She dropped him off at his building. He’s previously thought of this tonight. They’d spent the entire day driving back from Maine. He got his things out of the car and she said “I have to tell you something. You’re not going to like it, or maybe not.” “You want to end our relationship,” and she said “That’s right.” “It was the argument I had with your mother,” and she said “That contributed to it, but it wasn’t only that. It’s just not working out. And I don’t see it working out. No, I definitely don’t.” “Okay,” he said, “I’m not going to argue with you. I think it could work out and I’ll be sad for a few days that I won’t be seeing you anymore, but I’ll be okay. So long, Gwen,” and he picked up his typewriter in its case and a knapsack and a shopping bag with his things and went into his building. She called, he’s almost sure now, around two months later. “Hello,” he said, and she said “Hi.” “Oh, Gwen, what a surprise. How are you?” and she said “I’m doing well; and you?” “Good.” “How’s your teaching going?” and he said “Well, you know, it’s continuing ed, so not real teaching like yours. They’re all adults, most of them around my age or ten to twenty years older, though there is a couple in their mid-twenties. They come in together, leave together, but sit at opposite ends of the room during class. Nice people, all. Intelligent, mostly woman, and a few are pretty good writers but not yet of fiction. I also try to do a short story a week from an anthology of contemporary European writers I had them buy, but I don’t lead the class discussion well and I have little to say about these stories, so I might stop assigning them,” and she said “But it’s a good idea, getting them to analyze and comment on fiction by accomplished writers. And it’s a break from just talking about their own work,” and he said “That was my intention, but it isn’t working. ‘The Adulterous Woman’ was one of the stories we read. That was the only one I had a lot to talk about, no doubt because you and I once discussed it and I remembered what you had to say. But then I started in about how at the end she seems to be fornicating with the firmament and getting a release from it, and they all thought I was nuts. I’m not a literature teacher. I’m a literature reader, and only for my own enjoyment and to pass the time in a quiet, simple way. And after I read something, even if I liked it a lot, I forget it and go on to the next. I’ve even taken to reading criticism, if I can find it, on the stories we read, but it hasn’t helped. I think I’m doing a little better by them with their own writing, though, and I have lively literary conversations over coffee with some of them after class, primarily the ones who don’t have to go back to work. But if teaching’s the career I’m to fall back on for the rest of my writing life, I’m in trouble. But how are your classes going?” “Very well, thank you. Easier than last year, but same heavy load.” “And your parents?” and she said “They’re fine. Thank you for asking.” “Your mother still angry at me?” and she said “She never was. She saw it as a minor spat too and half her fault. And I hope your mother’s doing well,” and he said “She’s fine too, thanks. I’ll tell her you asked.” “Listen, Martin, you must be wondering why I called,” and he said “I thought maybe just to see how I’m doing; catch up on stuff and things like that. It’s been a while. I’ve been curious about you too.” “That’s part of it. I also wanted to know if you’d like to meet for coffee, so we can have a more extensive talk,” and he said “Sounds good to me.” “Then I suppose the next step is to arrange it. What’s a good time and day for you and where would you like to meet? Your neighborhood, mine, somewhere in between?” and he said “Any place convenient for you. I teach at noon Mondays and Wednesdays on 42nd Street off Sixth — they’ve taken over five floors of an office building there — so we should probably avoid those days unless you teach a full load on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday.” “This Tuesday would be all right. For coffee? A drink?” and he said “Coffee would be best. If I have a glass of wine or beer, I’ll have two, and I want to keep my head clear.” “You know, another possibility is my apartment. I can make Turkish coffee and also provide cookies from Mondell’s.” “I’d feel funny,” he said, “saying hello to one of the doormen I knew. Better a nice unfrenetic coffeehouse. What about the Hungarian Pastry shop? I love that place,” and she said “So do I. I remember you did most of the galleys for your last book there. Okay. This Tuesday, at three? and he said “Perfect. I’ll be through rereading my students’ manuscripts for Wednesday and also done with my own writing for the day.” “So I’ll see you then,” and he said “Tuesday, three, Hungarian Pastry shop. I look forward to it,” and she said “Thanks. So do I. Bye-bye, Martin,” and he said “Good-bye,” and she hung up. “Oh, God, oh, God,” he said, after he put the receiver down, “this is wonderful.”
