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Edith was tempted to take a cab, it was that February bitter. As she left the
“
Beekman Place placed—Sally insisted on referring to the house as that—a taxi cruised by and she went so far as to raise her hand, and when it stopped, she was suddenly embarrassed.
“
It
’
s better for me if I walk,
”
she explained.
“
That
’
s
what you hailed me for?—to tell me
that?
”
He shook his head.
“
Even in Beekman Place they got
meshuganas.
”
Edith broke out laughing and quickly got out a dollar bill, handed it over. The driver, gnarled and permanently suspicious, eyed the green paper a mo
’
ment before pocketing it
“
If that
’
s what you tip for
not
riding, lady, I sure the hell wish you
’
d got in.
”

“
You made me laugh,
”
Edith told him.
“
I haven
’
t done that enough lately.
”
He waved, drove off; Edith began to walk, thinking about what she
’
d said. It was true—she hadn
’
t been laughing enough lately. The painting had started to become obsessive. And probably the children were complaining to themselves about her inattentiveness, and perhaps Phillip was worrying that die was entering some kind of life
crise,
but it just wasn
’
t so. She was painting better. Week by week. She could fed it in her fingers. And more than that, Sally told her it was true.

Pulling her navy blue coat tight around her, Edith set out for First Avenue and started uptown. It was after four so she didn
’
t window-shop at all, but in an antique store she caught sight of herself in an old mirror and her reddish hair, long and loose, was much too schoolgir
li
sh Edith decided. And more than that, with this weather, she was silly not to have worn a scarf. Maybe PDbiiy myself one at Blomningdale
’
s, she thought Something in cashmere perhaps. Extra long for extra
cold
days. She felt good about
that actually; the idea of actually buying something for herself and not Phillip or the girls proved a pleasing novelty.

In the middle 50
’
s she ran over the list in her mind. Phillip: a new red silk tie. The one he had was his favorite, and it was valiant, but nothing could survive the dollop of vinaigrette sauce Phillip accidentally fed it the evening earlier at Le Veau d
’
Or.
“
You poor dear,
”
Edith said, looking at his suddenly stricken Lincolnesque face.
“
It
’
s like you
’
ve lost an old friend.
”

So a new red silk tie was first on the agenda. And an extra long cashmere scarf, that came next. And then, oh then the girls.

Never terribly religious, Edith still believed that Up There Someone was on the lookout for those less fortunate. But when it came to the subject of Kate, Abigail, and Caroline, she was sometimes not all that sure. It wasn
’
t their growth spurts, which rendered all new clothes instantly, it seemed, obsolete. If children stayed the same size, grownups wouldn
’
t be able to say
“
my how you
’
ve grown
”
and then where would the art of intergenerational conversation be? And it wasn
’
t their incessant competitiveness— being young, they all three naturally were subscribers to the
“
chocolate cake
”
theory of love, i.e., love was a cake, the more that were around to share the smaller each portion became. The idea of there being a cake for each was beyond them yet. So they competed over everything, and Edith didn
’
t mind so much that the loser always wept, and she even survived the odd fact that the winner seemed also to be in tears.

What was truly hard to face was that she had three beloveds, aged fourteen, thirteen, and twelve, and
al
l three were hurtling into puberty at precisely the same time,
Kate, the fourteen-year-old, was a little late; Caroline, the baby, a bit precocious, Abby in the middle right on the button.

It was not easy.

A cross glance from either parent of course produced hysteria. Fine. What child likes cross looks? But a sweet look had the same effect. Or a puzzled one.
Everything
produced hysteria.
“
How was school today?
”
Hysteria.
“
What was the name of that cute boy from Collegiate?
”
Quick tears.
“
Shall we send out for Chinese food?
”
“
Chinese food, when I
’
m
dieting!
Wahhh.
”
And it did no good later to try and explain that the reason for the suggestion of Chinese food was because it was common knowledge that it was thinning.
“
Common knowledge?
You mean you talk to everybody about how fat I am?
WAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
!”

