(1) "WHO'S THAT WOMAN HE'S FAWNING OVER?"

March 20, 1981

      Ed has a new doll for his collection—and I discovered her. 

      In December Marion Marsh invited me to attend a Unitarian social gathering at the home of Robert Rimmer, author of The Harrad Experiment. The book created a sensation in 1966; today’s youngsters may wonder why.  The plot concerned a coed university where students were required to change sexual partners every few months.  Rimmer argued that this would provide valuable insights when the time came to select a more permanent partner.

      We were served wine and cheese and taken on a tour of Rimmer’s book-lined house.  Dozens of copies of each of his books filled the shelves.  After the tour, I found myself sitting next to Stanley, a balding, pleasant-faced man.  I was enjoying the subtle undercurrents a woman senses when a male acquaintance appears to appreciate her conversational skills.  As I delivered one of my better quips, however, I noticed Stanley was no longer tuned in.  His gaze was fixed on an area over my right shoulder. The undercurrents had made a treacherous detour.

      “Hi, Cleo!” my ex-companion called, leaping to his feet.

      Was this the Siren of the Nile?  Peering around Stanley, who was holding out his arms, I looked her over.  Cleo was tallish, blondish, fiftyish, and hadn’t given up the fight yet; I could tell by her figure and false eyelashes.  I leaned toward Marion, who was standing nearby, and whispered, “Who’s that?”

      “That?  That’s Stanley Nesbit.”

      “No, no, that woman he’s fawning over. Is she married?”  
      Marion said she’d seen Cleo in church, didn’t know her last name, thought she might be getting a divorce.

      “I hope so,” I said.  “She’s Ed’s type if I ever saw Ed’s type.  He’s never been able to resist a pair of false eyelashes—and he’s shopping around.”

      Marion thinks I’m crazy.  She keeps asking when my ex and I are going to quit kidding and get married again.  She pooh-poohs my arguments that his house is too hot, his TV too loud, and his poodle too undisciplined.  Marion is sure that for my sake Ed would turn down the heat and TV and spank the poodle.  But it wouldn’t work.  It exhausts me even to think of weekly treks, watering can in hand, through the burgeoning jungle he has created, like some botanical Frankenstein, in his living room.  Watering his plants takes more time than I have left.  Let Cleo do it.

      I liked the way she was bantering with Stanley.  Any woman who waters Ed’s plants must have a sense of humor.

      Two weeks later I bumped into Cleo, standing with a friend in front of the perfume counter at Jordan’s.  I sidled up and muttered in her ear, “Personally, I wouldn’t care for all that partner swapping in The Harrad Experiment, would you?”

      She looked at me blankly for a moment, then laughed. “I stick to swapping recipes.”

      We stepped away from the counter and small-talked.  Then I plunged in and told her about Ed. 

      “Any ex-husband of yours must be a nice guy,” Cleo said.  “Why don’t you bring him to church next Sunday afternoon?  They’re having a get-together for singles.”

      Ed was seeing Aliceann Sunday night, but he said sure, he’d go to the singles thing with me in the afternoon.  What did he have to lose?

      “I’ll pretend you’re my brother,” I said .  “Otherwise people will wonder why we have the same last name.”  
     We signed in at the door, stuck on our name tags, and drifted over to the wine and cheese table.  I nudged Ed.  “She’s over there—in the red dress.”

      He stared for a moment, then said, “How do I get to meet her?’

     I introduced them.  Cleo linked her arm in Ed’s, gave him a flutter with those eyelashes, and that was that, mission accomplished.

      They’ve seen each other several times since then, but my ex is in a quandary.  He doesn’t know what to do about Aliceann.  He asked her to marry him a few months ago, with my enthusiastic approval, but when she learned pets weren’t allowed in his Florida condo, she said no.  Then she heard he’s seeing someone else and called me to ask my advice.  Refusing to marry him didn’t mean she was ready to give him up.  She said she didn’t know who this other woman was, but she was just going to hang in there, didn’t I agree that was what she should do?  I felt crumby because I really like Aliceann, but Ed comes first in my list of priorities.  If only everyone could find exactly the right partner.  Maybe the solution would be for me to find someone for Aliceann.