He got a call. Late afternoon, January 10th, 1983, their first wedding anniversary. He was in their New York apartment with Rosalind. They were planning to go out for dinner that night with another couple in their building, who also got married on this day but a few years before them. Gwen’s mother was going to come over at six to babysit. He forgets what restaurant he made a reservation for — he wanted it to be the one Gwen and he had gone to on their first dinner date — but she didn’t think it good enough for a wedding anniversary and said that the other couple wouldn’t think it good enough either. He knows it was in the neighborhood so they could rush home in case her mother needed them. It was the first time they were going to leave Rosalind alone with anyone. The first time they actually did leave her was about a half year later with the college-age daughter of a French couple they’d become friends with in Baltimore. The caller identified himself — Tiffany’s, Security, last name was Duff — and asked if he was speaking to Martin Samuels. “Yes, why?” and the man said “And you’re the husband of, her driver’s license says, Gwendolyn Liederman, four-two-five Riverside Drive, New York City?” “That’s correct. What is it? Anything wrong? She okay?” “She’s all right. No injury happened to her. I’ll put her on the phone after I inform you she’s being detained in our security office here till a police van takes her downtown to be booked for the charge of shoplifting. Tiffany’s—” and he said “Are you kidding me?” “Tiffany’s, I’ll have you know, prosecutes all shoplifters no matter how small the intended theft.” “But this is absolutely crazy. You’ve arrested the most honest person alive. Shoplifting? For what?” and the man said “If you mean the item, a handbag, or shoulder bag. A small leather bag hanging on her shoulder by a strap, which we caught her leaving the store with in her possession without having paid for it.” “But you’ve made a mistake. She was probably trying it on, seeing how it looked, decided against it, and absentmindedly left the store with it still on her shoulder. Look, whatever the damn thing’s worth, I’ll pay for it over the phone with my credit card, not because she might want the bag but to get her out of this jam.” “I can’t do that. Maybe you didn’t hear me, sir. Tiffany’s prosecutes all shoplifters, and your wife left the store with a stolen item in her possession,” and he said “And I explained to you. She’d never in a million years take something that wasn’t hers. Come on, let her go. She’s got a four-month-old baby at home. The kid’s got to be fed. That means mother’s milk. And today’s our first wedding anniversary. One year. I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s so. We were going to go out to celebrate tonight. Her mother’s on her way over here now to babysit for us.” “Your wife should have thought of all that before. But nothing you say, sir, will change the situation for her. The police van’s already been called.” “Then call it off,” and the man said “I’m sorry, Mr. Samuels. I can’t do that either.” “Please put my wife on,” and the man said “You’ve got one minute,” and to Gwen: “Make it quick, Mrs. Samuels.” Gwen got on. “I’m so sorry, my darling, I must have thought I put that bag back. But I suddenly realized how late it was and that I had to get home to feed Rosalind, so I just ran out of the store. If this takes long, you know where my expressed milk is in the refrigerator. If you run out of that or she’ll only drink a little of it, use the formula, but make sure she’s not flat on her back while she drinks it. How is she?” and he said “Chattery, playful, not interested in being put down for a nap.” “It was such a dumb mistake on my part. I heard you trying to convince Mr. Duff to let me go, but it seems an exercise in futility. Against company policy. That old fall-back-on. Call off dinner with the Skolnicks. Don’t tell them why yet. Just say we think Rosalind’s coming down with something and we’ll do it another time. And call my mother and tell her not to come and to stay by the phone in case I need her. She might have to bail me out with cash. Mr. Duff wants me to end the call. Some paperwork still to do for the paddy wagon. That’s what it is. Imagine, me in one. But we’ll get a lawyer and it’ll all eventually be straightened out.” “I should get the phone number where you are and address and phone number of the police station you’re going to,” and she said “I’ll give you Mr. Duff for that. Am I ready for this? I better be. But don’t worry about me. I’m in relatively good spirits, and Mr. Duff and his associates have been very courteous. He even offered to get me a sandwich and soda from the Tiffany commissary if I got hungry. Bye-bye, sweetheart. Kiss Rosalind for me,” and she gave Duff the phone. She got back around four in the morning. He had dozed off on the couch — Rosalind was in her crib in the bedroom — and jumped up when he heard a key being inserted in the lock and opened the door for her. “Oh, so good to have you home,” and hugged her. “My mother says to say hello,” and he said “Thanks. Are you hungry?” and she said “I’m sleepy.” “So show me your new shoulder bag,” and she said “You don’t mind if I don’t laugh?” and she laughed. “How’s it been with Rosalind?” and he said “Great. We had lots of fun. So tell me, how was it?” and she said “Let me wash up first. The toilet facilities there were filthy and communal, with no privacy or soap. I had to pee in front of a dozen women. For bowel movements they led you to a tiny W.C., where they left you alone but they had to flush it.” “Probably so you wouldn’t just use it to pee in privacy,” and she said “No, that makes no sense. They’d know that lots of times, when you think you need to defecate, nothing comes out,” and he said “Then I don’t know.” She undressed, put all her clothes into the laundry hamper and went into the bathroom. He followed her. “Please let me pee in peace?” and he left the room and shut the door. She showered, water-picked, no doubt flossed and brushed her teeth, and came out in her bathrobe and said “I should have a large glass of water.” He said “I’ll get it,” and she said “No, I’m fine. They didn’t torture me there. They had a water cooler, but no cups, and I was reluctant to drink from it. Miss Priss. Who knew?” She was the first one picked up by the police wagon and had a nice chat with the officer in back. “He said he was a big reader too, particularly