The Last Time They Met Part 2

-No, of course not. I hardly blame anyone now except myself. I suppose this is progress.

The wind was raw against the open neck of her blouse. She clutched the lapels of her raincoat. I won't ask about your wife, I won't ask about your wife, she said. she said. Though I would like to. Though I would like to.

-You mean Jean?

She nodded, knowing they couldn't speak yet of Regina. Possibly not ever.

-Oh, I can talk about Jean. He seemed to have recovered from his tremulousness in the restaurant. Linda imagined that grief might show itself in a random pattern: some moments would be unbearable; others would be merely bits and pieces of a bad story. He seemed to have recovered from his tremulousness in the restaurant. Linda imagined that grief might show itself in a random pattern: some moments would be unbearable; others would be merely bits and pieces of a bad story. I don't blame her, I don't blame her, he added. he added. I said that. She was a good woman. Well, still is, I suppose. I said that. She was a good woman. Well, still is, I suppose.

-You don't see her?

-Oh, G.o.d, no. I don't think either one of us could bear it. After a year or so, she moved inland, to Indianapolis, where she was originally from. It's safer there, I imagine. No possibility of ocean. I a.s.sume she's still alone. Yes, I know she is. She writes occasionally to Rich.

And why did Thomas continue to torture himself with ocean? she might have asked.

They had walked to what appeared to be an industrial park. She remembered a Christmas Day, years ago, when she and Thomas had strolled empty streets in Boston, the only persons in a deserted universe. But then she had a troubling thought: though she could remember the day - - the sense of endless time available to them, the promise of possibility around every corner, the clarity of the air the sense of endless time available to them, the promise of possibility around every corner, the clarity of the air - - she could not feel it. And she found that she minded this inability to feel the past. It was disturbing, really, to be so removed from the texture of one's life. she could not feel it. And she found that she minded this inability to feel the past. It was disturbing, really, to be so removed from the texture of one's life.

Her skirt moved as they walked. She was ruining her shoes. Beside her, she could feel Thomas's heat, even in the inhospitable chill. There was, about her shoulders, a contraction of self-consciousness. His physical presence was familiar to her, and yet foreign as well. All his cells were different now, overturned three times.

-Do you teach? he asked. he asked.

-I do. She named the college. She named the college. Part-time. My husband died two years ago and left insurance money. Part-time. My husband died two years ago and left insurance money.

-I didn't know. I'm sorry. He who would know better than any man how useless sorry was. He who would know better than any man how useless sorry was. Was it a long illness? Was it a long illness?

-No. It was very sudden.

Beside her, Thomas seemed to lope rather than to walk.

-I started touring more aggressively after he died, she said. she said. I found I didn't think about Vincent as much in hotel rooms. I found I didn't think about Vincent as much in hotel rooms.

They had reached a bench. He gestured for her to sit. She had her hands in the pockets of her coat and gathered them forward into her lap. The weekend lay before her, more defined than it had been just hours earlier. A year from now, she knew, she might be thinking, That was the weekend that I.... It was momentous after all, their having met after years apart. Momentous simply in this exchange of history, in the verification of one's past. Thoughts of something larger were impossible; they ran against the grain these days, against the tide.

-Was your marriage good? he asked. he asked.

No one ever asked her these sorts of questions anymore. There was, undeniably, a kind of exhilaration in having to answer them.

-I think it was a wonderful marriage. She knew nothing of Thomas's second marriage, to the woman named Jean, only of its unspeakable demise and aftermath. She knew nothing of Thomas's second marriage, to the woman named Jean, only of its unspeakable demise and aftermath. We had a lot of joy together. I remember thinking that when Vincent died: 'We had a lot of joy.' And very little unhappiness. We had a lot of joy together. I remember thinking that when Vincent died: 'We had a lot of joy.' And very little unhappiness.

-I'm glad.

-But no one gets through life unscathed, she said. And she wondered: was that true? Did anyone, at fifty-two, have an unscathed life? she said. And she wondered: was that true? Did anyone, at fifty-two, have an unscathed life? Vincent never seemed to suffer, and I found that contagious. Life was more normal, less fraught than it had been. Vincent never seemed to suffer, and I found that contagious. Life was more normal, less fraught than it had been.

