Late Stories (27 page)

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.”

Missing Out

H
e first sees her at a party. She's pretty, maybe even beautiful. Blond hair; simply dressed; nice body; animatedly talking to a woman. He can't see from where he is if she has a wedding band on. He goes closer. If she doesn't—even if she does—he'll try to start up a conversation with her. He doesn't know what he'll say. “Hi. I'm Philip Seidel, a friend of Brad's. You know him too or you're a friend of a friend of his?” Not that. But something always comes.

But she's always talking with one or two people. She went from that woman to a couple who seem to belong together. For a few seconds the couple holds hands. Then she's talking to Brad, the host of this annual Christmas party. Then she's standing by herself at the food table, looking as if she's wondering what to put on the plate she's holding. Now's his chance. He starts over to her—is going to say something like “So you're hungry too. Food looks good. He always does a great job on it—” but another guy gets to her first. She doesn't seem to know him. They start talking and get food on their plates and get a glass of wine each and sit in chairs close together and eat and drink and talk. They laugh a few times. This goes on for about half an hour. Then he goes to the bathroom and when he comes back they're no longer in their chairs. He walks through the apartment looking for her, hoping she'd be by herself again, and sees them in the foyer. She takes her coat off a coat hanger in the coat closet there. The guy already has his coat on and helps her out with hers. She must have come early, because when he got here that
closet was filled. Maybe they knew each other before. It didn't seem so. They talked and laughed like two people who had just met each other. He never did see if she had a wedding band on. Forgot about it. Anyway, too late to introduce himself to her. If only he had gone over too her sooner. Especially when she was talking to Brad. That would have been the perfect time.

He thinks about her a lot the next week. Then calls Brad. “Hey. Great party once again. Thank you. I'm also calling because there was a woman at your party, very attractive. Blond hair. Average height. Slim. Around thirty. Wearing a navy blue blouse. Not navy. Baby blue. A light blue.”

“You must mean Abigail Berman,” Brad says. “A doll. A living doll. Someone I knew through school but who quickly became one of my treasured acquaintances. So smart; gentle. Brilliant, I'd say. Post-doc. Russian scholar and translator. You'd like her work and authors. Twentieth century poets, mostly. Pasternak, Mandelstam, Akhmatova, Tsvetayeva, if that's how you pronounce her name.”

“You got it right.”

“And that face. So spiritual. Standing alongside her is like being in the presence of an Italian Renaissance model for a painting of the blond madonna. Ghirlandaio. Botticelli. You know what I mean. Same with her voice. So soft. I can't rave about her enough. If you're interested, I think you're too late, though you could always give it a try. An old buddy of mine, Mike Seltzer, met her at the party and they left together and Mike called me last night. He's seen her twice since the party and he's got a big date with her this weekend, he says. It seems, if you want my opinion, their relationship is already hot.”

“Then I better not call her.”

“I wouldn't.”

Next time he sees her is at Brad's Christmas party the following
year. He didn't speak to Brad about her after that one time and was hoping she'd be here and alone. She comes in with the guy she left the party with last year. The foyer closet is filled and she heads his way to dump their coats in the bedroom, where his is. He smiles and says “Hi” and she smiles and says “Hi” and goes in back. He feels nervous, agitated, something, and has since he first saw her come into the party. To calm himself and get out of her way when she comes back, because he doesn't know what he'll say and do then and he doesn't want to just say and do nothing, he goes into the dining room where the drink table is and makes himself a Bloody Mary, drinks it quickly and makes another, this one not as strong. He doesn't want to get looped. Then he'll sound like an idiot if he does speak to her. He hangs around the same room she's in. Tries not to be looking at her when she turns his way. Then she catches him looking at her—she must have a few times—but this time looks back at him with an expression saying “Do we know each other from some place?” He raises his shoulders and looks away. Why the hell he do that? He had a chance to speak to her. About twenty minutes later—he left the room and came back—she's in a circle with three other women. He decides to wait to talk to her but to definitely talk to her sometime tonight. Why? He doesn't know. Maybe just to speak to her once and see what she sounds and acts like when she's talking to him. When the circle breaks up and for a few moments she's standing alone, holding an empty wine glass, he goes over to her and says “Excuse me. And don't be alarmed at what I'm going to say. But I know you caught me looking at you before. Staring, even, and I apologize. But we do, sort of, know each other. Maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration. Even a huge exaggeration. We were at Brad's Christmas party last year. Oh, my name's Philip Seidel.”

