Late Stories (24 page)

He has another dream of her that night. They're at her rented house. Seems to be a birthday party going on for one of her girls. Lots of kids the same age; balloons are stuck to the walls. She points to a group of well-dressed people talking in the next room and says “See that man there? Know who he is?” “The one with the gray goatee? Very distinguished. I feel like a tramp in comparison. Your husband, I presume.” “That's right,” she says. “A sweeter man than he has never lived.” Then he's sitting at a card table with her older girl. The girl holds up several paper dolls to show him. “Did you make them yourself?” he says. “No, I cut them out of a paper doll book,” she says, “but did all the coloring of their clothes. Don't tell anyone. I want everyone to think I did all of it myself.” “I won't, my little sweetheart.” “Who are you?” she says. “Philip. An old friend of your mother's.” “And my father?” “I don't know him as well, but you can say your father too.” Ruth is standing nearby and seems to be mad at him. “I do something wrong?” his expression says. She signals him to follow her. They go into the bedroom of one of her daughters. The little light in it comes from a slight opening of
the door. They stand with their backs pressed up against a wall and their heads turned away from each other. Then her face turns slowly around to his, gets very close, their backs still pressed to the wall. He thinks she's going to kiss him for the first time. Just as her lips almost touch his and he can feel her breath on his face, she turns away and walks out of the room and shuts the door. “Close,” he says to himself, “but not close enough. She knows I'm dying to kiss her. It'll never happen. Why am I making such a fool of myself?” and he kicks the wall, feels his way to the door and leaves the room.

Next day, he tells his therapist just about everything that happened with Ruth the past week. Then he reads some of his dreams of her, which he typed up for the session so he could remember them better. She says “What do you think the dreams and the abundance of them mean? To me, right down to the gray goatee, they seem quite clear, except for the paper dolls.” “No, that's all right,” he says. “Then why did you read them to me?” and he says “I thought you'd be interested in them.” “Would you like me to give my interpretation of what these newest dreams mean? It just came to me what significance the paper dolls might have.” “No, I'm fine,” he says; “really.” “Okay. Let's go on. Your waking life with Ruth.” “Don't I wish I had one.” “Yes, yes,” she says. “And this business about making yourself into a fool. You're not. Never be ashamed of your emotions. But easy does it, I say. Don't rush into things. You could get hurt. Form a friendship first. It seems that's what she wants too. Let her get to know and appreciate you even more than it sounds like she does now. You have a great deal to offer. For one thing, and very important, she more than likely looks up to you and your writing and that you've stuck it out all these years and written so much and such good work. But don't scare her off.” “I know,” he says. “Though she's so lovely and I'm so drawn to her—I mean, I can feel it when I get next to her—that it's difficult not to
pounce on her. Though I know. And by pouncing, I mean affectionately. But hearing you say it is good for me. She's not giving me any reason to make a move on her, so I won't. If she never does, I never will. I'll keep how I feel about her quiet and under control. I don't want to confuse and scare her, like you say, and send her fleeing.” “Don't even make a move if you think maybe she's giving you signs she wants something more from you than simply lunch and your attendance at her reading. No maybes. Let it be absolutely clear she wants to take the relationship to a deeper level. You're very observant, so you'll know when it happens.” “I hope so.” “You'll know. And you're still a good catch. The two of you have many things in common. You are much older than her and there are your health issues.” “All of what I thought,” he says. “But want to know what I think? That I was misdiagnosed for Parkinson's. Look at me. It can't just be the pills, which aren't that strong to begin with. My hands don't shake. My balance is good. I can walk as straight as anyone, and now I'm jogging every morning and sometimes I go at a good speed. Also, my vocal cords are back to normal, or the muscles that control them are. And I was so borderline hypertension, that I might not have that too.” “I'm glad, if all that's so,” she says. “Though don't take chances, Philip. And I don't think you're deluding yourself with Ruth. Look at that famous actor—Jeffrey someone. So famous, I forget his name.” “I don't know either.” “Married a woman forty years younger than him when he was eighty, I think, and they had twins.” “I don't want twins,” he says. “Or to be a father again, and I'm sure two kids is enough for her too. But everything you say is something I already thought.” “Then you don't need me anymore,” she says. “No, I need you. I have to tell someone how I feel about Ruth. It used to be Abby. I've told you. In thirty years there was never another woman. Now it's Ruth. I feel good that I can feel like that again.” “I'm happy for you. You're a very
nice person.” “Thank you,” he says. “One more thing. I had another dream a few days ago that I didn't even type up for you because I didn't think I'd tell you it. And if I then thought I'd tell you, it was so vivid and short, I knew I'd remember it. It's the oddest dream I ever had.” “Then I'd like to hear it.” “It has penises in it. That'd be all right with you?” “Of course,” she says. “Anything.” “Okay. I say to Ruth in the dream, ‘I'm giving myself away.' Just that opening line is such a giveaway.” “Go on, go on.” “Ruth says to me ‘What do you have to offer?' I say ‘Two penises. You can have one.' I pull down my pants. Two semi-erect penises pop out of my boxer shorts. I'm not going too far?” “I told you. No.” “One is pink; the other my normal skin color, kind of beige. I think she's going to choose the normal-skin-color one. She reaches down, I cringe because I think this is going to hurt, and she painlessly pulls off the pink one. I think ‘Now I'm normal.' That's it. Very quick. Whole thing is over in what seemed like half a minute. It's pretty obvious to me what it means. That I'm revealing my feelings for her too fast and too obviously.” “And the now-you're-normal part?” “That I now only have one penis,” he says. “If I stayed with two I'd be a freak and she'd never be attracted to me.” “So you're saying if she'd chosen the normal-colored one to pull off and left the pink one, it would have been the same.” “I guess so,” he says. “What?” “There's so much to talk about here,” she says. “First of all, why do you think she chose the pink instead of the normal-colored one? And it was a bright painter's or flower's pink?” “Very pink,” he says. “Like bubble gum, or what it used to be when I was a kid. But I hadn't thought of it before. Because it's a prettier and flashier color than we'll call beige and she was attracted to it for aesthetic reasons?” “Do you mind if I offer my interpretation as to why she chose it?” she says. “I'll put it this way. Pink is young, youth, new, fresh, a baby. The reason for her choosing it could be the most important part of your dream. It's
the age difference again. Perhaps the number one stumbling block to a possible serious relationship with Ruth, so you're worried over it because it isn't something easy to overcome. Again, it's wishful thinking. We've talked about it. Your kissing and hugging her in your dreams, making love to her, pulling her into your shoulder as you walk, her letting you hold her hand. This is what you want to happen, as they do in your dreams. She acts the way you hope she will. And in this instance: she's protective, supportive, considerate, accepting. Age turns out not to matter. She chooses the you you are now over the one you can no longer be. The gap between you has been erased with one single gesture. And everything else being relatively equal between you—your interests, intelligence, you say she's funny, and so forth—it seems you can now get a romance going, which is what you've said you're longing for and want most. It's a positive dream. No pain; her complete acceptance of what you are. Very positive. It may not work out for you this way in real life, but in your dream world it does. It's possible I bungled the last part there. It's all off the top of my head. But did any of the rest of it make any sense to you?” “A lot,” he says. “I don't know how I missed it.” “It could be other things too,” she says. “There's hardly ever one single interpretation for any one part of a dream. But this one sticks out.” “No, I like it,” he says. “This one will do. It makes me feel good. At least better than before I told you the dream.” “I'm glad.” “Time's up, right?” he says. She looks at her watch on the side table next to her. “You still have ten minutes.” “I think I'll stop now. I got a lot out of it. I want to mull over what you've said and I don't want to get too many things mixed up in it.” “Then I'll see you next week.” He stands, takes the check out of his wallet and gives it to her. “Off to the Y?” she says. “Your usual schedule?” “Yes. Mind and body. Taking care of both. Thank you for a good session,” and he goes.