July 24, 1981

      At first I was pleased when last spring’s matchmaking worked out so well.  Cleo thought Ed was a “dear man,” and Ed thought Cleo was not only attractive but sympathetic and undemanding.  (“She never asks me who else I’m seeing or what I’m doing when I’m not with her.”)  As time went by he began reshuffling his social calendar to see more of Cleo.

     Then I began to notice he was seeing less of me.  He was no longer my dependable golfing buddy; instead he and Cleo were going on picnics or planting rosebushes.  

DEPENDABLE GOLFING BUDDY

      A couple of times even our Thursday night dinner date was called off for one vague reason or another.  Once, he said he’d see me Friday night instead, then begged off with the excuse that he was too tired.  What could be making that man so tired?  Of course, all I have ever wanted with all my heart and soul was for Ed to be happy.

      But not that happy.

      I didn’t complain openly.  I did a lot of empathizing with Aliceann, though.  Following her example, I decided I’d hang in there.  Ex-husbands like Ed are hard to find.

      He hasn’t abandoned me entirely.  He invited me to join Cleo and him for dinner at the golf club.  His rationale?  “I want her to get used to you.”  I said no.  She’ll get used to me soon enough without my encroaching on their dates.

      Meanwhile, Ed, Aliceann, and I are still a threesome, attending doll auctions and antique shows together.  The Pied Piper of Scituate is doing his best to keep everyone contented, as well as in line.  He seems a bit dazed by it all.

February 29, 1982

      Cleo has ended her relationship with Ed.  She felt she was standing in the way of someone he could settle down with permanently.  Ed wants either marriage or a live-in mate; Cleo wants neither.  I advised Ed to marry Aliceann.  He said, “Don’t lobby me; lobby her.”

(2) THE DOLLS ARE KNOWN AS NAUGHTY NUDIES.

      Ed has a new pastime--collecting dolls, real dolls.  When I first became aware of this, I couldn’t resist an ex-wifely wink and the observation that he couldn’t have picked a more appropriate hobby.  His friend Aliceann, an avid collector herself, aroused his interest.  She and I have a mutual admiration society that barely leaves room for Ed and Jack to get a word in.  Jack is very much a part of this ongoing soap opera.  After circling each other warily for several years, the two men have discovered they have a lot in common.  Like Hope and Crosby, their humorous sallies mesh nicely, and they have an empathetic understanding of a certain person’s frailties, which makes them practically blood brothers. 

     A couple of times a month we all pile into Ed’s Toyota and go to the Squantum flea market to see what’s new in old dolls and to browse through the bric-a-brac displayed on a multitude of tables.  We’re constantly losing each other in the crowd, and this can be frustrating when you come across something appealing but want your pals to take a look before you plunk down hard cash.  So you go searching for the others, and by the time you find them, you can’t remember where your hot item was located.  Or what it was.

      On one of our excursions, Jack parted with $2.00 for a charming statuette of a seated child, apparently made of soapstone.  At no extra charge, the nice lady threw in a similar figurine with a nick in the back of her head.  On the way home, we paid a visit to our friend of boat-sinking fame, Marion Marsh, who is recuperating from a heart attack.  She thinks we’re all dotty, but she likes company.  Jack showed her his bargain, then noticed that the thrown-in figurine had a broken foot.   
     “That’s all right,” he said, “I’ll just round off the other one.  No one will notice she has short feet.”

     Marion gave a whoop. “A fool and his money are soon parted!”

     The next morning Jack called to describe a mishap. 

      “I put the dolls in the sink to soak off some stains with a solution of detergent and water.  This morning, I found a lot of powdery stuff floating on the surface, and underneath, a couple of shapeless little blobs.”

     “Wait’ll I tell Marion!” I laughed.

     “Do you have to?” Jack asked plaintively.  “I don’t think I could take that ‘fool and his money’ business twice in a row.”

February 10, 1980

     Marion has reminded us that she was the one who started Ed’s doll collection.  A few years ago she gave him a couple of tiny bisque bathing beauties she had picked up at a yard sale for a pittance.  He admired them, so she said he could have them.  It turned out they were made in Germany in the early 20s and are known as “Naughty Nudies.”  They currently sell for around $50-$75.  Ed now has ten Naughty Nudies arranged in a lighted terrarium on a simulated beach. 

