Late Stories (23 page)

He calls her and says “Lunch still good with you?” and she says “Sure, I'd love to.” They meet at the restaurant where he last saw her—she says it's the closest one to the school she'll have to pick up her older daughter at after lunch—and they talk about a lot of things: books they're reading, what she's teaching, tires she's ruined because of the many times she's driven over curbs, and so on. They laugh so hard at times he feels their laughter might be annoying other diners it's so loud. She's as wonderful as he remembers her—that's what he thinks about while she's talking at length about something and he's listening. Smart, clever, funny. Beautiful, he thinks. He knows he always thought her attractive but he doesn't remember ever thinking she was beautiful. Could it be it's something in him that's changed? That just being so much younger than he is being beautiful? Something like that. And with her relatively young age and natural good looks—well, the two could add up to beauty to him. Who knows? He's all confused. The truth is, just being with her makes him confused. Or maybe he's on to something.
When they start talking about serious things—or when he does and she's just listening—she looks too serious, staring straight at him, hand cupping her chin, that sort of pose as if she doesn't know how to be serious so can only pretend to look it. Is anything wrong with that? He doesn't think so, or not much. She doesn't like to be serious. Or she has enough serious things going on in her life—that could be it and probably is. Divorce, money problems, a car that's falling apart—she brought it in to get it fixed this morning and had to leave it there and borrow a loaner—and she doesn't know if she has enough money to cover it. She'll go to her husband. He got the better car. And just dealing with her husband. And teaching and writing and worried about not getting tenure and nobody to help her the days she has her daughters. Lots of juggling. So what's he saying? He's not sure. No, he doesn't know. Got a little mixed up there again. Maybe she just likes things to be light and funny and unserious and gets depressed when they're not. Especially, he's saying, when she's taking a break from all the other things in her life, some of them troubling, and having what she hoped would be a casual pleasant lunch in a restaurant. But he doesn't know her, at least not since she was his grad student and advisee and a little after when she used to pop into his office with one of her infant daughters for a chat, so what's he making all these assumptions for? The check comes. “On me,” he says. She says “Then next time it's on me.” “Next time . . . you like movies, right?” “Love them.” “So next time maybe we should go to a movie—a matinee. The Charles or the Senator or a theater like that. A weekend day if you can manage it.” “I'd like to,” she says, “if you let me buy the tickets.” “We'll see.” “Stop that,” she says. “You're not being fair. You have to let me buy them. And I'm ordering your book online this week. I've been too busy with other things to do it before.” “Don't order it,” he says. “It's a hardcover and expensive and not worth it. Let me give you
my pristine copy. If I need another pristine copy I can buy it at the Ivy.” “Not a chance,” she says. “Consider it done.” “All right. I give in,” he says. He walks her to her car. “This was fun,” she says. “And I know I got lucky. Whitney told me you never accept invites to dinner or lunch.” “Well, you see how true that is. And I invited you, didn't I? And I wouldn't call you lucky. Lunching with me, I mean.” “Nonsense.” Don't say it, he thinks, but that's usually what Abby said when he said things like that about himself. They kiss each other on the cheek goodbye. He gets an email from her later that day. She must have got his address from Whitney or someone because he doesn't remember giving it to her. “Hi! Thank you for lunch. The sandwich was delicious, the soup divine, the double espresso exactly what I needed to get thoroughly started today, and the cortavo (little C or big?), if that's what it's called and you introduced me to, the perfect end-of-lunch coffee to top it off. As I demonstrated, I love food and I felt great after. We'll talk. Ruth.” He thinks: Should he reply right away? He wants to, but give it more time. Don't want to seem too eager: remember? Ah, just do it. No harm if he's careful what he says. “Dear Ruth: No thanks needed, but thanks. I like their food too. But because I know what a mess I can make, I'm never going to order a salad with so many little parts to it. From now on, just solid pieces of food I can eat with a knife and fork. Soup I never have in a restaurant unless I'm alone and facing a wall or only with my daughters. I do everything wrong other than eating it with a fork or lifting the bowl to my mouth and drinking from it. I like the restaurant you chose but have lunched there so much or at one of its branches, that I think I know the menu by heart and have had almost everything on it at least twice. For a change, if we ever do have lunch out again, let me treat us to Petit Louis Bistro. Been there only once for lunch, and the food was good, the setting pleasant, I loved the afternoon light that came through the windows,
and because the place is French and the service is so attentive and refined, I'm sure my latent good table manners will kick in and be unimpeachable. Maybe we could even do it the same day we take in a movie, though you'd probably be too busy with other things to spare so much time. Lunch-movie. They go together and in that order, I'd say. Anyway . . . best, Phil.” Did he write too much? And should he read it over a couple of times and change and fix what needs changing and fixing and wait a day or two before he sends it? He reads it. It's harmless, really only there to make her laugh, nothing in it to make him seem eager to see her or that he has anything but friendly feelings toward her, so send it, and he does. After, he thinks: Did he just now make a big mistake? Stop it. You're killing yourself. It's all right what you wrote and all right that you wrote. She emails him the next day. “Hi! Only opened my inbox a minute ago and read your email very quickly and can't reply this moment. Gotta run. Busy busy busy. More later. xx, Ruth.” She's still writing him, not taking days to do it and those x's. Kid stuff. Don't make more of it than's there. The rest, all good signs.