As she cut across 57th to Second Avenue, Edith wondered could she, when she was Edith Mazursky, have been the same to her mother as her brood was tormenting her now? Doubtful. Not because her mother disallowed tears—on the contrary, weeping was always part of Myrtle
’
s own arsenal. But she was also of the generation and temperament that didn
’
t just ignore a thing like puberty, she absolutely
denied its existence.
It was at most, a rumor, like menopause, and no more a fit subject for serious conversation than flying saucers.

Edith moved quickly up Second Avenue now, wondering if she shouldn
’
t have tried the same tack as Myrtle, total unswerving blind ignorance—her girls found her that way anyway, ignorant, unswerving, and blind—so probably it would have been worth the gamble. Curse Benjamin Speck anyway, Edith thought. Him and his
“
You know more than you think you know
”
approach to upbringing.

She was still moving uptown now, quickly in the increasing cold, when she saw a man running diagonally across Second in her direction, and instinctively she took a firmer grip on her purse, this in spite of the fact that the approaching figure might just have been —though it was hard to tell detail in this light—the handsomest man she had ever seen. He was running now, dead at her, and Edith looked quickly behind to see who his target was. But then he was on her, lifting her up in the air, trying to kiss her as she struggled.
“
Edith, Edith Mazursky Jesus son of a bitch.
”

When she at last realized it was Doyle Ackerman who held her in his arms, Edith stopped struggling.

He put her down, took her hand, led her quickly into the coffee shop on the corner, sat down across from her in the empty back booth. He was tanned, and wore a camel
’
s hair topcoat. Or perhaps it was vicuna, Edith never was much on that kind of thing. But she knew enough to see it was expensive. As was the dark gray suit he wore beneath.

Edith kept her navy blue topcoat on as long as she could. The dress underneath had never been stylish, even when it was new, and it was certainly not that now. She looked across at him. In fifteen years, he hadn
’
t gained a pound. Perhaps he was even trimmer now than when his perfect swimmer
’
s body had addled her brains.
“
Doyle,
”
she managed.
“
It
’
s perfectly obvious you
’
ve let yourself go to seed. For shame.
”

Doyle smiled, said
“
Coffee?
”
She nodded, so he said to the waitress by their table,
“
One coffee, one tea. And the coffee …
”
He hesitated only a moment.
“
Cream, no sugar.
”
He looked at Edith.
“
I remember right?
”

How could you not be impressed? Edith said as much.

Doyle laughed.
“
Funny, y
’
know,
”
Doyle said.
“
I knew back at Yale all those assholes could outgrind me, but I always was one hundred sure I
’
d end up ahead. On account of I remember reading an article about this top bartender once, and he said that the secret of success was remembering a customer
’
s name because once you had their name they were yours for life.
”

“
So you decided to remember how everyone liked their coffee, is that it?
”
Edith said.
“
Dale Carnegie insists there
’
s more to it than that.
”
She could not quite grab the name of the girl Doyle had married. It was hotel money though; that much she was sure.

“
Okay, fifteen years in thirty seconds, you wanna go first or me?
”

Their order came. Edith gestured for Doyle to begin.

“
Well, I married Angie Florsheim and we live in Miami—
we
both still live there, but not together.
Pfffffft
.
I see the kids though. And I run the business.
”

“
A hotel or something?
”
Edith said

“
Before
I
arrived it was
‘
a
’
hotel. It is now, believe me, many.
”

“
That
’
s wonderful, Doyle.
”

“
I
know things, Edith. I got a sense for the public pulse, you know what I mean?
”

Edith indicated that she did.

“
I decided to diversify. I knew one thing: Miami
’
s a cycle town and the hotel
’
s a cycle business. So, I went into an amusement park operation. I bought into a shopping center. I bought boats for chartering. I
…
”

Edith stirred her coffee, staring at the liquid now, listening to him. I and I and I and I and I… She took a sip, smiled at him, hoped the fact that her eyes were glazing over was reasonably well hidden. Dear God, what in the world would we have talked about for fifteen years?

