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me to this one or that one. She is a woman who has a
goodness of soul, the kind that any child could recognize.
And even she has not found a connection to a new man or
contentment without one. She had not been ready to lose
her husband, they had so many years ahead of them. Still I
would have thought that she would by now have been in
E P I L OGUE 85
someone s arms. Being single sucks, she says. Her words
frighten me without surprising me. Of course it sucks but
shouldn t there be an end to it, when a widow can live
happily ever after on her own? If life is a cabaret shouldn t
there always be another act, at least until there isn t?
" " "
I go to meet V. at the information booth of Grand Central
Station. I have no idea what he looks like. He has written to
me after reading the personal ad in the New York Review of
Books. He lives in a suburb. He is a widower. He is interest-
ed in reading and is taking courses in the classical world at
his local university where he has become president of its se-
nior citizen organization devoted to aiding the institution.
He was a banker. He writes that he retired early because
his wife had rheumatoid arthritis and was no longer able to
drive but she wanted to keep working. She loved her days as
a dietician and so he stayed home to take her to work. This
touches me. Here is a man who loved his wife and acted on
his love. This is good. This man does not lack a soul. I call
him. At the very least he will not harm me.
Years ago when I was young I met young men by the
clock at the Biltmore Hotel. They were coming to New
York from Yale and Harvard and Amherst and Dartmouth
and they were shining with possibility. We went drink-
ing at the local clubs. We went to hear jazz. I kissed them
good-night. I played at falling in love. I loved the parade
of them, the smell of them, the scarves they gave me with
their school colors. I liked it when they stared at my breasts
and pretended not to. But now I am at the information
booth and the commuters are swirling around and the ceil-
86 ANN ROI P HE
ing of the railroad station is so high that it makes me dizzy
to look up at the glass dome and I feel ridiculous. He is
late. I am early. I am anxious by the time he arrives.
I see him first. A very small man with large ears that
extend out from his bald head. Never mind, I tell myself.
I do not look like a movie star either. He has small hands,
one of which he puts on my back and directs me to the
cafeteria dining room in the station. It is noisy. We have to
shout at each other. He tells me his wife died of an infec-
tion from her rheumatoid arthritis medication. She became
ill one night and died in the hospital the next day. He tells
me how much she loved music and that he has endowed
an annual concert in her name at the local high school. He
was a manager of retirement funds. He is active in his Uni-
versalist church. He is the head of many committees. I am
Jewish, I tell him. He says many Universalists are Jewish.
Were Jewish, I think but don t say. Could I ever be with a
man who sits in a pew in a church? I who once wanted to
live on a barge by the Seine and quote T. S. Eliot until the
dawn, could I live in a suburban home and go to church on
Sundays, even a church that makes less of Christ than most?
I must not slam doors, I say to myself. I need a new world,
I remind myself. He tells me that he is on a committee
that purchases art for the local university. I am impressed.
He asks me about my work, about my children. He listens
carefully. We agree to meet again. He is off to an appoint-
ment at some bank. As we part, he kisses me on the mouth.
I was just kissed by a strange man, I say to myself. It makes
me want to cry, this kiss. It s the wrong kiss, the wrong
man.
" " "
E P I L OGUE 87
Some years ago we formed a dinner party group with
four other couples. We met once a month at one of our
houses and the host made a dinner, set the table with the
best dishes, and we did this so that we could know each
other better, become closer and closer. In a city, friends
whirl about, one can go from month to month without
speaking to those one holds dear and then you slip from
their lives as they slip from yours. We had our dinners to
hold on to each other. H. enjoyed cooking his best meals
when these dinners were at our house. A week or so before
the date he would take all the cookbooks and spread them
out on our table and read through them, until he declared
his menu. Now we are nine. I go alone. At the first dinner
after H. s death I did my best to join in conversation. The
nineness of us was obvious. No one said anything, no one
mentioned his name. I managed the evening well enough. I
decided to cook myself for our next meeting, which was to
be at our house no, my house. I am not a cook. I haven t
the patience or the skill or the interest. H. loved cooking
because he said it was like chemistry, his first passion.
But I take out the cookbooks. I make a list and gather
my ingredients. I cook the meal. Everyone says it is won-
derful but they would say that even if I had served peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches. I look around the table. My
friends are here, which seems right, good. A toast to H. is
proposed. I join in lifting my glass. I am glad that I can say
his name in public again. Not saying his name was unnatu-
ral. He did not vanish. I remember him. I need my friends
to remember him too.
Some months go by and we are having our group
dinner at a nearby house. But this time my friends are talk-
88 ANN ROI P HE
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