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good and I want you to meet her and if we could get
     the timing right, the kids.” “I’d love it.” “You still get to New York regularly then?”
     and she says “From time to time, mostly on business.” “And what’s that?—but this must
     be costing you,” and she says “Don’t worry about it—think of all I’ve saved these
     years without calling you. I own a pottery shop where we sell and teach—I’ve a couple
     of women in with me,” and I say “You were interested in pottery, that’s right, almost
     as much as acting.” “Not only interested. For many years after I gave up acting it
     was all I did—study, dug my own mud. I even showed, not that anything came of it—so
     we both, you could say, went through the same thing, but I stuck with it though mostly
     now running the shop and teaching it, not something I especially enjoy anymore but
     I can’t for the rest of my life rely on Josh even if he wanted me to,” and I say “I
     can understand, you want to be independent.” “I have to be.” “Right, you have no choice—so,
     would you like to have lunch here?” and she says “Sure, it’s why I called, to see
     you and talk.” “What I mean is you’d have to come here, if you’re going to meet Carolyn
     and the kids, since we have no car and I never get up there.” “I know—I can’t plan
     anything for a couple of weeks but some time after that—let me give you my number
     and I’ve got yours and your office hours and one of us will phone the other,” and
     I take down her number and in case I lose it, I say, her address and she says “Well,
     I’ve really loved this, and when you see your mother please don’t forget that special
     hug from me,” and I say “I’m sure she’ll remember you, thanks, and I’ll be talking
     to you,” and she says “Same here, good-by,” and we hang up.
    I go into the living room and say “Excuse me, can I butt in on your work a minute?”
     and she says “What, your call?” and I say “You wouldn’t believe who it was,” and she
     says “Ramona Bauer, woman you almost married, one of your three or four great loves
     and first one of your adult life—I heard you shout her name out,” and I say “It’s
     been what?” and count back in my head. “Twenty-two years—I remember because to see
     her I borrowed a car from the other associate editor of the two dick magazines I worked
     for then, and I only worked there a few months before I got the radio news job. She
     was living with her boyfriend—now he’s her husband, though they’re divorcing,” and
     she says “That’s interesting, because you’ve said she called you a number of times
     like that when she was divorcing or breaking up after a long relationship.” “I didn’t
     know I told you that,” and she says “Everything, you’ve told me everything, or at
     least you said you have, about all your old flames.” “What else I tell you about her?”
     and she says “What else is there? Everything is everything. First one to get on top
     of you, second or third female to break your heart. That she was reading Dear Theo when you met her. She taught you how to smoke a pipe and then told you your breath
     stunk from it, so you stopped and never smoked anything again. Her artist father,
     actor brother, playwright mother.” “That’s right, they were—the parents. Very glamorous
     sophisticated people,” and she says “You told me that too. How they opened you to
     things you’d never experienced before—way of life, way to live, martinis, fireplaces,
     roasted whole duck. Did she ask about me?” “Come to think of it, nothing particular—mostly
     friends we both knew, and my mother and brothers and sisters. But she said I seemed
     very happily married and asked your name and I think what you did. And the kids.”
     “Why do you think she called?” and I say “To renew our friendship, she said, because
     you know, besides being lovers we were