Iâll put you in a cab later. Itâs only nine-thirty.â
âAnd youâre not bored with me, Ike? Weâve been together all day.â
âIâm not bored. Are you?â
âNo, itâs been a good day for me, the best. And you must call me Liz. Everyone does.â
We took a cab to my apartment, and I busied myself with building a fire, while Elizabeth fixed herself at the dining-room window, overlooking the river. âI canât get enough of it. Itâs a whole other thing at night.â
âYes, it changes. It always changes.â
âIf I lived here, Iâd spend my life at this window.â
âOh, Liz, I donât think so. Youâd get used to it.â
âNoâhow could I?â She came into the living room now and stood in front of the fire. âI wouldnât get used to this either, Ike.â The big couch faced the fire, and she dropped onto it, stretching her legs.
âThis looks like a dream,â she said, âsitting here in the center of New York, in front of a fireplace, with that wonderful river out thereâwhen did you find me on the bridge? Was it a whole lifetime ago?â
âFriday nightâan old Jew driving home from a coffee klatch.â
âWhy do you keep referring to yourself as an old man?â
âBecause Iâm an old man. Seventy-nine come December, old enough to be your grandfather.â
âNo, no, not my grandfather. Youâre filled with life and warmth and compassionâand youâre very wise. When you told me at dinner that a man like Sedge Hopper is not born out of a bad seed but is shaped by a society that venerates greed and power above all else, I began to understand him for the first time.â
âWhich does not make him any less wicked.â
âBut God would understand and forgive him.â
I had no answer to that. I asked whether I might bring her something, some port perhaps?
âNothing. Iâm totally contentâuntil I open my eyes and discover this is all a dream.â
âNot a dream, not at all, Liz.â
We sat on the couch, side by side, ten inches or so between us, talking a little but mostly staring at the fire and watching it burn down. At last, I said, âTime to go, Liz?â But the last thing in the world I wanted was for her to leave me. I felt that if she did, the past three days would disappear in a puff of smoke.
She didnât answer my question.
âItâs almost eleven.â
âMy shift begins at two P.M. and I work until nine.â
âStill, you have to go home!â
âWhy?â Now she spoke like a little child, pleadingly. âWhy do I have to go home, Ike? I donât want to go back to that dreadful apartment. Why canât I sleep in your sonâs room where I slept the first night?â Then the boldness of her request overcame her and she leaped to her feet, shaking her head. âNo, Iâm making a fool of myself! What an awful thing to ask you!â She strode out of the room to the entry, and when I followed her, she was struggling into her long sweater.
âLiz,â I said gently, grasping her by the arms, âlet go of the sweater. Of course you can stay over. Please. Now come sit down again and weâll let the fire burn out.â
She allowed herself to be led back to the sofa. âI shouldnât have asked you. I wasnât making a pass, Ike, believe me, please. I donât want to use you or take advantage of your kindness. It would be better if you let me go home.â
âNo, Iâm afraid youâre trapped, Liz. Iâll sleep better if I know youâre in the next room.â
âBecause you still think Iâll kill myself? No, Ike, thatâs over. Donât you understand? You came by on the bridge because it was not my time to die. You were sent. I know you donât believe that, but I do; and itâs no excuse for me to act
Mark Edwards, Louise Voss