Had been with you, she might have added. she might have added.

-Reason enough to love anyone, I should think.

-We had just come back from what was to be our summerhouse in Maine. We'd gone up for the day to meet with the contractor. It was to have been a magnificent house - - well, magnificent to us. After years of saving for it, it was finally a reality. Our only regret was that we hadn't done it when the children were younger, though already we were thinking of grandchildren. well, magnificent to us. After years of saving for it, it was finally a reality. Our only regret was that we hadn't done it when the children were younger, though already we were thinking of grandchildren. She paused, as if for breath, when really, it was the tamping down of anger that had momentarily stopped her. She paused, as if for breath, when really, it was the tamping down of anger that had momentarily stopped her. I went out to the bank and left him in the house. When I came back he was on the floor, surrounded by oranges. I went out to the bank and left him in the house. When I came back he was on the floor, surrounded by oranges.

-A heart attack?

-A ma.s.sive stroke. She paused. She paused. Nothing about his health had ever suggested the possibility. He was only fifty. Nothing about his health had ever suggested the possibility. He was only fifty.

Thomas put a hand on hers, which had escaped from her pocket in the telling of the tale. His was cold, his palm roughened to a papery texture, despite the writer's fingers. He touched her awkwardly, the gesture of a man not used to consoling others.

-It's such a surprise to see you, she said. she said. I didn't know. I hadn't read the program. I didn't know. I hadn't read the program.

-Would you have come if you had known?

The question was a tunnel with a dozen furtive compartments. - - Curiosity might have made me bold. Curiosity might have made me bold.

Thomas released her hand and took out a pack of cigarettes. In a series of gestures both ancient and familiar to Linda, he lit a cigarette, picked a piece of tobacco off his lip, and blew a thin stream of blue smoke that hung in the damp air, a bit of calligraphy dissipating. There would be, of course, no point in mentioning his health. Thomas would almost certainly say he'd lived too long already.

-Would it surprise you to learn that I came here because of you? he asked. he asked.

Something more than surprise kept her silent.

-Yes, it surprised me, too, he said. he said. But there it is. I saw your name and thought ... Well, I don't know what I thought. But there it is. I saw your name and thought ... Well, I don't know what I thought.

Behind them, a ferry or tugboat blew its whistle.

-I am hungry, actually, Thomas said. Thomas said.

-You have a reading in half an hour.

-Payment exacted for all this fun.

Linda looked at him and laughed.

Thomas stood, the gentle man, and took her arm. I think this means we owe ourselves a dinner afterwards. I think this means we owe ourselves a dinner afterwards.

-At least that, Linda said in kind. Linda said in kind.

They took a taxi to the theater. At the door they parted - - with customary good wishes on Linda's part, the obligatory grimace on Thomas's with customary good wishes on Linda's part, the obligatory grimace on Thomas's - - and truly, he seemed to blanch slightly when Susan Sefton accosted him and impressed upon him the fact of the performance in ten minutes' time. and truly, he seemed to blanch slightly when Susan Sefton accosted him and impressed upon him the fact of the performance in ten minutes' time.

It was a steeply inclined room that might once have been a lecture hall, with seats that fanned out from a podium like spokes from a wheel. Linda took off her wet raincoat and let it crumple behind her back, the cloth giving off the scent of something vaguely synthetic. Alone now, anonymous, with two strangers seating themselves beside her, she allowed herself to think about Thomas's a.s.sertion that he had come to the festival because of her. It wouldn't be entirely true - - there would have been a sense of reemerging into a world he'd left behind there would have been a sense of reemerging into a world he'd left behind - - but the part that might be true alarmed her. She didn't, couldn't, want such a costly overture. but the part that might be true alarmed her. She didn't, couldn't, want such a costly overture.

