I

t was the fifth meeting of an eight-session course on communication skills at the Brighton community center. The attendees practiced mirroring each other’s statements as a means of acceptance, using the phrase “I hear you say” and then showing concern and empathy by repeating back what had been spoken in new words. Sol Lichtman stopped at the entrance to the single-story yellowish brick building and wondered if he would make it to the end of the session. He found the lectures boring and the workshops inane; worse still was the unspoken emotional demand that everyone reveal himself. And yet still he came.

He read the notices on the bulletin board outside that listed hours, services, and events for May–June: this workshop, on Wednesday evenings; a book club on Thursday; Tuesdays, AA; Mondays, OA. Everyone was hungry for something.

Recently retired as a professor of American History at Brighton College, he had given his office to a newly hired younger colleague. It had been ten years since his divorce, and five years since his ex-wife had been killed in an auto crash with her French boyfriend near Cote d’Azur. Margaret had been an adventurer. Not he.

Looking around the room, he hoped to catch a glimpse of Emily Stein’s blue-green eyes, her long legs, but she wasn’t there. Although he had long since given up starting up anew with a woman, among the dozen single participants, all younger than he and several by decades, Lichtman found himself attracted to Emily, not only because of her simple, unadorned appearance, but the sharp insights of which she had proved capable as she reframed his sentences.

Emily, he heard himself absently saying amidst boxes of files in a corner and books piled on his dining room table. Emily, as he wandered through the empty park toward home. He imagined sitting next to her on one of the park benches, weaving stories like a web. He went over and over in his head the few details she had shared with him: a BA in psychology from Brighton College, an MA in social work, divorced with four children, the youngest in high school and the rest scattered, and her passion, counseling at a center for troubled youth and their parents. He Googled her. Nothing he didn’t already know, except her birthday.

Disappointed by her absence, he took his place in the circle of chairs.

“You’re late!” Carol interrupted her presentation to admonish him, her colorful dress swirling around her slender form, reminding him of schoolteachers when he was a child. He identified with Emily’s young clients, trying to cope in their confusing, messy world.

“Sorry,” Lichtman said.

“This is a commitment,” Carol said. Lichtman pulled his Roger Federer Pro warm-up jacket around himself, as if cold, reassuring himself, properly contrite. Sitting opposite him, Joyce, overweight, in her mid-thirties and wearing a too-tight red dress, winced at the sound of the scolding.

Lichtman shrugged and wondered why Emily wasn’t there. Had she dropped out? If so, that would be an incentive for him to leave as well. Harold, an insurance agent in his late forties, thrice-divorced, patted his back. Joyce and Harold; they’d make a nice pair. Lichtman unzipped his jacket, and then the door opened.

“I’m sorry,” Emily said as she walked in. ”One of the kids was sick; had to see the doctor.” She smiled and sat across from Lichtman in the circle without making eye contact.

“I understand; it’s okay,” Carol said, with none of the gruffness she had shown to him. She continued her lecture on listening to others, words cascading around him. Emily slumped into her chair. Head bent, hair falling across her face, she took a deep breath, sat up and pushed her hair back.  She smoothed her wrinkled khaki skirt. Lichtman wished he were next to her, and that she would feel like putting her head on his shoulder.

They were about to engage in an exercise, so it was time to pair off, but Emily was on the other side of the circle. Harold tapped his shoulder, so they were now a pair. They turned their chairs toward each other. Harold spoke quickly from the edge of his chair of a conflict with his recently divorced wife who struggled with him over visitation times for their son, her resistance to Harold’s involvement in his upbringing, how she made problems when they were scheduling meetings.

“I hear you say,” Lichtman began when Harold paused, and then related the essence of Harold’s story, trying to mirror the frustration and pain, remembering his own difficulties with his wife after their divorce, the burning embers of her bitterness cooling as time passed.

Then it was Lichtman’s turn. Unsure of what he wanted to reveal to Harold, he rummaged for something less volatile. “Living alone,” he began, stumbling over words; “eating alone.” He leaned closer and spoke softly. “Not having a routine, no office at the college, feeling out of place. A less complicated life, fewer obligations,” and, for Harold’s benefit, “no more conflicts with my ex over the children, no angry outbursts, a dormant peace as kids grow up and become independent. Trying to make readjustments. I try to accept what is.”
Harold nodded.

