“He was very sick and suffering, and he asked me to do it. I had to weigh that choice: Was it murder, or was it mercy? Was it immoral or was it, given the circumstances, the moral choice? I’d thought I’d made my peace with it. But now I’m not so sure.”
Mabel didn’t know what to say. She had constructed an entire idea of Jericho as smart and good and noble, and this sudden confession did not fit neatly into that architecture. Her own life had been built upon a foundation of “doing good.” She’d not had much opportunity to challenge what that meant.
“I’m sorry,” she said. It seemed the flimsiest of comforts, but it was all she could offer.
Jericho pushed his plate away. “No. I’m sorry. That probably wasn’t the sort of thing you say on a date. This evening isn’t going very well, is it?”
“Well, it isn’t as bad as the time I accidentally stepped into a latrine at a labor camp, but I’d wager you’re correct.”
Jericho gave a small Ha! and Mabel had her first genuine smile of the night. “Why, Jericho. You just laughed. Will Nietzsche be mad at you?”
Jericho felt like a heel. He’d picked a fight for no reason at all. Mabel’s only sin was not being Evie. She at least deserved a fair shake as herself. If nothing sparked after that, well, so be it. At the very least, he should try to salvage the evening and end the date on a happier note.
He folded his napkin and stood with his hand out. “Mabel, would you like to dance?”
“Well, I certainly don’t want any more tea,” she said, joining him.
“I’m not much of a dancer,” he said apologetically. “And by that I mean that I don’t dance at all.”
“That’s all right. I’m not much of a dancer, either. But we’re the only people under the age of seventy in here, so I suppose that’s something, isn’t it?”
Jericho winced. “It’s pretty dreadful, isn’t it?”
Mabel wrinkled her nose in agreement. “But the blintzes are good.”
Jericho escorted Mabel to the dance floor, where they stood facing each other, awkward and uncertain. The orchestra struck up a tune whose notes were laced with old-country drama—blood feuds and doomed romance, survival and reinvention.
“May I?” Jericho asked nervously.
Mabel nodded. Jericho placed his hand at the small of her back and she jumped just slightly.
“Sorry. Did I…?”
“No! It’s… it’s fine. I’m just… it’s good.” Her cheeks were bright red.
Jericho rested his hand on her back once more, and this time Mabel put her left hand on his shoulder and raised her right hand to meet his, trying to ignore the heat suffusing her cheeks. Slowly, they moved around the dance floor—one, two-three, one, two-three—the older folks looking on approvingly, shouting encouragement in Russian and English. They managed several passes around the floor without incident. At the end, the old folks applauded, and Mabel was both proud and embarrassed.
“We should quit while we’re ahead, I think,” Jericho whispered.
“Agreed.”
On the walk home, the conversation was all about the Diviners exhibit and the brilliance of Charlie Chaplin. By the time they returned to the Bennington, fifteen minutes ahead of Mabel’s curfew, they’d made plans to go to the Strand to see a Buster Keaton picture.
“There might be people younger than sixty there,” Jericho said, and Mabel laughed.
Mabel strangled the strap of her pocketbook as her stomach fluttered. “Well, good night, Jericho.”
“Good night, Mabel,” Jericho said. He wasn’t precisely sure about the protocol of ending a mostly-but-not-entirely-disastrous first date. A handshake seemed too formal. Kissing a girl’s hand seemed like something only swashbuckler matinee idols could get away with and not feel like a complete fool. And so, rather impulsively, Jericho kissed Mabel sweetly and briefly on the lips and then took the stairs up to his own flat.