The first time she saw him cry. They were eating dinner in her apartment. A particularly sad part of a Corelli concerto grosso was playing on the record player. It was still light out and the windows were open and they were both in short-sleeved T-shirts. So it was late spring or early fall, around or a couple of months more than a half year after they met, when the phone rang. She answered it, and said “It’s for you — Pearl Morton,” and he said “Pearl? Rob Heimarck’s old girlfriend? Uh-oh; bad news,” and he took the phone and said “Hi, Pearl. How are you?” and she said “Not good. And I’m sorry for disturbing you at your friend’s place. I originally wanted to get you at home. You’re not listed?” and he said “No, I’m listed,” and she said “Well, I couldn’t find it. Roberto had an address book on a chair by his bed, it had an old number of yours — must have been from when you were still living with your mother, because that’s who I spoke to and she gave me this number and your apartment’s but said chances were you’d be here. As you probably guessed by now—” and he said “He died?” and she said “Had a heart attack in bed when he was trying to call someone, probably for help. The phone was off the hook when they found him and the address book was open to the letter G. But that doesn’t mean anything. The pages may have turned themselves. You know he had diabetes,” and he said “I knew he was sick with something but I didn’t know with what.” “I’m surprised,” she said. “It wasn’t as if he kept it a secret, and you two were once pretty close. Had it for twenty years. Gave himself an insulin shot twice a day, or did when I was living with him. Lately, because he was getting so weak, he had a visiting nurse or a friend do it for him. The diabetes is what gave him the heart attack.” “I’m sorry, Pearl. Very sorry. I know what you meant to him and what he meant to you,” and she said “Yeah, well, I thought you should know. Happened three days ago. His body’s been given to science, as was his wish and because he knew he had no money to be cremated, and his ashes will be scattered around Mt. Tamalpais, which is what he really wanted. But there will be a memorial, and I’ll let you know. He liked you, you know — your fortitude and your work,” and he said “Thanks for telling me that, and of course, same goes from me to him.” “That’s not what Roberto told me, and it sort of hurt him. But okay, he’s dead, so we won’t go into it. Will you be able to say something at the memorial? I’m lining up people now. I figured, you being a writer for so many years, you’d be able to scratch a minute or two out and read it.” “I’ll try. As you might not know, nonfiction doesn’t come easy to me,” and she said “So lie, what the hell. Now I’ve got to make some other calls,” and she said goodbye. He sat back at the table. “You heard,” he said. “Roberto was a good friend of mine. Met him summer of ’61 at a writers’ conference we went to at Wagner College. Saul Bellow was the fiction teacher. Then, the late sixties, we stopped meeting as often, I forget why. I think it was more on my part than his. I know he lived so slovenly that I hated going to his apartment because I thought I’d come home with cockroaches in my clothes. I actually used to shake out my coat after I left his place. Later on I only met him for coffee or beer once, at the most, twice a year, and for the last few years, not at all. But we should finish dinner.” He picked up his knife and fork, started crying, and put them down. She took his hand and put it to her cheek. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I never would have thought I would. The music’s not helping, meaning, it’s helping,” and he got up and shut it off, and sat back down. “He was such a nice guy and always a big booster of my work. One time, I remember, he came over to my apartment when I lived on East 88th Street. I told him I was going to send my new novel to New Directions or Grove Press — anyway, one of them near where he lived in the Village — and he said ‘Don’t trust the mail with your manuscript,’ and volunteered to drop it off there instead. Next day he calls and says he started reading my novel on the subway, couldn’t put it down, read it till four in the morning, could he have another day to finish it? He calls the next day and says he finished it that afternoon and made the delivery. ‘It’s fantastic,’ he says. ‘They have to take it, and that’s what I told the receptionist I gave it to,’ and went on and on with his praise. I should have done the same thing with him, after I read a story of his in a magazine, and then his only published novel, which he gave me, rather than being stingy with my praise and a bit nitpicky. That could have been what stopped us from meeting as much. That he thought I didn’t like his work. And he’d be right — he wasn’t a good writer, at times he was even a lousy writer, but I never said anything close to that. Was I jealous that he got a book out before me? Not with the book he got out, but I got to admit I was a little sore. So maybe the falling-out was mostly my fault. But too late to smooth things over and make amends. And what a way to go. In bed, trying to phone someone for help, Pearl said. A very decent guy and a much better friend than I was, and I’ll miss him, even though I didn’t see him for so many years,” and he started crying again. And the first time he saw her cry? At the same table. He’d finished wiping his eyes with his handkerchief or table napkin and saw her crying. “What are you crying about?” he said, and she said “You. I hate seeing you sad.” “C’mere,” he said, and he moved his chair closer to hers without getting up from it and hugged her and she hugged him. Then he started crying again and she started crying again. So also the first time they cried together.