“Look, we’ve known each other a long time.” Karl hauled the screeching dog onto his lap and stroked him. “Quiet, Gatto. That’s right. Good boy. A long time, Joy. Practically our whole lives, give or take a few decades when we lost touch…”
Joy saw a yellow piece of paper that she thought might be it. But Ben’s ticket was pink, it was pink. What if she had missed his court date? What would happen to him? Some awful permanent mark on his license or his credit rating. It was not as if they’d throw him in jail. Was it? But a fine, there would be a fine … He would never trust her again with something important. He would think she was old, senile, useless.
“… I think it could be good for both of us, and it just makes sense, don’t you think?”
In the inside zipper pocket of the largest bag—a black-and-white-striped bag she had gotten on a trip, which trip? Oh, it didn’t matter which trip, Joy, for heaven’s sake, all that mattered was the court date—she felt something, paper, wadded-up paper.
“Joy?”
She pulled it out. It was pink. She unfolded it.
“What do you think, Joy?”
“I found it! It’s not until September!”
“No, I mean about us moving in together.”
Joy folded the summons carefully and put it back in the zippered inner pocket. She put everything back in her bags, the thermos, the flashlight, the pads and adult diapers that were, thank god, in an opaque plastic bag. She was nearly panting. So much excitement. As she went to put her atomizer back in the smaller bag, she took a few puffs, just in case. And finally the dog, into the striped bag.
Living with Karl. What would that mean? The end of loneliness? The echo of another person’s footsteps in the house. Someone to pretend to listen to you as you read out loud from the newspaper, with whom to discuss what to have for dinner, someone with whom to chat about the weather, someone with whom to share a life.
“I’ve been in love with you for sixty-five years,” Karl said. “How corny that sounds. But it’s true. It’s not that I thought of you every day. I didn’t. But there was an impression of you, I suppose you could say that. An impression on my heart.”
Tears came to Joy’s eyes. She was staring blindly down at the pavement. She could not look at him. She wondered what Aaron would think when she told him. But she could not tell him. Aaron, Aaron, how can I know what I feel without you here?
“I’m sorry,” Karl said. “Bad idea.”
“No, it’s a wonderful idea, Karl.”
“But?”
She shook her head.
“Your children? I thought that might be a problem.”
“No, no. Not them.” Although they might not like it, he was right. In which case, she thought, they could lump it.
“It’s too soon,” Karl said.
“Well, yes, it is too soon.”
Karl made a disgusted sound. “I was afraid of that, I understand, but when you think about it, nothing is too soon when you’re our age.”
“It’s not just that, Karl. Although it is too soon for me, even if I’m old. But there’s something else. It’s my apartment. I can’t leave my apartment. I just can’t.”
“Too many memories, the place where you raised your children, yes, I see.”
“No, not that.”
“Well, what then?”
“The apartment is … rent-controlled.”
They both burst out laughing.
“I can’t give it up. I mean I just can’t,” she said, laughing still.
Then Karl took her hand, kissed it. “We are star-crossed lovers,” he said good-naturedly.
Joy took his hand now and squeezed it. “Star-crossed lovers.” She liked the sound of that. She liked the idea of being any kind of lover at all. She finally looked at him, his clean-shaven face a little pink in the spring air, his heavy eyelids and serious eyes, his fine silver hair shining. He loved her. He had loved her all along. She wondered if she loved him. A shiver of something that could have been love passed through her. Or it could have been simple pleasure. Or vanity. Or was it gratitude? She tried to remember what she had felt like when she had fallen in love as a girl. She remembered the sunlit giddiness, the dizzy confusion of falling through air without moving, the conviction that roared like an animal inside her. She remembered trembling and touching and knowing. She remembered Aaron scooping her up in his long arms. She remembered Karl, too, pushing the hair from her face before he kissed her. She remembered parties and dancing and being held close, her face against Aaron’s cheek. Unless it was Karl’s. But, no, it was Aaron’s, before he grew his beard, she could hear him singing along to the music, his breath in her ear. She could not remember the song. She wished she could remember the song.
“It was all so long ago,” she said. “And it’s still too soon.”