His sister calls that night and says “So, long time no speak. How
are you? Anything new in your life?” “Matter of fact, now that you ask, yes,” and he tells her about Ruth. Their bumping into each other at a restaurant after about five years. How happy he was to see her and she seemed happy to see him. Her age, teaching, that she was a former grad student of his fourteen years ago, he thinks it was. Her going through a divorce, has two girls, books he sent them, lunch with her at the same place where they bumped into each other, that she invited him to a reading she's giving and how excited he is to go. That she's a terrific writer—really special; maybe the best he's ever had—and a special person too. “I can't lie about it or in any way be cagey or blasé about it, but I think I'm hooked. First time since Abby I felt this way. That's good, right?” “Want my unasked-for opinion? It can never work, little brother. There's nothing I'd like better to happen to you—nobody deserves it more—but a woman thirty-five years younger than you?” “At most. Maybe it's thirty, or a year or two more than that.” “I'd cut it off now,” she says. “But I'd love to fall in love with someone again. I almost got dizzy when I was with her. Her presence. Just standing beside her. And you can imagine what it was like for me when we hugged hello and goodbye. It can't be explained—and don't be saying I'm too much the romantic—but there it is. Something—well, I already said it in so many words, but something I almost desperately wanted, and it's finally happened.” “What movie have I seen this in?” “Don't play with me,” he says. “I'm serious, so you be serious.” “Okay,” she says. “Serious. You're deluding yourself. Go out with someone much older. Even a woman twenty-five years younger than you is too young. Twenty, but preferably fifteen years younger would be the maximum, I'd think, although twenty might be stretching it too far too. What's her name?” “Ruth.” “Is she Jewish?” “No. In fact her mother was an Episcopal minister, or whatever they are in the Episcopal church. High up. Her own congregation. Retired now.”
“So her mother's probably around your age. Even younger.” “So what?” “Listen,” she says. “You're hellbent on hurting yourself and also embarrassing yourself too. But hurt is what you're going to get. I know you. You want more from this woman than she can ever give you and you're going to kill whatever friendly thing you have with her. I'm sure she has no romantic illusions or fantasies about you.” “What makes you say that?” “Your age, little brother, your age. The whole idea. Once your star former student, now your potential lovemate? It's not a bad movie it's out of but a bad book.” “Is there a difference,” he says, “other than one takes one person to do and the other many?” “I don't quite get what you're saying. Anyhow, maybe I've said too much. Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about and something good can come of it, something I didn't see.” “You don't believe that,” he says. “I don't, but I thought I'd say it anyway.” “Ah, you're probably right,” he says. “I'm all confused. I don't know what to do.” “Don't do anything; that's my advice. But if you have to—if you just can't stop yourself—here's one thing you might try. You say you sent her daughters books?” “Yesterday.” “Good,” she says. “They haven't got them yet or only got them today. She'll have to email you or call you, thanking you for the books. That'd be the only polite thing to do. If she calls, you have to speak to her. But if she emails, don't respond. Then, if she emails you again after the thank-you one and suggests you meet even before the reading of hers you're going to, then meet. Enjoy your lunch or whatever it is. But don't get lovey or smoochy or confessional as to how you feel to her.” “I want to get smoochy. There's nothing I want more.” “Don't. Keep it light. Just have fun with her as a friend. That's the only way she'll continue to be with you. If you blow it once, you'll lose her for good. That's guaranteed.” “No, what you say's too much like strategy, which I'm against.” “Okay,” she says. “That's all I'm going to say on the matter. I've warned you. Now, how are my darling nieces?”

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.”