ith all my heart.” That night he sleeps with her best friend, who was also at the funeral — they had dinner and saw a movie after — and he says “Don’t ask me why but the sex just now was the best in my life. I thought I saw God. Maybe I did if he looks a lot like what the ancient painters depict him as in so much of their art.” “I almost reached that state also,” she says, “or maybe I did. I know there was a lot of clearing and light.” “No, you’re supposed to know a mystical experience when it happens to you, there is no probably or maybe. But it was good, right? You explain it, because I can’t. And now I’m not only still feeling the buzz from my come but I also feel no remorse over Gwendolyn anymore whatsoever. I truly believe she forgave me today,” and she says she still feels remorse just a little but she thinks she’ll get over it in time, and they go at each other again. Howard calls his friend and says “You knew Gwen Wakesman?” and he says “Yeah, you too? I went out with her when I was around twenty. I changed my age a little for the story.” “You know she’s not dead, of course. She’s living near Santa Fe, or was, up till about three years go.” “She’s still there but on a reservation now, learning how to make indianlike jewelry, silver and rugs. I’m in touch with someone who met her.” “So how much of the rest of the story’s true?” “You ask that of an author? You should be ashamed of yourself. Besides, you haven’t said what you thought of it.” “Some of it though, right?” and his friend says “What do you think? I went out with her for months and my libido hasn’t changed since I was a sex-starved five.” “But you’re such a putz. What the fuck did she ever see in you and why in hell didn’t you at least change her name? You can’t use someone’s real name like that. It’s demoralizing; it’s degrading. You’re a total schmuck as a writer and the biggest shit as a person — no, the reverse. No, both, and I never want to see your scummy face again,” and his friend hangs up. Couple of years later he’s at a dinner party and the woman he sits beside at the table talks about herself, grew up in Lake Forest, boarding school in New Hampshire, summers in coastal Canada or Spain, graduated Sarah Lawrence—“Oh, what year?” “Sixty-two.” “A year after Gwen Wakesman. Did you know her there?” “No I didn’t. There were always two groups, academic-aesthetic and the finishing school types. She must have been in the other.” “Which one were you in?” and she says “Are you belittling me? The academic-aesthetic.” “That would have been the one she was in too.” “If she was I would’ve known her, even if she was a year before me. We all interweaved.” “She’s been in the alumni magazine. I’ve read it. As an artist living outside Santa Fe.” “I don’t read that silly magazine. It’s only published to raise money from the finishing school types in exchange for them telling us the names of their newest horse, boat or island and for the few a-a egotists in every class to talk endlessly about themselves and to promote their book tours and art exhibits and plays they’re in.” “I’m sure she would have been in the artistic group at school.” He next sees her name in the obituary notice for her father. Surviving are his wife Gladys, daughter Gwendolyn Leigh-Balicoff, and two grandchildren, Olympia and Augustine. So she might have got married again and the kids could be hers or her sister’s. She might even have adopted a couple of Indian children. But no mention of her sister. She die? Then it would have said “deceased.” They disown her? Weeks later he looks up her father’s name in the phone book; they’ve moved to Park Avenue, if it’s the same Philip. Calls to find out where she’s living. An older woman answers. If Gwen had he thinks he would have immediately hung up. “Hello, I’m trying to reach Gwendolyn Wakesman, now Leigh-hyphen-Balicoff. I have the right number?” “She’s living in Munich,” the woman says, “and I’m not allowed to furnish her address or phone number.” “Munich. Well, nice city. And she has a phone now? Good. Could you possibly be the woman who worked for them then, Rose or Ruth?” “Ruth, yes.” “You probably don’t remember me, Ruth. My name’s Harold Zeif. I used to date Gwen — just two dates, really — years ago, when we were in our teens.” “I don’t remember you, sir.” “How could you, and there wouldn’t be any need to. And God, you’re still working there, unless you’re only visiting for the day.” “I’m still employed by the Wakesmans, though my chores have been reduced and I no longer live in.” “Also, I was probably one of many young men Gwen knew. She was so pretty and intelligent and mature and charming, she must have had many suitors.” “That she was and did, sir. I remember that.” “How’s Mrs. Wakesman taking the death of her husband? I mean, I didn’t know her well either. I came in, her parents said hello, they were very nice — but it