“I hear you say,” Harold leaned forward and repeated Lichtman’s less mournful story. And then Harold moved closer. “I’m interested in a woman here,” he confided in a low voice. According to the stern Carol, who laid down the law at the first session, romantic relationships in the group were prohibited. “Emily,” Harold revealed. Lichtman tensed with surprise and suspicion, remembering Harold’s animated conversation with Emily when they had paired the week before.

“Is it mutual?” Lichtman watched Harold’s eyes.

“I don’t know. I’m afraid to ask. I don’t want to embarrass . . . ” and glanced towards Emily.

“Well, you know, the rules . . . ” Lichtman began.

“Yes, yes, I know. Oh, forget it; just forget I told you.”

Lichtman wondered if what he had thought might be special between him and Emily was a misunderstanding on his part.

T

he following week, Lichtman made sure to sit next to Emily. When the time came for an exercise, he turned to her. They moved their chairs away from the group. He noticed her Israeli-style sandals, bare legs and thin ankles, unpainted toes; he wore Nike Zoom Vapor 9, Federer’s favorite.

“Do you play?” Emily asked, pointing at his shoes.

“Occasionally. Do you?”

“No. It’s too aggressive. I prefer to watch and sip lemonade. I have my yoga classes.” She laughed, auburn hair streaked with grey falling across her shawl-covered shoulders. He ran a hand over his nearly bald, grey-framed head and stroked his face. I should have shaved before I left home.  

“I like lemonade,” he volleyed. “But I don’t do yoga.”

Emily spoke of her troubles, raising her family after her husband had left, her teenage daughter asserting independence and defiant.  “I hear you say,” he began, and retold her story as her unadorned face relaxed upon hearing his words of recognition and support. He related an incident with his own children, how they had pushed the boundaries, finding their own way, needing him less, their semi-absence in his life, an acceptance of transitions. “Don’t give up.” He touched her hand.

On the way out, Lichtman walked with her, wanting to say something, but this is what came out: “I was talking with Harold . . . ”

“Nice guy,” she said and shook her head. “Not very interesting. Seems stuck.”

“Emily . . . ” Lichtman began.

“Oh, man, it’s 9:45. Call me, okay?” She fished out a piece of paper from her bag and scribbled a phone number on it. “I’m sorry to be rude but I just have to get home.”

When he returned to his rented apartment overlooking a small neighborhood park, two bedrooms that suddenly seemed much too large and cluttered with things he didn’t use and didn’t need, he took out the crumpled piece of paper and placed it on his desk. Lichtman made himself a cup of instant soup and nibbled crackers. Emily, he sprinkled a few more croutons into the soup. Holding the warm cup near his chest, wishing it was her body, her breasts against his chest, he pondered the ball of paper. Emptiness clung to him, an anchor of solitude.

He put on a CD, Bach’s Suites for Unaccompanied Cello. The music’s intimacy reached out to him. I know how to be alone. Smoothing out the paper, he moved his hand across its irregular surface as if he were fingering a cello, the music’s rhythm moving through his body, across the numbers, notes vibrating inside him, her voice, a melody.

He looked at his watch. Too late. He dialed anyway. “I’m sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service.” Silence echoed. A wrong number deliberately? Was it her way of avoiding? He looked at the paper again. Was it a six, or an eight? A crease in the paper had distorted the numbers.  He dialed again.

“Hello,” she answered. His heart jumped.

“I hope it’s not too late.” His breath short, balancing on the edge.

“Oh, it’s you! I’m waiting for my daughter, evidently she went out partying with friends, and there’s going to be a fight.”

He imagined her in the skirt and light-blue blouse she had worn, but barefoot.  “I hope it’s okay, this, I mean the rules and everything.”

“Well, rules are made to be broken sometimes.” The warmth in her voice reassured him. He cleared his throat.

“I really enjoy our conversations in the group,” he began. “I wanted to know if we could get together,” his voice a bit shaky, his soul flying.