The trickle into the theater was modest, producing a pock-marked gallery that could be, Linda knew, dispiriting when viewed from a stage. She ached for Thomas to have a good audience. There were students with backpacks, a few couples on what appeared to be dates, some women like herself sitting in small, cheerful groups. The would-be poets came in singly, supplicants seeking words of inspiration or, at the very least, an agent. But then a side door, forgotten or locked until now, swung open to admit a steady stream of people; and Linda watched as row after row filled and spilled into the next, the gallery's complexion clearing. Linda felt, oddly, a mother's pride (or a wife's, she supposed, though she'd had little practice; Vincent had been terrified at just the thought of public speaking). The respectable audience became a flood, the doors held open by bodies that could go no further into the theater. Thomas's years in self-proclaimed and necessary exile had whetted appet.i.tes. History was being made, albeit history of a parochial and limited sort.

Beside her, a younger couple speculated about the famous silence.

-His daughter was killed on a boat.

-Oh, G.o.d. Can you imagine?

-Washed overboard. She was only five. Or six, maybe.

-Jesus.

-They say he had a breakdown after.

-I might have read that.

The lights dimmed, and an academic introduction was made. An exile, though not its cause, was alluded to. The introduction did not do justice to Thomas, though it suggested a singular achievement that one might honor even if there hadn't been any work in years. The spotlight made unflattering shadows on the academic's face. She herself would soon be standing there.

When Thomas emerged from the wings, a hush, like cloud, settled upon the audience. Thomas moved with old authority, careful not to look up at the several hundred faces. When he reached the podium, he took a gla.s.s of water, and she saw (and hoped that others did not) that his hand trembled in its epic progress from the table to the mouth. Behind her, someone said, Wow, he's really aged, Wow, he's really aged, the words (such power) reducing even the best of them to something less. the words (such power) reducing even the best of them to something less.

Thomas fumbled badly at the beginning, causing an empathetic flush to run along the sides of her neck and lodge behind her ears. He seemed unprepared. In the growing silence, he flicked pages with his forefinger, the paper having the snap and crackle of onionskin. Linda could hear from the audience murmurs of surprise, the slight whine of disappointment. And still the riffling continued. And then, when she thought she could bear it no longer, when she'd bent her head and put her fingers to her eyes, Thomas began to read.

The voice was deep and sonorous, untouched by the years that had ravaged his face. It might have been the voice of a proclamation, the ba.s.so profundo of an opera singer. It seemed the audience held its breath, lest breathing cause the people there to miss a word. She strained to comprehend the startling phrases, then was left to tumble down a slide of images that were oddly pleasurable even though their terrible meaning could not be misunderstood: "Water's silk," "Water's silk," he read, and he read, and "Bed of sand." "The mother bent, a trampled stem." "Bed of sand." "The mother bent, a trampled stem." The hair on the back of Linda's neck stood up, and chills stippled her arms. She held herself and forgot the audience. One could hardly believe in this marriage of confused and servile grief. She knew, as she had not ever known before The hair on the back of Linda's neck stood up, and chills stippled her arms. She held herself and forgot the audience. One could hardly believe in this marriage of confused and servile grief. She knew, as she had not ever known before - - as she was certain those around her had not known before as she was certain those around her had not known before - - that she was in the presence of greatness. that she was in the presence of greatness.

He read from The Magdalene Poems. The Magdalene Poems. A series of poems about a girl who did not become a woman. An elegy for a life not lived. A series of poems about a girl who did not become a woman. An elegy for a life not lived.

Thomas stopped and took another epic drink of water. There was the sound of a hundred listeners putting hands to chests and saying, Oh. Oh. The applause that followed was The applause that followed was - - one had to say it one had to say it - - thunderous. Thomas looked up and seemed surprised by all the commotion. He did not smile, either to himself or at the audience, and for this Linda was inexplicably relieved: Thomas would not easily be seduced. thunderous. Thomas looked up and seemed surprised by all the commotion. He did not smile, either to himself or at the audience, and for this Linda was inexplicably relieved: Thomas would not easily be seduced.