      In Ed’s guestroom is a large commercial showcase filled with fifteen or twenty antique dolls, posed in attractive groups by Aliceann.  There are dolls on the bed, dolls standing on living-room bookshelves, dolls, dolls, everywhere you look.  His mother-of-thousands plants have made a jungle of his sun-room, and now my ex-husband has become the father of thousands.  He has decided to remodel his garage, turning it into a paneled room that will house his collection.  Unless Ava-Baby changes her mind.  If she doesn’t marry Mr. Wonderful, Ed will invite her and her two sons to move in with him.  At this point, his house has only two bedrooms, so he’d need the extra living space.  And a therapist, if you ask me.
     He still claims I could solve all his problems. A month ago he called me from Fort Lauderdale with a proposition that was almost irresistible. He has asked me before to marry him or live with him but never quite so fetchingly as this:
     “Why don’t you marry me? We could live down here in the winter and up there in the summer, we could play a lot of golf, we’ll travel and go on cruises the way you always wanted to—and you can even keep your alimony!”    

(3) ED IS AS DAUNTLESS AND BLOOPER PRONE AS EVER.

February 7, 1984

Fort Lauderdale    

At this moment I am looking at the ocean on my left and Bahia Mar on my right.  I moved my desk from 3its position opposite the bed to this heavenly spot under the window.  Strange that I never thought to do it before.  The room doesn’t look as well balanced, but I feel more so.

Ed is trying his darndest to be the best ex-husband who ever bounced an alimony check (two of them did so while he was in Costa Rica).  We are getting along like an old cat and dog who are used to each other’s strange ways and rather like each other’s company.  Not that the cat doesn’t occasionally hiss and the dog doesn’t growl.  After all, we are human. 
We were lying on the beach this afternoon when I described a chicken salad creation that I liked so much, I wouldn’t mind having it three or four times a week.  It contains a cut-up apple, an orange, carrots, cottage cheese, lettuce, chicken, and cucumber dressing.  Ed, very much on his good behavior, managed to restrain a “Yuck!”  Instead he remarked that it sounded like a lot of work.

 “But everything tastes so good, and it’s so good for you.  I’m going to live to be at least 129!”

“What am I going to do after that?”

We’ve worked out little problems like who does what in the kitchen without driving the other crazy.  I rinse and stack the dishes, he cleans the counters and puts stuff away.  Ed charcoal broils the main course when it’s charcoal broilable.  One night my bathing cap with the pretty flowers on it fell off the folding dryer and got charred along with the steak.  It wasn’t the sort of thing you say “Well done!” to.  But I couldn’t blame him, either.

Sometimes it’s hard work being kind and reasonable, but Ed has become the most patient of men and forgives my occasional impatience.  I have solved the problem of Dream Weavers’ stinking diesel fumes.  I like going out on the boat with Ed but detest the fumes.  I caledl the National Cancer Society, concerned not just about the acrid odor, but about particles getting into my lungs.  They recommended a particle mask, the kind worn by painters.  This takes care of the particles.  To counteract the fumes, I dab cologne on a piece of Kleenex and tuck it behind the mask.  It works!  I notice that people on passing boats look at me funny, but I look funny right back at them.    
Circa 1984

Although he is creeping up on seventy, Ed is as dauntless, bold, and blooper prone as ever. Take away his boat and his airplane with all their potential for misfortune, and you’d think the man might welcome a spell of tranquility. But no, even amid such serene surroundings as a golf course, Edward seeks out adventure where lesser men would hung back.

Take the water hazards that some fiendish engineer claimed would solve the drainage problem at the golf club. They wind picturesquely across fairways that could now be called un‑fairways. The pro shop does a lively business in twenty-five dollar retrievers because there is no way the average golfer isn’t going to lose a lot of balls in those damn ditches.