“Abigail Berman.”

“Very nice to meet you, Abigail. And I remember, at last year's party, I wanted to talk to you— Would you like a refill on that wine?”

“No, thanks,” and she puts the glass on a side table.

“But some guy got to you first and before I knew it or could say a word to you, you left the party together.”

“That would be Mike. He's somewhere at this party. I met him here that night and I guess we've been a couple ever since.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Oh, yes? Thank you. But lucky gal too.”

“But I mean real luck, too. Because who knows what could have happened if I'd gotten to you first. In other words, got there seconds before I would have, because I was really on my way. Sorry. That was dumb of me. Too much of what I was thinking came out. Parties are good for meeting new people and drinking too much and maybe even saying the wrong thing, and Christmas parties especially, it seems. And I haven't drunk too much. I don't want you to think that. Although I have had some. But enjoy yourself. I don't think I ever acted so foolishly to a woman as I have with you just now. Of course I have, once or twice, but it's not my typical way of behaving. As I said, enjoy yourself. Nice meeting you.”

“It's been interesting, but same here, Philip.”

She sticks out her hand and he shakes it and walks away.

What must she think of him. A first-class schmuck. He's embarrassed by what he said to her. Almost everything. He should have planned it better, not that anything would have helped him. She's already hooked up. Talking to her made him nervous. Just thinking about talking to her before he actually talked to her, made him nervous. He talked nervously. Not that many women have had that effect on him. He's just dazzled by her, that's all. Was from the time he first saw her last year. So he should have thought of that and been more careful in what he said. Should have talked about
her Russian work and authors. Opened it with that. Maybe brought up Babel and Chekhov too. Said Brad told him about her work. That would have been all right to say. Doesn't sound too much like snooping. Or maybe it would have gotten him in deeper. No, just about nothing would have. What he said got him in about as deep as he could go. He gets his coat from the bedroom and starts for the front door. Brad stops him. “Leaving so early?”

“Yeah. Thank you. Got some stuff I gotta get done by noon tomorrow. Once again, great party. And that woman, Abigail. She's really something. I talked with her. Very bright as you said. And still with the same guy she met here last year.”

“That's right, I sort of was matchmaker. A real couple. Will probably get married. Mike, her boyfriend, is head over heels for her and, according to him, the feeling's mutual from her.”

“Lucky guy.”

“Yep, she's a honey. And so everything else: smart, lovely and accomplished. She's not standing behind me or anywhere near us?”

“No.”

“Not to say good-looking.”

“Good-looking? Beautiful. Gorgeous. You said so yourself when we first talked about her.”

“We talked about her?”

“Shortly after your party last year. You called her a blond madonna.”

“I said that? What do I know about madonnas? Sure I can't convince you to stay?”

“As I said, too much to do tonight in preparation to finishing it tomorrow. Thanks.”

He sees her at Brad's Christmas party two years later. He was invited to last year's party but got the flu and couldn't go. Doesn't think he would have gone anyway. He was still embarrassed by
what he said to her and figured she and her boyfriend would be there. She's wearing a maternity dress. Four, five months pregnant; maybe more. She's certainly showing, and not just a little. Sitting on a couch, drinking from a mug with steam coming out of it, so it's probably herbal tea. At least a noncaffeinated tea, or maybe just hot water. He goes over to her. “Mind if I sit on the couch with you? All the chairs are taken and it's been a busy day and I'm a little tired.”

“Please. Sit.” She moves over to one end of the couch to give him more room.

“I don't know if you remember me.”

“You do look familiar. Did we meet here last year at Bradley's party?”

“Actually, it was two Christmas parties ago that we spoke and three years ago when I first saw you here. To refresh your memory, though it's hardly worth remembering. But I was the fellow who said your husband, though he wasn't that then, and I have to assume he is now, since you're wearing a wedding band and I saw him here, beat me out by a few seconds in introducing himself to you. And look what it's come to. Marriage. Baby. Congratulations.”