He dreams of her that night. Dreams twice of her but only remembers the second. He's cutting across one of the quads of the school he taught at and hears someone behind him say “Hi.” He doesn't turn around because he thinks the “hi” was for someone else and he's late at meeting up with her. The person's still behind him and says “Hi.” He turns around. It's Ruth, smiling at him and carrying a large canvas boat bag filled with books. “That was me, before, saying hi,” she says. “How come you didn't stop?” “I thought it was someone else,” he says, and puts his arm around her and pulls her into him and kisses her on the mouth. “Oops, sorry,” he says. “I thought you were someone else,” and takes his arm away and with his other hand takes the canvas bag from her and holds it. She says “That's all right what you did with your arm there. Put
it back,” and he puts his arm around her again and they walk that way. “The bag's lighter than I thought it would be.” “That's because there's nothing in the books,” she says.

He checks his computer's inbox about ten times that day, hoping there'd be something from her. Four days after he gets her last email, he emails her. “Hi. See? I've adopted the prevalent, or what should we call it—or I call it—accepted email greeting? If I knew how to italicize on this machine, I would've italicized ‘I.' But I'm saying no more ‘dear' heading and the addressee's name. Nor will I, from now on, sign off with ‘best' or ‘very best' or ‘sincerely' or such. Just my first initial or name. Don't want to appear too passé, know what I mean? So tell me, any further thoughts of a movie you'd like to go to, if that's still on? If you get a chance, let me know. If you're too tied up to go to a movie or even get back to me, it's perfectly understandable. I'm the one with all the free time and two daughters out on their own. Very best, Oops, sorry. It'll take a bit of getting used to. Phil.” She emails him back the next day. “Hi! Apologies for not getting back to you sooner. As you surmised, I'm tied up in knots and nots. What does she mean by that? She doesn't know. So excuse me for trying to be literary. I invariably fail there. I'm much better at plain speaking and also sticking to the same pronoun. I thought of three movies—it's a specially fruitful period for movies in Baltimore. But I have the kids all week—Claude is out of town at a linguistics conference—so I want to but no can do. Best. Very best. Sincerely. Simply showing my solidarity sibilantly, and another literary failure. xx, Ruth.” He checks the computer several times a day the next week to see if there's a message from her. Then he calls, ten days after her last email and she says “Oh, gosh. I was supposed to call you, yes?” “No. You told me to call or write you after about a week.” “Good,” she says. “I'd hate for you to think I didn't mean it when we talked about going to a movie. But I've been so occupied
with schoolwork and mom work and housework and even the girls' homework. Middle school math, for me, is tough.” “Not to worry, really,” he says. “As I said, I'm the one—” “Hey! I just thought of something. I'm giving a reading from my new novel a week after next. The first public airing of it, and if you'd like to, please come. It's in a new mortar and pretzel bookstore, which has a wine license, so you can drink while you listen. I'd be curious what you think of the part I'll be reading, and you won't have to listen to me long. There are three other readers.” “I'm coming. Only my car breaking down could stop me.” She gives the name of the bookstore. “If you Google it, you'll get the announcement of the reading on its events calendar and better directions to the store than I could ever give. I always get people lost. And Whitney and Harold are having a small drink party before the reading. I know they'd love for you to come to it.” “Not the party,” he says. “I don't want to get looped and then drive. I'll