“Like a date?” she laughed. “By the way, is it Sol, or Saul, Shlomo, or Shaul?” The names bounced off an old picture on the wall that had been taken on his first day at school. His parents stood proudly at his side; he wore a white shirt, black pants. His teachers had also mixed up the names.  Who am I?

“Sol, Solomon, Shlomo, I suppose. Whatever works.” His mouth was suddenly dry.

“Well, Sol, I like talking with you, too. You understand.”

He nestled in her praise.

“It’s just I have so little time. I signed up for this course to learn some techniques and tools that I could use in my counseling. I’m not looking for . . . ”

“I see,” he interrupted, Bach’s notes pulling at dissonance, seeking balance.  He watched a neighbor walk his dog along the empty street.

“But I’m really happy you called. I’ve got to run now, my daughter’s arrived.”

“Sure. Thanks,” he listened to the sound of wind in the trees. He pushed aside a pile of magazines and newspapers on the table to make room for his empty cup. Two stained towels draped a chair. Tomorrow I‘ll clean up, he promised, and, covering himself with a quilt, fell asleep in his old recliner.

T

here was an empty seat next to him. He prayed Harold would not take it. Emily wasn’t there. Did everyone else sense Lichtman’s discomfort and stay away? As Carol began her newest lecture, on how to use body language as well as words to make a connection, Emily walked in, sat next to him, brushing shoulders, her scent engulfing him. He tried to pretend he was relaxed, unaffected, feigning attention to Carol’s words, Emily’s body so close, her hair pulled back, bare legs tucked around her chair, arms crossed, as if hugging. And then, the exercise.
“Shall we?” Emily offered.

They pulled their chairs aside.

“Sol,” she began, “I hope I didn’t upset you. There’s so much going on in my life right now. So many troubled kids and their screwed-up families.” She fiddled with a button. “And my supervisor at work is on my back. He’s so critical. Never a word of praise; he reminds me of my ex.”

Why had she had given him her phone number, then? He began, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, “I hear you say—”

“No, no, it’s okay. You don’t have to. I just wanted you to know I get, like, overwhelmed.” He put his hands on his knees, touching the crease of his khaki pants. He glanced around at others talking. “I don’t want to, to impose . . . ” she said.

“Look,” Lichtman said, “can we . . . ?”

Emily rubbed her forehead and looked around. She ran her fingers back and forth along her skirt. “I’m not…” Sounds of other conversations filled the silence between them. “Oh, God, I was hoping you would ask again and I was hoping you wouldn’t ask, but now that you have . . . ”

S

unday afternoon they found an empty bench at a small park near her place. Children played on swings and slides; mothers watched and gossiped under a tree. Pigeons searched for food. Lichtman’s body ached from a tough set he’d lost the day before to a younger opponent. Six-love. He looked around, wondering if anyone from the group would notice them, her hair tied into a ponytail, her breasts pushing against her silk pink blouse. She looked at him, the sun reflected in her face.

“The truth is that I’m afraid,” she said. “You offer so much. I don’t take that for granted. But there are so many unknowns, and so many differences. I see the possibility, but I’m afraid you won’t really accept me once you get to know me, that you’ll criticize me and tear me down and I don’t want to go through that again. It took so much out of me to rebuild my life. There’s so much to lose.”

“Lose?”

“I don’t want to mess up your life.”

“And you don’t want me to mess up yours. I hear you say.“

She held her arms across her chest.

“I need to feel safe,” she said.

“You don’t feel safe with me?”  Lichtman shifted away. “I’ll hurt you?”

“Sooner or later, one way or another, with good excuses, and maybe with good reason.”

“So that’s it.”

“Yes . . . no.”  Her eyebrows huddled, lips tightly closed, shoulders hunched, as if bearing a burden.

“Where does that leave us?” Lichtman said, tugging at the zipper on his jacket.

“Friends?

“But not more.”

“At least that way we won’t hurt each other.”

Lichtman pushed himself up awkwardly, unsure, wanting suddenly to run.