“
Me?
”
she said when he finally asked her resume.
“
Just a housewife. Three girls. And I do a little painting when I can
,”

He reached across the table now, momentarily took her hand.
“
We had some fantastic times, remember?
”

“
Doyle, you broke my heart, remember?
”

“
I didn
’
t and you know it.
”

“
I
most certainly do know it, and the only reason you might not is you weren
’
t there when you did it. I came down to New Haven expecting you to meet me and there was your roommate with the news that you were going into the hotel business.
”

Doyle raised his right hand.
“
I always tried to let girls down easy,
”
he said.
“
It was best the way I did it.
”

“
It was chicken; I distinctly remember thinking that at the
t
ime.
”

“
Well, it all worked out great. I
’
m in great shape and you
’
re bearing up pretty good yourself from the looks of things. You married that tall guy on the rebound, huh?
”

“
Those things happen.
”

“
And it
’
s been great?
”

Edith thought very carefully before she answered. She spoke then with some precision:
“
Not great, but never less than good. And getting better every year. Those things happen too.
”

“
He never knew about us, did he?
”

“
Never.
”

“
I always tried to keep my relationships quiet; it was best that way,
”
Doyle said. And then he said,
“
Dinner?
”

Edith hesitated, because it might be fun to let Phillip see what an idiot she
’
d been, but then, he probably would tease her unmercifully about Doyle for years to come. Imitate him even. It wouldn
’
t be all that hard to imitate Doyle actually; all you
’
d need do was use the first person singular pronoun as often as possible and make believe you were Mortimer Snerd with two years of Andover behind you.

“
Nothing glamorous,
”
he said into the silence.
“
I
’
m into health a lot. Not a nut. I
’
m not a vegetarian or anything. But fish tends to be my mainstay.
”

“
Phillip loves Gloucester House,
”
Edith said.
“
I
’
ll have to check, he may be working late though.
”

“
I
’
m only interested
if
he
’
s working late,
”
Doyle said.
“
And Gloucester House is too well known, it
’
s a crossroads, y
’
know? There
’
s these two on
F
ulton Street Sloppy Louie
’
s and Sweet
’
s. Great fish and you don
’
t run into a lot of people, y
’
know?
”

Edith could barely wait to get out and call Sally Levinson. To reject the boy who broke your silly heart—-Christmas in February.
“
Oh Doyle,
”
she said. I have the children to think about
.
”

“
The children?
”

“
I don
’
t think I could lose you again. I couldn
’
t trust myself, Doyle. You
’
re too beautiful.
”

“
I
’
m a lot more than looks, Edith.
”

Edith almost asked what, but there was no point to stumping him, what did it prove.
“
We must remember each other as we were,
”
she said.
“
I
’
ve got to get to my shopping, Doyle.
”

“
You
’
re turning me down?
”

“
For now. Perhaps the next time we meet you
’
ll be into macrobiotics and then think of the music we
’
ll make.
”
She stood.

“
Here, here,
”
he said, scribbling on something. It was a business card and he handed it to her.
“
Put this in your purse. My private number
’
s on the back.
”

“
Bliss,
”
Edith said, putting the card along with her charge cards and turning for the door.
“
Doyle,
”
she said finally and with total seriousness.
“
You have absolutely made my day.
”
And she practically floated back out into the night and across town to Third and perhaps, had she been in a less glowing mood, she might have noted that for whatever reason, the cold, the threat of snow, the flow of pedestrian traffic was altering. Sometimes the street from Third to Bloomingdale
’
s was flooded, sometimes not.

This was one of the
“
not
”
times.

So conceivably Edith, a more down-to-earth Edith, might have noted that the dark street was, if not empty, certainly, at least for this moment, on the way to being more than half deserted. And those that did walk walked quickly, eyes on the ground, bodies tilted forward against the wind and cold.

As Edith began the block, she might even have been bothered by the dark stairway that led to the basement of a brownstone. Ordinarily those stairs are gated and locked. This was open. Forced perhaps. Or forgotten. But in either case, an enormous shadow moved slightly in that opening.

But probably Edith would have plunged on to her beloved Bloomingdale
’
s anyway. My God,
what
could happen to a nice Jewish girl who had just experienced that most blessed of all emotions, revenge? Hot damn, thought Edith Mazursky Holtz-man.

Her heels clicked, clicked, clicked on the sidewalk. What indeed
…
?