The questions that followed the reading were routine (one about his culpability, appalling). He answered dutifully; and mercifully, he was not glib. Linda wasn't certain she could have borne to hear him glib. He seemed exhausted, and a sheen lay on his forehead, white now with true stage fright.

The questions stopped - - it wasn't clear by whose mysterious signal it wasn't clear by whose mysterious signal - - and the applause that followed could be felt in the armrests. Some even stood, as at the theater. Unskilled and unpracticed at accepting praise, Thomas left the stage. and the applause that followed could be felt in the armrests. Some even stood, as at the theater. Unskilled and unpracticed at accepting praise, Thomas left the stage.

She might have met him backstage and embraced him in mutual exuberance. And perhaps he would be expecting her, would be disappointed by her absence. But then she saw him in the lobby, surrounded by adoring fans, the torturous words inside his head put aside, and she thought: I will not compete for his attention.

Needing air, she walked out into the night. People stood in gatherings, more exhilarated than subdued. She didn't intend to eavesdrop, but couldn't help but hear the words "shattering" and "brilliant," though one woman seemed incensed that a poet would turn a daughter's death to advantage. "Opportunistic," Linda heard, and "rape of other people's lives." A man responded dismissively. "Dana, it's called art," he said, and Linda knew at once the two were married.

She walked around the block, the experience in the theater seeming to require it. The drizzle turned to serious rain and soaked her hair and shoulders before she could return. She entered a side theater and listened to a Rwandan woman catalogue atrocities. Linda sat benumbed, exhausted of feeling, until it was time for her own reading.

She was taken backstage, snake-infested with coils of electrical cables. Her eyes, not adjusting quickly enough to the darkness, made her stupid and overly cautious, and she knew she was being seen as middle-aged by the younger organizer. Seizek appeared beside her, his breath announcing him before his bulk. He put a proprietary hand on her back, letting it slide to the bottom of her spine - - for balance or to a.s.sert some male advantage, she wasn't sure. They were led, blinking, onto the stage, which was, indeed, harshly overlit. They sat to either side of the podium. Seizek, ignoring manners and even his own introduction, staggered to the podium first. Nearly too drunk to stand, he produced a flawless reading, a fact more remarkable than his prose, which seemed watered down, as if the author had diluted paragraphs for the sake of length, made careless by a deadline. for balance or to a.s.sert some male advantage, she wasn't sure. They were led, blinking, onto the stage, which was, indeed, harshly overlit. They sat to either side of the podium. Seizek, ignoring manners and even his own introduction, staggered to the podium first. Nearly too drunk to stand, he produced a flawless reading, a fact more remarkable than his prose, which seemed watered down, as if the author had diluted paragraphs for the sake of length, made careless by a deadline.

The applause was respectable. Some left the theater when Seizek had finished (bored by Seizek's reading? not fans of poetry? not interested in Linda Fallon?), further reducing the audience to a desperate case of acne. She strove to overcome, by act of will, her seeming unpopularity (more likely the wished-for anonymity) as she walked to the podium; and by the time she had adjusted the microphone, she had largely succeeded, even though she couldn't help but notice that Thomas wasn't there. She spoke the words of her verse, words she had some reason to be proud of, words that, though they could no longer be fresh to her, had been crafted with care. But as she read, her mind began to drift, and she thought of Thomas's suggestion that she turn her images into prose. And she found that even as she said the phrases, her second brain was composing sentences, so that when a stray word jolted her from her reverie, she felt panicky, as if she'd lost her place.

The applause was that of an audience made good-humored by promise of release to beds and dinners. There were questions then, one oddly similar to the dyspeptic complaint of the woman who thought it opportunistic to use another's life for purposes of art (why this should so rankle, Linda couldn't imagine, since it was not her her life in question). The line in the lobby to buy Linda's books was no deeper than twenty, and she was, actually, grateful for the twenty. She contrived to linger longer than she might have, wondering if Thomas would appear after all for the dinner they'd felt was owed to them; but she did not stay long enough to feel foolish if he did eventually arrive. When she left the theater, she walked out into the night and was stopped by a streak of white along the roof of the sky, the low clouds having caught the light of the city. life in question). The line in the lobby to buy Linda's books was no deeper than twenty, and she was, actually, grateful for the twenty. She contrived to linger longer than she might have, wondering if Thomas would appear after all for the dinner they'd felt was owed to them; but she did not stay long enough to feel foolish if he did eventually arrive. When she left the theater, she walked out into the night and was stopped by a streak of white along the roof of the sky, the low clouds having caught the light of the city.

