The Woods

Dave was married now, of course, had two polished children, but I had little doubt that there was some side action. Some men can’t help it. It is instinctive and primitive. The idea of Dave Markie not hitting on a woman was simply anathema.

“Good news,” he said. “I’m coming up to Newark.”

“What for?”

“Newark is the largest city in my state, that’s why, and I value all my constituents.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I want to see you. It’s been too long.”

“I’m kinda busy with this case.”

“You can’t make time for your governor?”

“What’s up, Dave?”

“It involves what we talked about before.”

My possible congressional run. “Good news?” I said.

“No.”

Silence.

“I think there’s a problem,” he said.

“What kind of problem?”

His voice switched back to jovial. “Could be nothing, Cope. We’ll talk. Let’s make it your office. Say, lunchtime?”

“Okay.”

“Get those sandwiches. From that place on Brandford.”

“Hobby’s.”

“Exactly. The fully dressed turkey breast on homemade rye. Get yourself one too. See you then.”

Lucy Gold’s office building was the otherwise-lovely quad’s resident eyesore, a seventies “mod” structure that was supposed to look futuristic but somehow looked dated three years after completion. The rest of the quad edifices were handsome brick that begged for more ivy. I parked in the lot in the southwest corner. I tilted the rearview mirror and then, to paraphrase Springsteen, I checked my look in that mirror and wanted to change my clothes, my hair, my face.

I parked and walked across the commons. I passed a dozen students. The girls were much prettier than I remembered, but that was probably my aging. I nodded at them as I walked by. They didn’t nod back. When I went to college there was a guy in my class who was thirty-eight years old. He’d gone to the military and skipped getting his BA. I remembered how he stuck out on campus because he looked so goddamn old. That was my age now. Hard to fathom. I was the same age as that seemingly old geezer.

I continued to think such inane thoughts because they helped me ignore where I was going. I wore an untucked white dress shirt, blue jeans, blue blazer, Ferragamo loafers without socks. Mr. Casual Chic.

When I approached the building, I could actually feel my body shaking. I scolded myself. I was a grown man. I had been married. I was a father and a widower. I had last seen this woman more than half my life ago.

When do we grow out of this?

I checked the directory, even though Lucy had told me that her office was on the third floor, door B. There it was. Professor Lucille Gold. Three-B. I managed to press the right button in the elevator. I turned left when I got out on the third floor, even though the sign with the “A–E” had an arrow pointing right.

I found her door. There was a sign-up sheet with her office hours. Most of the time slots were taken. There was also a class schedule and something about when assignments were due. I almost breathed into my hand and smelled it, but I was already working a peppermint Altoid.

I knocked, two sharp raps with the knuckles. Confident, I thought. Manly.

God, I’m pathetic.

“Come in.”

Her voice made my stomach drop. I opened the door and stepped into the room. She stood near the window. The sun was still out, and a shadow cut across her. She was still damn beautiful. I took the hit and stayed where I was. For a moment we just stood there, fifteen feet apart, neither moving.

“How’s the lighting?” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I was trying to figure out where to be. You know, when you knocked. Do I answer the door? Nah, too much of an early close-up. Do I stay at my desk with a pencil in my hand? Should I look up at you over my half-moon reading glasses? Anyway, I had a friend of mine help me test out all the angles. He thought I looked best with this one—across the room, the shade half drawn.”

I smiled. “You look terrific.”

“So do you. How many outfits did you try on?”

“Only this one,” I said. “But I’ve been told in the past it’s my A-game look. You?”

“I tried on three blouses.”

“I like this one,” I said. “You always looked good in green.”

“I had blond hair back then.”

“Yeah, but you still have the green eyes,” I said. “Can I come in?”

She nodded. “Close the door.”

“Should we, I don’t know, hug or something?”

“Not yet.”

Lucy sat at her desk chair. I sat in the chair in front of the desk.

“This is so messed up,” she said.

“I know.”

“I have a million things I want to ask you.”

“Me too.”

“I saw online about your wife,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “How’s your father?”

“Not well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“All that free love and drugs—eventually they take a toll. Ira also…he never got over what happened, you know?”

I guessed that I did.

“How about your parents?” Lucy asked.

“My father died a few months ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I remember him so well from that summer.”

“It was the last time he was happy,” I said.

“Because of your sister?”

“Because of a lot of things. Your father gave him the chance to be a doctor again. He loved that—practicing medicine. He never got to do it again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“My father really didn’t want to be part of the lawsuit—he adored Ira—but he needed to blame someone and my mom pushed him. All the other families were on board.”

“You don’t need to explain.”

I stopped. She was right.

“And your mother?” she asked.

“Their marriage didn’t survive.”

The answer did not seem to surprise her.

“Do you mind if I put on my professional hat?” she asked.

“Not at all.”

“Losing a child is a ridiculous strain on a marriage,” Lucy said. “Most people think that only the strongest marriages survive that sort of blow. That’s not true. I’ve studied it. I’ve seen marriages one might describe as ‘crappy’ endure and even improve. I’ve seen ones that seemed destined to last forever crack apart like cheap plaster. Do you two have a good relationship?”