“Now I do remember. You got upset at what you said. I forget what my reaction was.”

“You were fine. Seltzer. Do I have the last name right?”

“Mike's you do. Mine is still Berman. Abigail Berman. And thank you for your congratulations.”

“You must be very happy.”

“Deliriously so. Are you married?”

“No marriage. No children. No prospect for now. But who knows? Well, I don't want to bother you anymore.” He makes a move to get up.

“You're not bothering me. Why would you say that?”

“It'd seem I'd have to be bothering you, with that missed-out-by-seconds line. It would bother me if I were you.”

“Obviously you're not. So. Nice to meet you again . . .?”

“Phil Seidel. Philip. Either. Yeah, I better get moving. Unless I can get you something first.” She shakes her head. “Then it's really time for me to go.”

“As you wish, Philip.”

“Of course it isn't important one way or the other for you.”

“Why are you talking like that? Be reasonable, Philip. Maybe we should end this conversation. Something doesn't feel right where it's going and I think it can only get worse.”

“I'm honestly sorry. Excuse me.” He gets up and goes to the coat closet and gets his coat and starts to put it on. He sees Brad, opens the front door, closes it, turns around and goes over to him. “Once again—it's become something of a habit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm doing the same thing I did at the last Christmas party of yours I went to. Leaving early. You know. It's crazy. But I can't be in the same room with that woman. Abigail Berman. Probably not the same party.”

“Why? The gentlest person I know of? What could she have done?”

“It's me. If you must know, I'm absolutely taken with her. If only it had been me who got to speak to her first three years ago here. Haven't I told you? Before Seltzer did. Seconds. Missed out by seconds. And not that he wouldn't have worked his way in there somehow. He's a pushy type, aggressive; I can tell.”

“He's not. You don't know him.”

“Anyway, there was always a chance something could have worked out between her and me. She was unattached then, am I right?”

“I think so. She was ready, at least. But she ended up with a very nice guy and their marriage is a good one and now the child. Be happy for her.”

“I am, I am. Not for her husband, though. He moved in on her too fast. Ah, what am I bitching for? Just jealous. That's all. I see someone I think's perfect for me, and I can't get her out of my head. When it comes to her, I'm always talking silly. Did the last time, did this time. Gotta go, really, and thanks,” and he leaves.

He gets a job in California less than a year later. Lives there for five years. Has girlfriends. Almost married one but they weren't right for each other—he wanted someone more brainy and she wanted someone less—and she broke it off a short time before the wedding date. He's not sorry either. Moves back to New York. He missed the city and never felt comfortable in California, and he lived in three different cities there. Next time he goes to Brad's Christmas party is seven years since the last one he went to. Though it's now known as Susan and Brad's party, since they got married and already have three children. He still thinks about Abigail now and then, “the girl of my dreams” he's referred to her a few times to other people, and hopes she's at the party, but there's probably not much chance of that. It's been so long. She and her husband could very likely have moved away too. And not to talk to her—though why not if it comes to that?—but more just to see what she looks like and if she's changed much. He's kidding himself. He wouldn't have come to the party if he didn't think there'd be even a slight chance she'd be there. He's actually anxious about seeing her and his stomach feels a bit queasy because of it when he rings the doorbell. It's a much larger apartment than the one Brad had before, and in the same building on Riverside Drive. This one overlooks the Hudson and New Jersey rather than a sidestreet and airshaft the last one did. Some of the guests brought their kids, even infants. Never did
before. And the party started at two in the afternoon instead of six or seven at night. She's there. Her husband too. In different rooms. She's in an easy chair, wheeled walker to the side of it. Her face is the same. Still youthful and beautiful. She's by herself, just observing, it seems, some of the people there. Then she calls out to two young girls who come into the room. He assumes they're her daughters. The older one looks a lot like her. Color and texture of her hair, high forehead, heart-shaped face, and he thinks the eyes too—greenish blue or bluish green. The other girl seems to resemble her husband—dark hair and eyes and small upturned nose. Without asking her, the girls seem to know what she called them over for. They place the walker in front of her, help her out of the chair and make sure her hands are holding the walker, and stay on either side of her till she tells them she's okay, she won't fall. She starts pushing the walker forward, when he goes over to her.