Water's silk, she thought. she thought. Trampled stem. Trampled stem.

There was comfort in thinking the worst had happened. She was twenty-seven, washed high upon a tide line and left to wither in the sun or be swept away by another wave. She had been beached in Cambridge, where she walked the streets incessantly, her body all legs and arms inside her skirts and blouses, a miniskirt no more remarkable in that season and in that year than a das.h.i.+ki or a pair of bell-bottoms. What was remarkable was her hair: wild and unruly and unstylish, though no particular style was called for then. It had taken on, in Africa, more color than before, so that it now ran a spectrum from mahogany to whitened pine. From the walking, or from lack of ceremony with food, she had grown lean and wiry as well. Life now was walking in the rain or in the suns.h.i.+ne with a freedom she had never known and did not want. Each morning, she slipped on her sandals and fingered her gold cross, preparing for days filled with guilt and recrimination, and having no wish to erase the event that had bequeathed this legacy. Sometimes, hollowed out, she leaned against a wall and put her head to the cool stones and gasped for breath, struck anew by the magnitude of the loss, the pain as sharp as if it had happened just the day before.

She did not know the city as it was supposed to be known. She did not live as expected. What was expected were lengthy walks among the sycamores, not forgetting that this was hallowed ground. What was expected were conversations that lasted long into the night, watched over by the ghosts of pale scholars and exasperating pedants. In flagrant violation of ent.i.tlement, she returned to cheerless rooms in which there was a bed she could scarcely bear to look at. For her, Cambridge was remembering that sordid kissing behind an office door had once been elevated to the status of a sacrament (she who had now been excommunicated); or it was the bitter thrill of a sunset that turned the bricks and stones of the city, and even the faces on the streets (those ent.i.tled scholars), a rosy-salmon color that seemed the very hue of love itself. Cambridge was sitting in a bathtub in a rented apartment and making experimental slits along the wrists, slits immediately regretted for the fuss they caused in Emergency. (And mortifying that she should be just one of so many who'd had to resort.) Her skirts hung from her hipbones like wash on the line, and in September, when the weather turned colder, she wore knee-high boots that ought to have been stupendously painful to walk in and weren't.

She was living then on Fairfield Street, in a set of rooms that had a bathtub on a platform in the kitchen (majestic locus for sacrificial rites). She had matching china and expensive crystal from another lethal ritual and the subsequent marriage that had corroded from the inside out, like a s.h.i.+ny car with rust beneath the paint job. (Though she had, in the end, crashed that car head-on.) These she had placed on a shelf in a cupboard in the kitchen, where they gathered dust, mute testament to expectation. She ate, when she ate at all, on a Melamine plate she'd bought at Lechmere's, a plate that held no a.s.sociations, a dish no lover or husband had ever touched. In the mornings, when school started up again, Linda stood by the door and drank an Instant Breakfast, pleased that so much could be taken care of in so little time. She went out in her miniskirts and boots (staggering now to think of wearing such clothing in front of seventeen-year-old boys), and got into her car and merged into traffic going north to a high school in a suburban town. Within the privacy that only the interior of a car can provide, she cried over her persistent and seemingly inexhaustible loss and often had to fix her face in the rearview mirror before she went into the cla.s.sroom.

