he pictures—when she put her hands under his arms and made a motion to tug him back up. It was too soon for her to let him make love to her that way and then maybe
think she has to make love to him the same way, he seems to remember her saying that night or the next morning or a day or two after that, when he again stayed overnight at her place. Did they make love the next morning after that first night? They could have. It was a free day for both of them and he doesn't see them just getting out of bed without doing something. Maybe they only started to—kissing, touching—and then stopped. Or maybe only he started to—it'd be like him—and she told him to stop. But not important. To him, for what he's getting at, only that first time is—that first time that first night. He wishes he'd kept a journal, but he never has. Little memo books in his back pants pockets were as close as he ever got to having one. And nothing much in them but addresses and people's names and phone numbers and words to look up and changes and brief additions to whatever fiction he was writing at the time and that came to him while he was out walking or jogging or gardening or raking leaves. And also one-sentence ideas for future possible stories, few of which he used. She left behind numerous journals—maybe fifteen of them; maybe twenty—filled loose-leaf and spiral notebooks and composition books, going all the way back to her first year in college. Though the first journal started the last week of high school and a little bit what she did that summer: sleepaway camp, as a counselor; a romance, though no sex, “and not because I didn't want it,” with a much older counselor who was also the director of all the camp's plays, but her father made her break it off. But there were gaps in her journals, and one of the longer ones was the last two months of '78 and the first few of '79, which takes in the period he's been thinking about. Since he never looked at her journals till after she died—maybe a month after and spent three straight months reading nothing else but them—he hadn't known, but always thought there'd be, things in them—details; her feelings about him when they began dating and especially
that first time. But as he said—did he say it? He thinks he did—there'll be other times to think of it and maybe more will come back. For now, he's satisfied at what he's got.