was a matter of seconds, maybe a minute I saw them and just one time. In the living room of the old Riverside Drive apartment, with all the paintings.” “Same paintings are here now. Different furniture though.” “I remember the furniture. Big elegant flowery couch, right?” “Vertical stripes.” “I remember flowers. I’m of course wrong. But the chairs — soft easy ones — were flowered then.” “Plain. A deep rich green one and a deep rich red one, if you’re talking about the armed padded chairs. Both are gone now. They had a decorator in and out everything went. I got the red chair, cigarette burn-holes and all.” “Then I’m thinking of someone else’s apartment. But how’s Mrs. Wakesman doing?” “Not well, as should be expected. They were tightly knit, at work and as parents.” “I remember they were. From Gwen talking, and just for the minute I saw them they seemed like very fine people. Polite, generous, cosmopolitan. And Toby? It is Toby, right — Gwen’s sister?” “Toby then but she changed it back to the original Dorothea when she turned twenty. She died many years ago.” “Ohh, that’s what I was afraid of. When the obiturary didn’t list her name as surviving. But no ‘deceased,’ it said, which puzzled me.” “That was an error of the newspaper. It was asked to say she died and didn’t survive.” “I should have thought of that. I worked on newspapers and so know how they leave things out. But what a nice cute kid she was. Did she get sick?” “It’s a story I don’t want to go into, sir.” “She didn’t kill herself, I hope.” “I shouldn’t be saying anything, sir, and it doesn’t seem you were close to the family.” “Not with her wrists.” “No, something much worse. Complete mutilation. They never got over it ever, neither Gwendolyn either. After all, there was only the two of them for the parents, and as sisters they were always little buddies.” “I’m sure. I didn’t know Dorothea well, but the times I did see her — I think she was there both times I went out with Gwen and then I used to see her walking on Broadway sometimes — she was a wonderful girl. Peppy, lively. Well, they’re the same thing, but that’s what she was. Double lively, chipper, energetic, I think — a real spark with a beautiful face and smile.” “That’s so. All of that. I loved her. Of the two, and I loved them both, she was my special little doll,” and she starts crying. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.” “That’s all right. I like to cry for her.” “I’m really sorry. Gwen, I suppose, was in for her father’s funeral?” “I’d like to stop now, sir; I’ve things to do. May I ask why you called, so I can jot it down here? Is it to pay your condolences?” “In a way, yes. But especially to Gwen. And now for both her sister and father.” “I’ll try to convey it to her. Your name was how spelled?” “Harold. And then Z-e-i-f. It’s been so long, she might not remember who I was.” “I’ll let her know, if she happens to call and I get on or if her mother writes to her.” “Just one more thing, Ruth. Is Gwen now married?” “No.” “So she married only two times?” “Three, but the third was annulled.” “Then the last name Leigh-hyphen-so-on is her third husband’s?” “It’s a combination of her sister’s middle name and her mother’s maiden name which she decided to use when she moved to Europe. I think she said she wanted a new life in every possible way.” “What’s she doing there, working, painting?” “Nobody knows.” “Surely you know but maybe you don’t feel like saying or were instructed not to, which’d be OK.” “No I don’t know, sir, and neither does her mother.” “And the children mentioned in the obituary — are they hers or Dorothea’s or one of each?” “Dorothea’s. They went with the husband after the accident, you can call it.” “It wasn’t over a man she killed herself, pardon me for asking. I shouldn’t have; I’m sorry.” “I don’t like answering that one way or the other, but it wasn’t, and it’s none of your business as you said. If you don’t mind I won’t give Gwendolyn your message. She once told me to screen all the messages too.” “You mean letters, packages, requests from alumni magazines — things like that?” She doesn’t answer. “I suppose you’re right. My condolences all around. That includes you too, of course. I can imagine how you felt then, and now with Mr. Wakesman after so many years, and I’m sorry if I sounded snoopy.” “Thank you,” and she hangs up. He gets to Munich the next year with his wife-to-be and looks up Gwen’s name and then her maiden name in the Munich phone books. She’s unlisted or maybe not living there anymore. His writer friend and he never speak after that last phone call but he expects he’ll bump into him one day and they’ll shake hands and eventually meet for coffee or a beer as they used to about twice a year and he’ll get around to asking him about his relationship with Gwen and if he’s heard anything new about where she is and what she’s doing.