Good Riddance(53)

“He’s fine. It’s just that when I spoke with him last night . . . he sounded a little down. He thinks something’s amiss between the two of you.”

When she didn’t jump right in to contradict that, I became the worried one. “Is it true?” I asked.

There was a call-waiting click on her phone, and I almost said, Don’t take that! Answer me first! at the same time thinking like a jealous lover, It’s him. The competition. The interloper. The younger man!

“Sorry,” she said, back with me. “Habitat for Humanity—well, this is awkward. Your dad thinks I’m upset about something, but I’m not.”

“So he’s just imagining things have cooled off?”

“I’ll be blunt,” said Kathi. “I know what’s bothering him, why he thinks I wouldn’t want to be with him . . .”

But nothing followed that. Was she waiting for a prompt? I said, “He mentioned the age difference. Is that what’s bothering him?”

“It’s related to that . . . I think he’s embarrassed and avoiding me. Not the other way around.”

Later, I realized I shouldn’t have asked reflexively, “Embarrassed about what?”

“It’s personal”—pronounced in a whisper that automatically translated “personal” to “sexual.” Which is when this soft-spoken, never-married—virginal, for all I knew—teacher of piano studies whispered, “ED. Could you talk to him?”

Now it was unmistakable: She was talking about my father’s penis. I said, “He thinks you’re backing away. Talk to him! And tell him either you don’t care or there are pills to take!”

I heard a meek “I know I should’ve.”

“And don’t tell him that you discussed this with me!”

“Can I tell him you wrote me? Because I’m really touched that you reached out—”

“No! Because he’ll figure out that you confided in me and that’s why you’re speaking up.”

“Then I won’t,” said Kathi.

I’d regained my equilibrium enough to say, “He was married for a long time. It’s probably scary to be with a brand-new woman. Not that you’re scary. No, just the opposite. And who knows, as a widower, he might be feeling guilty on some level, like he’s breaking his marriage vows.”

“Oh, God. I hope it’s not that.”

I was already sorry for saying such a thing. I asked when she’d be seeing him again.

“Tomorrow. When he picks Sammi up and brings her back.”

“Which is what time?”

“Between four and four-thirty.”

“Will he have other dogs with him?”

“No. He does Sammi solo.”

“And you’re alone then, no student there? Not teaching?”

“I don’t teach on Fridays.”

“Okay. Here’s what you do: Make the place dark. Light some candles. Greet him in something slinky. Do you have anything slinky?”

There was a longish pause. I could hear soles clicking on the hardwood floor, then the squeak of a drawer being opened. “I have slips,” she said.

“Close enough. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“I do. But I don’t want to give him performance anxiety.”

“It’s not about that. It’s to say, ‘There’s other stuff. Closeness. Warmth. Affection’ . . .”

“You don’t think I have to tell him first, about not caring what happens once we get . . . you know?”

Newly anointed sex therapist Miss Daphne said, “This isn’t necessarily leading to bed. This is your making a gesture that says, I want to be with you. I’m not backing away.”

“This is good,” she said. “I’m not sure, though, about the slip. Won’t that be a weird way to answer the door?”

“Okay—then how’s this. Pretend you just got out of the shower. How about a bathrobe? Do you have one that’s not quilted or a big terry-cloth job?”

“I do somewhere. A kimono. I hardly ever use it.”

“Okay, so the doorbell rings, you buzz him in, the big cargo elevator doors open, my dad sees the room is dark, candles lit, and you’re in a silk bathrobe. PS: nothing underneath it. And remember: You never talked to me.”

“I’ll try my best,” Kathi said.

A good day’s work straight out of Maria Montessori’s book: Provide a nurturing environment to teach social interaction and emotional skills. I knew it by heart: Education is not a chore but a joyous exploration of life’s mysteries.

Pretty close, except for the founding principle that children teach themselves.





26


Nine-One-One



By now, I knew Geneva’s slothful schedule: She slept late, made no appointments before noon, ran no errands because she had everything under the sun delivered. It was a Monday holiday, no school for me. She was home for sure because the delivery man from the Turkish restaurant had mistakenly knocked on my door with her order.

I’d sent him off in the right direction and given her just enough time to eat that bag of food, then made it my business to knock on the door, prepared to—what? Negotiate? Threaten? Throw myself on her mercy?