On the holidays, she went to Hull as if threading a minefield - - fearful at the entry, mute with grat.i.tude when the fraught journey had been negotiated. And occasionally she was not successful. Against all better judgment, she would sometimes drive by Thomas's family home, trying to imagine which car was his (the VW? the Fiat? the Volvo?); for he, like her, was necessarily drawn back for the holidays. But as much as she feared or hoped for it, they never met by accident, not even at the diner or the gas station. (To think of how she would tremble just to turn the corner into the parking lot of the diner, hardly able to breathe for wondering.) fearful at the entry, mute with grat.i.tude when the fraught journey had been negotiated. And occasionally she was not successful. Against all better judgment, she would sometimes drive by Thomas's family home, trying to imagine which car was his (the VW? the Fiat? the Volvo?); for he, like her, was necessarily drawn back for the holidays. But as much as she feared or hoped for it, they never met by accident, not even at the diner or the gas station. (To think of how she would tremble just to turn the corner into the parking lot of the diner, hardly able to breathe for wondering.) To ward off men, who seemed ever-present, even on that mostly female faculty, she created the fiction that she was married (and for the convenience of the lie, to a law student who was hardly ever home). This was a life she could well imagine and could recreate in detail at a moment's notice: the phantom (once real enough) husband returning home after a grueling stint in moot court; a blow-out party at the weekend, during which her husband had become deathly ill from bourbon and cider; a gift needed for a professor's wedding. Cambridge was leaving these lies behind and arriving home to quiet rooms, where there was time and s.p.a.ce to remember, the s.p.a.ce and time seemingly as necessary as the Valium she kept on hand in the medicine cabinet (the Valium an unexpected boon in the aftermath of Emergency).

She was a decent teacher, and sometimes others said so (I'm told your cla.s.ses are; You are my favorite), but it seemed a shriveled life all the same. She supposed there were events that impinged upon her consciousness. Later she would recall that she had been a Marxist for a month and that there had been a man, political and insistent, to whom she had made love in a bas.e.m.e.nt room and with whom she'd developed a taste for marijuana that hadn't gone away until Maria. And for a time she would own a remarkable set of oil paints in a wooden box, a reminder of an attempt to lose herself on canvas. Oddly, she did not put pen to paper, afraid of conflagration, as if the paper itself were flinty.

But mostly she walked alone, down Ma.s.sachusetts Avenue and onto Irving Street. Along the Charles and to Porter Square. On Sat.u.r.days, she walked to Somerville or to the Fenway. She had no destination, the walking destination itself, and sometimes, when it was very bad, she counted rhythmically, the closest she ever came to chanting a mantra. What impressed her most was the endurance of the suffering: it seemed unlikely that one should mind another's loss so much. It was shameful to go on at length, she knew, even in the privacy of one's mind, about personal disasters when so many truly were abused. (More shameful still that news of Entebbe or rioting ghettos put suffering in perspective for only moments at a time, the self needing to return to self; and sometimes news of battles, both foreign and domestic, made the suffering worse: one longed, after all, for someone with whom to share these bulletins from h.e.l.l.) On a day in September - - there had been months of walking there had been months of walking - - Linda entered a cafe in which wooden tables had been set perpendicular to a counter with a gla.s.s encas.e.m.e.nt of sweets. She ordered coffee and a peanut-b.u.t.ter cookie, lunch having along the way been missed, and brought them to her table, where she had laid out grids for lesson plans. It eased the tedium of the job to work in a cafe, and for a time she lost herself in the explicated themes of Linda entered a cafe in which wooden tables had been set perpendicular to a counter with a gla.s.s encas.e.m.e.nt of sweets. She ordered coffee and a peanut-b.u.t.ter cookie, lunch having along the way been missed, and brought them to her table, where she had laid out grids for lesson plans. It eased the tedium of the job to work in a cafe, and for a time she lost herself in the explicated themes of Ethan Frome Ethan Frome and and The Gla.s.s Menagerie. The Gla.s.s Menagerie. Outside, the sun had warmed the brick but not the people who practiced hunching into their jackets in antic.i.p.ation of winter. A commotion in a corner claimed her attention, willing to be claimed. A woman with two poodles had set them improbably in booster seats on chairs and was feeding them bits of expensive macaroons from the gla.s.s case. She spoke to them as a mother might to toddlers, wiping snouts with a lacy handkerchief and gently scolding one for being greedy. Outside, the sun had warmed the brick but not the people who practiced hunching into their jackets in antic.i.p.ation of winter. A commotion in a corner claimed her attention, willing to be claimed. A woman with two poodles had set them improbably in booster seats on chairs and was feeding them bits of expensive macaroons from the gla.s.s case. She spoke to them as a mother might to toddlers, wiping snouts with a lacy handkerchief and gently scolding one for being greedy.