But who ever accused Ed of being average? He is not about to sacrifice any of his 25‑cent second‑hand balls if he has anything to say about it. (He kindly keeps his ex-wife supplied, too)

To describe a not atypical incident, we were on the fifth hole when I hit my second shot into the ditch. We’d had a lot of rain, so there was more than the usual amount of muddy water for the ball to conceal itself in. Poking around with a golf club, Ed gave an exclamation of triumph when he spotted it.

“Careful, dear, the bank looks slippery,” I said, as he started over the edge. He had been in a hurry to join me, so he was wearing canvas sneakers instead of cleated golf shoes. One foot skidded, then the other, and down the bank he coasted, looking rather like an otter, only less playful.

Not neglecting to rescue my ball, Edward clambered up the bank and stood there, his shirt and pants covered with mud.

“You go on without me. I’ll walk back to the club and go home.”

It was such a beautiful, balmy October day, easily in the seventies, that I hated to see him leave. “Gee, honey, it’s so warm out, I bet that mud’ll dry right out. Do you really have to go home? Couldn’t you keep on playing?”

“Okay, why not,” Ed said agreeably. So we continued on to the next hole. There was a foursome of men on an adjoining tee. It wasn’t hard for them to guess what had happened to Ed.

“And he was going after my ball,” I told them.

“You must be pretty grateful,” one of the golfers said.

“Oh, I am,” I said. “But I thought it was a shame he didn’t stay in there and find a few more while he was at it. Couldn’t convince him, though.”

The golfer studied me a moment. “And your relationship to him is . . .?”

“Well—um—“ (I could not tell a lie), “I’m his ex‑wife.”

The foursome looked at Ed as if to say, “No wonder!” and went on their way.

Edward’s next golf course adventure took place a few days later on the twelfth hole. This one was almost as scary as boat sinkings or plane crashings. It started peaceably enough when two elderly ladies let us younger folks go through on the eleventh, not knowing about Ed’s ball hunting digressions. Sure enough, on the twelfth he hit two drives into the new drainage ditch, a serpentine beauty about four feet deep with sheer sides and sludgy depths. Ed found one of his flyaway treasures—it dropped into the ditch and was barely visible in the murky water. He was able to retrieve it by getting down on all fours and coaxing it toward him with his sand wedge. While I watched him, it occurred to me that if I had a hidden camera and walked around taking pictures of golfers in strange positions, 99% of them would be Ed.

The October sun was sinking fast, and the ladies were finishing up on the eleventh green, but Ed continued searching for the second ball. He spied it wedged in the mud on the far bank.

“Come on, Ed, it’s not a gold nugget,” I said. “The ladies are catching up to us.”

“They haven’t even left the green yet. I’m going to get that ball,” Ed said with a determined look. At this point, a patient and practical man would have walked back to the cart path and crossed the bridge over the ditch, not forgetting to bring his clubs with him. Then he would have walked to the point where his ball was wedged in the mud, used his retriever, and continued on with only slightly dampened spirits.

Edward, neither patient, practical, nor the owner of a retriever, decided to take a short cut. There were two pipes extending across the ditch, each about four inches in diameter and a foot apart. He was wearing his golf shoes on this occasion; the cleats were designed for clinging to sand, not metal. Nevertheless, Ed set out while I observed his acrobatics, mesmerized. Hand alternating with foot, he teetered across the pipes like a chimpanzee in a circus act. He almost lost his balance, but at the last minute, managed a lunge to terra firma. This challenge behind him, it was a cinch to lie flat on his stomach and squirm over the edge of the bank until he was able to reach down and pry out the embedded ball.

“The ladies are coming up to the tee,” I said. “Should I wave them through?”

“No, they’ll hold us up. I’m ready, let’s go.”

Then Ed realized his clubs were still on the other side of the ditch. That was my fault. I should have gotten them for him, but I was too spellbound by his performance to leave in the middle. Moreover, I wasn’t sure which side he would end up on—the near side, the far side, or the inside. Before I could stop him from tempting fate again, Edward was making the return trip across the pipes. Midway he swayed from side to side, struggling to maintain his equilibrium. The cleats slipped, and into the ditch he went.