have a glass of wine at the store. And the one party I've been to at their house, when Abby was alive, took us half an hour to find it. It was evening and they lived in what looked like woods.” “Then give yourself plenty of time getting there and only drink Perrier.” “You're so nice,” he says, “encouraging me to step out and socialize more—I know what your angle is. And I will, but one event at a time. Something tells me that's what I should do. So I'll see you at the reading, if you're too busy before then to meet me for coffee or lunch.” “Till the day of the reading, I am,” she says. “A ton of half-theses to read and then discuss with the writers. You know how it is. You did the same with me. And though you told me mine, and later my full thesis, were the easiest to read because of all the brief dialog and half my stories were short-shorts, I know it took a lot of your time. I'm sorry we can't meet sooner. I had a good time that lunch.” “I loved our lunch,” he says. “Loved it. But there'll be another. “Of course there will,” she says.

Next day he buys an illustrated book each on Indian and Greek mythology for her daughters. One an expensive hardcover because the store didn't have the cheaper edition. The salesperson said she could order it but he wanted to mail the books today. Kids love their presents gift-wrapped, and the paper he selected at the store was special for kids. His daughters used to read the same books and also the Nordic and Roman ones, by the same author-illustrator, or he'd read the books to them before they went to sleep. He'd sit in the lit hallway between their bedrooms so they'd both be able to hear, or sometimes would take a chair there. Then he'd shut off their lights and kiss them goodnight. He never read some of the more violent myths if he thought they might have bad dreams from them.

He emails her for her address. “But only if you want to divulge it. I'm serious. You might have reservations about giving it out. This is for some books my daughters loved when they were your daughters' age, and I think yours would too.” She write back. “Here's the address of the house I'm renting. Destroy this email after you copy the address down. Just joking. I've nothing to be cautious or anxious about. It was Claude who asked for the divorce, and it's all been sweet, easy and amicable since then. You're so kind to want to send my darlings something. More later. Ruth.” No x's, he thinks. Maybe an oversight or she didn't want him to think they meant something they didn't. After he mails the books to her daughters—Priority, as he wants them to get there the next day—and is walking back to his car from the post office, he thinks: Did he do the right thing? There's a strategy to all this. There's a strategy? Yes. And he doesn't want her to think he's trying to worm his way into her life partly through her kids. They have a father, who always seemed like a nice guy. He met him several times, though a while back, at department functions and once for dinner at someone's house, when Abby was alive. He was quiet and modest and a bit reserved, but from what
she told him, is very paternal, and probably still is. “He's a good father,” she said in his office when she brought her recently born second child for him to see, “just like you.” He wants something to happen with her, that he's sure of, but he could be killing it by being too obvious. He's thought this before, but get it ingrained. So that's the strategy: Don't scare her away. Do, and she might never come back. In fact, odds are she won't. But it might be too late. She'll open the Priority envelope with her kids and say “Oh, what beautiful paper,” and then “What beautiful books,” and think “It was nice of him but it wasn't necessary and it was maybe a little odd,” and also the gift is too extravagant—with postage, it came to almost fifty dollars—and she knows what he's getting at, and finally, he's too old.