Linda watched the scene, incredulous.

-She'll keep their ashes in the cookie jar, a voice behind her said. a voice behind her said.

Linda turned to see a man with vivid features and eyebrows as thick as pelts. A wry expression lay easily on his face. A cosmic laugh - - unfettered, releasing months of grim remorse unfettered, releasing months of grim remorse - - bubbled up inside her and broke the surface. A sheaf of papers fell off the table, and she tried to catch them. She put a hand to her chest, helpless. bubbled up inside her and broke the surface. A sheaf of papers fell off the table, and she tried to catch them. She put a hand to her chest, helpless.

There were introductions, the cosmic laugh petering out in small bursts she could not control. The laughing itself was contagious, and the man chuckled from time to time. She put a hand to her mouth, and the girl behind the counter said, What's so funny? What's so funny? One of them moved to the other's table (later they would argue who), and Vincent said, apropos the cosmic laugh, One of them moved to the other's table (later they would argue who), and Vincent said, apropos the cosmic laugh, You needed that. You needed that.

He had wide brown eyes and smooth skin tanned from some exercise or trip away. His hair was glossy, like that of an animal with a healthy coat.

Turning, her foot b.u.mped the table pedestal, causing coffee to spill onto his polished shoe. She bent to wipe it off with a paper napkin.

-Careful, he said to her. he said to her. I'm easily aroused. I'm easily aroused.

She looked up and smiled. As easily as that. And felt another tide come for her at last.

-He was good to you?

-Very. I can't imagine what would have happened, what I'd have become.

-Because of me.

-Well. Yes. And me as well.

-I used to live in Cambridge, Thomas said. Thomas said. On Irving Street. Years later, though. On Irving Street. Years later, though.

-I didn't know that.

She wondered how often she had walked along that street, which large house he'd lived in. She was leaning against the ferry's bulkhead, watching the northern city slip away. Wind whipped her hair, which stung her face, and she turned her head to free it. She wore, as she did almost every day that didn't require something more inspired, a white s.h.i.+rt and a pair of jeans. And today the raincoat, b.u.t.toned against the breezes. Thomas still had on his navy blazer, as if he'd slept in it. He had called before she was even awake, afraid, he'd said, that she'd go off for the day and he wouldn't be able to find her. Would she like to take a ferry ride to an island in the lake? Yes, she said, she thought she would. She boldly asked him why he hadn't come to her reading.

-It was unnerving seeing you sitting there at mine. It's always harder when someone you know is in the audience. I thought to spare you that.

And in this, he was, of course, correct.

-Your work, she said on the ferry. she said on the ferry. I don't know when I've ever heard ... I don't know when I've ever heard ...

Thomas wore an expression she herself had sometimes felt: pleasure imperfectly masked by modesty.

-Your work will be taught in cla.s.srooms in a decade, she added. she added. Maybe less. I'm sure of it. Maybe less. I'm sure of it.

She turned away, letting him have the pleasure without her scrutiny.

-Why do you call them "The Magdalene Poems?" she asked after a time. she asked after a time.

He hesitated. You must know why. You must know why.

Of course she knew and wished she hadn't asked. For the asking invited confidences and memories she didn't want. You spell it Magdalene, You spell it Magdalene, she said. she said. With the With the e. e.

-That's the way it's spelled in the Bible. But often it's spelled Magdalen without the e. e. There are many versions of the name: Magdala, Madeleine, Mary Magdala. Did you know that Proust's madeleines were named after her? There are many versions of the name: Magdala, Madeleine, Mary Magdala. Did you know that Proust's madeleines were named after her?