Wringing my hands and whimpering, “Oh dear, oh Ed,” I watched helplessly as he tried to get to his feet. It couldn’t be done, it seemed. Hanging onto the pipe with one hand, he rolled from prone to supine, making futile attempts to stand up. His visor slipped off and floated downstream. “It’s like quick‑sand!” he gasped. “I can’t seem to get any purchase,”

What can I do, I thought frantically. I had a vision of myself sitting on the pipes with my legs hanging down like a sort of ladder. Then I saw that the two ladies, no doubt having noticed Ed’s sudden disappearance and my anguished pantomime, were walking towards us. Maybe the three of us would be strong enough to haul him out. I had a feeling he wouldn’t like that, though.

Ed was finally making progress. He had managed to clutch the pipe with both hands and was dragging his mud soaked body along its length. When he reached dry land and crawled up the bank I heard him mutter, “This damn game. Never again!”

The ladies, relieved to see that Ed was safe, returned to the twelfth tee. I knew better than to urge him to finish our round. Looking like a chocolate-covered gingerbread man, he left for home and a soothing shower. By the time I arrived for dinner, an hour later, he was positively chipper. Couldn’t remember saying Never Again.

“It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow; how about meeting me at 2:00?” he asked. The man’s recuperative powers were almost as amazing as the feats that caused him to need them.

The next day I noticed Ed had a retriever, but he hadn’t shelled out any twenty-five dollars for it. He had found an old broom handle and taped a rusty tea strainer to the end of it. Worked fine.

July 30, i984

To Darrell McClure

I had great fun reading Ready About.  You must have been chuckling to yourself when you drew "Quick Start." It's hilarious. As for page 89's "Boating is fun, boating is fun, boating is fun . . ." this approximates what Ed and I must keep saying to ourselves on the golf course. Since you are not familiar with the game, here's a description.When Ed tees up for his drive, the only safe place to stand is behind him. After he has swung at the ball, it may go left, right, or just sit there. The latter ignominy is called a whiff. Ed has other names for it. He likes playing golf with me because my errors are as plentiful as his. In fact, this is why he sponsored my application to the Cohasset Golf Club—he told everyone he wanted to have someone he could beat.

The gods allow us just enough good shots to keep us addicted. When Ed is on the verge of quitting forever (every other day), he connects with a long, straight drive or sinks a 30‑foot putt.
It is beautiful out on the fairways on a pleasant summer day. That's when we try to convince ourselves that golfing is fun, golfing is fun, golfing is fun. Jack Barnard, an old friend of ours, has taken up golf as a retirement hobby. I assured him that golf was a wonderful way to waste time. I didn't tell him he'd better polish up his cuss words.
I concur with your "dammit" regarding the effects of aging. It is shocking to feel so young and saucy inside, only to find you are housed in a wrinkled, puckering outside. You pull on a bathing cap and your forehead slides down over your eyes. You roll your hair up on a curler and your skin goes along with it. Clearly, my skin is two sizes too big for me. I'd like to take it back and exchange it, but I'm afraid it was a Final Sale. Dammit.
Your cartoon books should indeed be republished, my funny‑bone friend. Their humor is ageless. 
Would you be a dear and autograph Ready About for me?    

(4) "I STUTTERED AND TURNED RED AND SPILLED MY WINE."

      My ex-husband managed to get himself a little bit engaged.  Of all his various ladies, Claire Swann is high on my list of favorites.  Ed thought he'd lost her forever to Gerald, with whom she has been living for several years.  They had a sort of open commitment, which meant that either could go out with someone else, only neither should lie about it.  It was okay to say, "I'm going to be out tomorrow night."  It was not okay to say, "I'm going to Rhode Island to see my old buddy Al" unless it was true.

     When Gerald gave Claire the old buddy routine, Claire called Ed (her customary move when Gerald was away), and they met for cocktails at the condo apartment Ed owns in Boston.

     "Where would you like to go for dinner?" he asked.  "There are forty restaurants within walking distance; we could just start walking till we get to one you like."

     Claire says she wants to go to Joseph's.  She'd never been there, as Gerald rarely took her to expensive restaurants.

     She and Ed are looking at the menu, when who walks into Joseph's—of all restaurants—but her roommate, Gerald, the buddy from Rhode Island, and a tall brunette who is obviously with Gerald.

