just as well,” she said. “She would have been bored todeath. I'm sorry I acted badly,” she went on. “I had an upsetting phone call just before people started arriving. Do you have children?”
“I do,” said Charles. “Two grown children, both estranged. And you?”
“One,” said Ruth. Charles had firmly and deftly turned them off this subject. She rifled through her mental files to find another but nothing came to her, no question or remark that seemed appropriate to this odd encounter. How long could she sit here, like a patient under the care of an attendant? Finally she turned to face Charles Johns directly and blurted out, quite unpremeditatedly, “How do we grow old?”
This caught him by surprise. “Well how do we
not?”
“No, I mean it. I mean of course we
can't not
, but don't you feel that people of our generation are singularly unequipped—” Here Charles lit a cigarette and offered her one, which she declined.
“—singularly unequipped to meet the fact of growing old? Don't you think that after we've reached a certain age, after fifty-five or so, there are no markers anymore? We no longer have any way to locate where we are in our lives? No sense of where we are in relation to the end? Just a long featureless glide and none of the traditional signs along the way. When I think about somebody like Mamie Eisenhower …” But no. Forget Mamie Eisenhower. That was a tiresome way to illustrate her point. “How old are you, by the way? May I ask?”
“You may. I'm fifty-two.” Ruth was surprised. She'd taken him to be her senior by at least five years.
“Does that sound familiar to you? The glide path? Maybe you're still too young. Maybe it really doesn't hit until fifty-five.”
Charles had started to laugh. “What?” said Ruth. “That was funny, what I said?” She was laughing herself, nervously craning her neck in an effort to make out his expression in the darkness.
“Yes it was funny,” said Charles. “If you can think of life as a glide I congratulate you. I think of life as a plummet.”
Charles's laughter brought on a coughing fit. When he'd gotten it under control they sat for a while in a comfortably despondent silence. Ruth was sober now, and very tired. The ordinary rules of social distance had reestablished themselves. She needed to return to a more conventional conversational footing. “I hear you're teaching a very interesting course,” she said, glancing at him as if he were sitting to her left at a dinner party. “Sounds very literary.”
“Ah,” said Charles. “I just reach around and take books off my shelves more or less at random. I'm afraid I'm really not a trained philosopher. Not like your husband. I've done a good deal of reading and thinking, but not in any systematic kind of way.”
“So you've done this before? This kind of teaching?”
“That and a number of other things. I worked in construction until I started sprouting hernias. I ran a bookstore. A few years ago I tried to set myself up as a kind of all-purpose consultant, working from home. I had no idea what I was doing, just imitating another layabout I know. Do I sound like a book jacket?”
“You left out lumberjack,” said Ruth. “And stevedore. And short-order cook.”
A pause followed, long enough to make Ruth begin to feel anxious. “A failed writer,” Charles said at last, shooting her a quick apologetic smile. “That's really what I am.”
“So am I! What do you write?”
“Poetry and plays. There was a time in the early eighties whenmy work got some attention. I had a couple of things produced off-Broadway. What do you write?”
“Short stories and novels. I haven't published recently. I had a kind of trilogy published ages ago.” Charles Johns cocked an inquiring eyebrow.
“Getting Good
, “said Ruth. It had been years since she'd found an opportunity to tell someone, years since she'd felt this particular constriction around the heart.
“Getting Good?.
I
“I do,” said Charles. “Two grown children, both estranged. And you?”
“One,” said Ruth. Charles had firmly and deftly turned them off this subject. She rifled through her mental files to find another but nothing came to her, no question or remark that seemed appropriate to this odd encounter. How long could she sit here, like a patient under the care of an attendant? Finally she turned to face Charles Johns directly and blurted out, quite unpremeditatedly, “How do we grow old?”
This caught him by surprise. “Well how do we
not?”
“No, I mean it. I mean of course we
can't not
, but don't you feel that people of our generation are singularly unequipped—” Here Charles lit a cigarette and offered her one, which she declined.
“—singularly unequipped to meet the fact of growing old? Don't you think that after we've reached a certain age, after fifty-five or so, there are no markers anymore? We no longer have any way to locate where we are in our lives? No sense of where we are in relation to the end? Just a long featureless glide and none of the traditional signs along the way. When I think about somebody like Mamie Eisenhower …” But no. Forget Mamie Eisenhower. That was a tiresome way to illustrate her point. “How old are you, by the way? May I ask?”
“You may. I'm fifty-two.” Ruth was surprised. She'd taken him to be her senior by at least five years.
“Does that sound familiar to you? The glide path? Maybe you're still too young. Maybe it really doesn't hit until fifty-five.”
Charles had started to laugh. “What?” said Ruth. “That was funny, what I said?” She was laughing herself, nervously craning her neck in an effort to make out his expression in the darkness.
“Yes it was funny,” said Charles. “If you can think of life as a glide I congratulate you. I think of life as a plummet.”
Charles's laughter brought on a coughing fit. When he'd gotten it under control they sat for a while in a comfortably despondent silence. Ruth was sober now, and very tired. The ordinary rules of social distance had reestablished themselves. She needed to return to a more conventional conversational footing. “I hear you're teaching a very interesting course,” she said, glancing at him as if he were sitting to her left at a dinner party. “Sounds very literary.”
“Ah,” said Charles. “I just reach around and take books off my shelves more or less at random. I'm afraid I'm really not a trained philosopher. Not like your husband. I've done a good deal of reading and thinking, but not in any systematic kind of way.”
“So you've done this before? This kind of teaching?”
“That and a number of other things. I worked in construction until I started sprouting hernias. I ran a bookstore. A few years ago I tried to set myself up as a kind of all-purpose consultant, working from home. I had no idea what I was doing, just imitating another layabout I know. Do I sound like a book jacket?”
“You left out lumberjack,” said Ruth. “And stevedore. And short-order cook.”
A pause followed, long enough to make Ruth begin to feel anxious. “A failed writer,” Charles said at last, shooting her a quick apologetic smile. “That's really what I am.”
“So am I! What do you write?”
“Poetry and plays. There was a time in the early eighties whenmy work got some attention. I had a couple of things produced off-Broadway. What do you write?”
“Short stories and novels. I haven't published recently. I had a kind of trilogy published ages ago.” Charles Johns cocked an inquiring eyebrow.
“Getting Good
, “said Ruth. It had been years since she'd found an opportunity to tell someone, years since she'd felt this particular constriction around the heart.
“Getting Good?.
I
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