“Don’t leave,” she said. He sat, placing his hand on the space between them. She struggled for words. “I gave you my number because I’m impulsive. But we aren’t kids anymore, overflowing with hormones and time. We’re wiser and we’ve paid for it.”

Lichtman, hopeless, felt a few coins in his pocket, tried to count them.

“I’m the child of survivors,” she said. “Life with a shadow, living with a past someone else lived.” She stopped and looked away. “And then I trapped myself with an abusive husband.”

Head down, shoulders hunched, she seemed far away. “So that’s me,” she said, rising to her feet and facing him as he rose as well. “I’m not . . . ”

“It’s okay,” he murmured, and serving a parting shot, held her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. He felt her lips on his cheeks, her hair brushing his face, the smell of her perfume in him.

“Bye, Sol.” She smiled wanly. “Be careful.”

He did not look back, though he felt her eyes following him. He decided to walk home the long way, through neighborhoods he seldom visited, down unfamiliar streets filled with people moving past him on their way toward destinations, with things to do and places to go. He felt no rush, wandering along an uncertain direction, a sail in the wind.

He listened to people calling to each other from windows and doorways, close and far away, needing, needing. The sky drained of color as he turned the corner and walked slowly toward his building. Looking up at the dark windows of his apartment, he tried to remember what was left in his refrigerator. What belongs to me? Reaching into his pocket, he felt the key to his apartment.

Legs aching, he noticed a dented Suburu that looked like Emily’s parked across the street. The door opened and Emily jumped out, carrying a large pot and several plastic food containers.
“Sol,” she shouted as she crossed the street, looking both ways.

“I hope you like leftovers,” she said as she he handed him the pot. “Bean soup.”

“My favorite!” It wasn’t.

“I hear you say that you like bean soup,” she said with a laugh. “Which means you’re hungry.”

Hungry. He smelled her perfume, her presence next to him as they walk along the path lined with trimmed low bushes to the stairs at the entrance. Unable to speak, he tried to tell her, yes, yes, but he cannot make the words, cannot bring the words from where they are buried, where he was trying to find them. Notes of a Bach suite quivered silently inside him. Why did she change her mind? Placing the pot on the stairs in front of his door, he fumbled for the key, wondering if her change of heart was one of those careless gestures that, even with the best of intentions, scatter aimlessly and crumble like brittle leaves in the autumn wind.

And then, suddenly, the words burst, sweeping over them like an ovation. “Yes, yes!”

Startled, Emily laughed. “I hear you say . . . ” as he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Picking up the pot, he followed her inside. She found the light switch, turned it on and then, looking around, placed the salad containers on the dining room table. Sol placed the pot on the stove, lit the flame, and watched her standing next to the table. Taking a half-full bottle of wine from the refrigerator, he wondered if it was still good.

“Don’t let it burn,” she warned gently, piling his books and papers at one end of the table. “Soup bowls and plates,” she sang out to him. “Forks and spoons.”

He found an open box of crackers and turned on the radio. Brahms’ first piano trio. He hummed a familiar passage, her silhouette at the window as she gazes out into the dark, catching the evening breeze.

He wondered what she was thinking and knew that seeking an answer would trample the fragility of this moment. In time, he might come to understand.

Tilting her head to a side, as if hearing a discordant note, she held the back of a chair, her shoulders hunched, as if suddenly chilled.

Lichtman felt like a blind man trying to find a path. He lost his way with Margaret. He remembered her silent rage when she discovered he had had an affair with a woman half his age. Amber, dark and delicious, a woman he had met in Italy during his last sabbatical, a train ride together to Venice, sharing a five-cornered room with her, then the letter she had sent informing him that she was pregnant and contemplating an abortion. He did not respond immediately, unsure of what he should do, and when he finally did write, apologizing, offering to pay for it, she replied on a postcard, “Finito.”

He had never spoken about these things with anyone. Would Emily understand?

“Sorry for the mess,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting guests.”

“It’s fine.” Emily turned to him. “Let’s eat. I can’t stay long.”

Holding bowls and plates, wine glasses, forks and spoons, Lichtman stepped into the distance between them.

Now, now is this mine?