     At first Ed wasn't sure whether the trio had seen them or not.  The men spoke briefly to the headwaiter, then disappeared, much to Ed's relief.  He had a feeling he wouldn't be at his most debonair if there were a confrontation.  He was right.  A few minutes later, Gerald and Al, minus the young lady, reappeared and walked over to say hello to Ed and Claire.

     Reporting all this to me the next day, Ed said that of the four actors in this play-let, he was by far the most shaken.

     "I felt as if I was out with someone's wife, and her husband had caught me.  I stuttered and turned red and knocked over my wine glass when I shook hands."

     Claire and the two men exchanged banalities, and then they departed.  Later Gerald would explain the disappearance of the brunette by saying she had gone to the ladies room.  Yes, Gerald had a lot of explaining to do; but this was after Claire's spur of the moment trip to Fort Lauderdale with Ed.  He was leaving two days later, so she got a week's leave from her job and went with him.

     Two things made her furious, Ed said.  One was Gerald's lying, in violation of their agreement . . .

     " . . . and the other," I chimed in, "was Gerald's taking the brunette to Joseph's after years of not taking Claire."

     Yep, that was it, all right.  Nobody understands a woman like another woman.

     After Claire returned to Boston, she called Gerald.  Claire is not as good about reporting to me as Ed is, so I'm not privy to all that was said during their meeting.  At any rate, she told Ed she would probably go back to Gerald "unless you have a better offer."

     "Well . . . we could try living together for six months and see how it goes," said Ed.

     No, Claire said, she was no longer willing to settle for just living with someone; she wanted the security of a marriage.  My hunch is that she wanted ammunition, such as a marriage offer from Ed, to make Gerald shape up.  Ed says he knows he'd be getting her on the rebound if they eventually marry, but as long as he knows it, it doesn't bother him.

     As things stand now, Claire has picked July for the wedding but suggests that meanwhile they live their lives pretty much as before.  She spent the holidays with Gerald, while her fiancé had his usual Christmas Eve get together with Ted's family and Aliceann and me.  Aliceann doesn't know he's engaged.

     Ed was wondering what he ought to give Claire for Christmas.  He showed me an embroidered shawl he and I found at a flea market last year.

     "It's pretty," I said, "but it cost only eight dollars, and Claire's a woman who knows values.  You'll have to give her something more expensive."

     "I could give her a three carat diamond ring," my ex said roguishly.

     "Give her three carrots," I muttered.

     It's not that I don't like Claire; I just wish Ed could find someone who'd marry him for himself. . . .

(5) I RE-LIVED EVERY DUMB THING I'D SAID AND DONE..

        I can't compete with Romeo Malley (as Aliceann's co‑workers call him), but my own soap opera has undergone a change.  I have broken up with Jack, this time really really really for good, and about four weeks ago I met a man who appealed to me enormously.  In fact, I was as excited as a schoolgirl over Mr. Eric Swann, whose last name, by happy chance, was the same as Claire's.  Ed  always refers to her as Mrs. Swann, enchanted, I think, by its elegant sound.               

       "Her name is Claire, why don't you call her Claire?" I say, as irritably as if we were still married.  Now that I've met Mr. Swann, however, Ed is going to hear a good deal about Mr. Swann this and Mr. Swann that.

       On our first date, Mr. Swann dismissed my views on the fairness of separate checks by saying he'd give me a choice:  I could either pay the entire bill or be quiet like a good girl and let him treat me.

       I think he was an excellent conversationalist, although I was so impressed with him that I hardly knew what either of us was saying.  Eric looked much younger than his fifty-six years, and I kept wondering what Tony Curtis's double was doing with an old lady of fifty-eight.  I remember his telling me that people often approach him in airports, asking for his autograph.  He obligingly writes, "Barney Schultz," which is Tony Curtis's real name.

     "Next time I'll treat you," I say, as we’re saying goodbye outside the restaurant.

     "Just ask me over for dinner," he says.

     There was a time when the idea of whipping up a little dinner for two wouldn't have given me conniption fits and insomnia.  Dinner for eight or for twenty, I'd done it hundreds of times in the old days.  Now I lay awake rehearsing every damn step of that damn swordfish dinner, wishing I could go to sleep so I wouldn't look like a hag for Tony Curtis.

     The big night arrives.  I’ve done as much as possible ahead of time so that I can be relaxed and gracious when my guest appears.  I throw half of my poor dolls in closets and under the bed.  Doll collecting seemed like a terrific hobby until I begin picturing Eric's reaction to all those simpering little faces.

      I show Eric around, tell him about my grandfather the archaeologist and my mother the poet, and try not to babble too much.  Apparently I fail because he finally says, "When are you going to feed me?"

     My dinner is unquestionably the worst I ever served.   I overcooked both the swordfish and the green beans from Kathie's garden (Eric remarks that it really isn't important to him where they came from, so I know I've been babbling again); the baked stuffed potatoes are barely warm and taste funny—I think the grated cheese was stale— and my guest chooses not to sample my homemade salad dressing, perhaps because he's tasted the baked stuffed potato.  He has his bib lettuce and mandarin orange salad very, very dry and straight up, like one of Ed's martinis.

     "I enjoyed the dinner very much," Eric says as he’s leaving.

     "Eric, that was the worst – " He holds up his hand and says,  "Just say thank you." 

     I knew he was going away for the holidays, so I tried not to take it personally when I didn't hear from him for a week.  But it wouldn't hurt, I decide, to drop him a note and one of my flying articles.  Since he'd done some flying years ago, this would remind him of how much we had in common.  In my note I asked him if he'd permit me to read a book he'd written (unpublished) about his research at a rehabilitation center for teenage alcoholics.

     Another couple of days go by while I chew my knuckles, wear a path in my broadloom, and re‑live every dumb thing I'd said and done in the great man's presence.  Every time the phone rang I'd turn up the classical music (Eric likes classical music) and trill a hello.  It was always anybody but Eric—one of my sons, Kathie, Ed calling from Florida, and a couple of times, poor Jack, who must have noticed the trill leaving my voice.  

      Then I got a call from Eric.  He thought "Mutiny on the Skyknight" was amusing.  As for my 

reading his work, he never lets the manuscript out of his apartment, but he'd be happy to have me come over and read it.  I could rest assured that he wasn't dangerous, he hadn't raped anyone in at least five minutes.     

      "Come over at about 6:30, we'll have a drink, and you can tell me as an experienced writer what you think of my book."

      I started out in the rain for the hour's drive to Sharon.  As I pictured it, we'd have a cocktail, I'd read the manuscript for an hour or so, and then Eric wouldl suggest that we go out for dinner.  No other scenario presented itself.   

     The first thirty pages of Eric Swann's book dealt with Eric Swann ‑‑ how he happened to be one of the select group chosen out  of three hundred applicants to work on whatever social project he  chose, with all expenses paid for a year.  There were letters of recommendation from colleagues at the university where he is a sociology professor; there were newspaper interviews with pictures of Eric, and there were descriptions by Eric about how Eric felt about all this.     

     "This is fascinating," I murmured.  (He lied about my dinner, remember.)

     The author had been reading over my shoulder and talking continuously, which explains why I got nowhere near my goal of a hundred pages out of seven hundred.

     At eight-thirty, Eric asked if I was hungry.  Hungry?   With all these crackers and all this Wispride cheese?

     "I have some food in my refrigerator," he said.  To prove it, he offered me some carrot sticks.  I knew this was God's way of punishing me for advising Ed to give Claire three carrots.  I also had a pear and some almonds.

     "This is the kind of food I've eaten ever since I was a kid," Eric said.  "I always liked raw vegetables and fruit.  I didn't know they were good for me."

     I reached page fifty at eleven (Eric inserted a bookmark), said a malnourished goodbye, and headed for home.  I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or stop at McDonald's.

     I dined on a peanut butter sandwich in my kitchenette and went to bed.  For the first time since I'd met Mr. Swann, I slept the blissful sleep of the unsmitten.

     Ed, aware of my heavy date, tried to reach me the next day, and finally found me at Kathie's.  How he laughed at my account of my disastrous evening.  "When I couldn't reach you all day, I  was afraid you'd run off with him and I'd never see you again."

     "I promise you I'll never run off with a man who eats carrot sticks."

     "I'm going to look pretty good to you when you get down here next week!" Ed said.

     I told him he looked pretty good already.  Dear familiar, comfortable, practically normal Ed. . . . 

(6) I KNEW THIS WAS GOD'S WAY OF PUNISHING ME.

     Eric thought "Mutiny on the Skyknight" was amusing.  As for my reading his work, he never lets the manuscript out of his apartment, but he'd be happy to have me come over and read it.  I can rest assured that he isn't dangerous, he hasn't raped anyone in at least five minutes. 

      "Make it Thursday at about six‑thirty.  We'll have a drink, and you can tell me as an experienced writer what you think of my book."

     I started out in the rain for the hour's drive to Sharon.  As I pictured it, we'd have a cocktail, I'd read the manuscript for an hour or so, and then Eric would suggest that we go out for dinner.  No other scenario presented itself to me.

     The first thirty pages of Eric Swann's book dealt with Eric Swann—how he happened to be one of the select group chosen out of three hundred applicants to work on whatever social project he chose, with all expenses paid for a year.  There were letters of recommendation from colleagues at the university where he was a sociology professor; there were newspaper interviews with pictures of Eric, and there were descriptions by Eric about how Eric felt about all this.

     "You write well," I murmur.  (After all, he lied about my dinner.)

     The author has been reading over my shoulder and talking continuously, which explains why I got nowhere near my goal of a hundred pages out of seven hundred.

     At eight‑thirty, Eric asked me if I was hungry.  Hungry?   With all these crackers and all this Wispride cheese?

     "I have some food in my refrigerator," he said.  To prove it, he offered me some carrot sticks.  I knew this was God's way of punishing me for advising Ed to give Claire three carrots.  I also had a pear and some almonds.

     "This is the kind of food I've eaten ever since I was a kid," Eric said.  “I always liked fruit and raw vegetables.  I didn't know they were good for me."

     I reached page fifty at eleven (Eric inserted a bookmark), said a weak goodbye, and headed for home.  I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or stop at McDonald's.

     I dined on a peanut butter sandwich in my kitchenette and went to bed.  For the first time since I'd met Mr. Swann, I slept the blissful sleep of the unsmitten.

     Ed, aware of my heavy date, tried to reach me from Florida the next day, and finally found me at Kathie's.  How he laughed when he heard of my disastrous evening.  "When I couldn't reach you all day, I was afraid you'd run off with him and I'd never see you again."

     "I promise you I'll never run off with a man who eats carrot sticks."

     "I'm going to look pretty good to you when you get down here next week," Ed said.  I told him he looked pretty good already.  Dear familiar, comfortable, practically normal Ed.  

February 14, 1986

      Ed and Aliceann were married this morning in Ed’s Pompano Beach house. Pets allowed. The ceremony was witnessed by a few local friends plus Miette, Strumpfe, Sybil, Jasmine, and a new Siamese kitten, Ling-Ling.

      I phoned them both with my blessings but told Aliceann I’d miss Ed after all these years.

      “Nonsense,” she told me. “You’re family. If you don’t promise to visit us, were gonna divorce you.”

February 28, 1986

      Ed has been married for two weeks now, and we seem to be surviving our final severance without too much loss of blood. Aliceann is still the same good friend she was before. She assures me that “this is your house, too,” and again urges me to come for a visit. I will not do so until the marriage is older and unquestionably on solid ground.

      The honeymooners call me every three or four days to exchange news. A couple of nights ago Aliceann was on the line when I heard a burst of Ed’s laughter in the background. “Oh Barbara, you should see what’s happening,” Aliceann said. “Strumpfe was trying to hump Miette, and she got mad and chased him off the bed.”

      What do I feel beside amusement? A pang. Worse than a hangnail, not as bad as a toothache, but a definite pang. Ed’s laughter was now Aliceann’s instead of mine, I thought. Yet I knew this was foolish—you can’t own laughter any more than you can own people. And haven’t I been insisting that all I want for Ed is his happiness? In the right-thinking part of my mind, my feeling was one of gratitude that Aliceann was there for him to laugh with.

      The pang is subsiding. Transferring it to paper is helpful, as always.