Betty, October 21, 2007

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Seeing him at the grocery store—it's surprising, really, now that I look back, that there haven't been more awkward moments. We've been living here, in the same neighborhood, driving on the same streets, for twenty-five years now. Longer than that, of course, especially for him, but twenty-five years since.

"Betty," he said. "How nice to see you."

Our houses are less than a mile apart, but maybe, except for the brief period when we were actually pursuing each other, maybe we live in different worlds, move in different networks. Maybe the gradient in housing, from his sprawling brick tudor, every bedroom with its own bathroom and a few more just for the convenience of one's visitors, down the scale to my tidy bungalow with its vinyl siding—maybe that's the leading indicator of a different social ecosystem—different dry-cleaners, different auto mechanics, different florists. Different friends, that's for sure.

"Raymond," I said. "What a surprise."

And now, after twenty-five years, here in this aisle. My only indulgence—this expensive little store with its great produce section. Why did he show up now? He never did any of his own shopping, I'm know he didn't, even after his wife left him.

When did she leave? '84 maybe? No, it was at least '87. A good five years after we broke up. So I wasn't the direct cause.

"Are you still working?" he said.

Of course I always liked to think that I was more dangerous to him—to his equilibrium—than any of the others. A single woman. Perfectly happy with my lot in a modestly paid helping profession. He preferred married women, that was clear, or at least he felt more comfortable when the culpability was symmetrical.

"I still have a couple of years to go," I said.

We each had a bottle of red wine in our carts—Australian shiraz for me, Chateauneuf du Pape for him.

"Ah," he said. "About a week ago, I was having lunch with the new Superintendent..."

He paused, inviting me to interrupt. I thought for a moment, then accepted the invitation.

"You asked after me," I said. "That's nice. But the Super wouldn't know me."

He nodded, very thoughtfully, and then, like everyone else, I answered the question he hadn't even asked.

"That administrative job—" I said. "I gave it up a couple of years ago. I'm just a school nurse again. Prospect Elementary. I missed the kids."

"Good for you," he said.

"Yourself?" I said.

"Well, my name's still on the shingle," he said. "And my former partners let me use my old office. I sit on several boards, and there's an old client or two who insist on occasionally giving me a call."

He reached toward the shelf, picked up a can of Spanish olives, and studied the label, tilting his head back to position the small text in the appropriate part of his progressive lenses.

"Are these any good?" he said.

When did he become interested in ingredients? I shrugged my shoulders.

"I was reading recently," I said, "about your daughter. You're on the board of that nature center, aren't you?"

He put the olives back on the shelf.

"Yes," he said, "that was difficult. But it's a wonderful organization, still very much worthy of my support. And Lisa will certainly find a new project. I'm very grateful to her for getting me involved with the Tangled Bank in the first place."

How does he do it? He could walk out of prize fight and make it sound as if the knockout was the first step toward an amicable partnership.

"Raymond," I said, "I hate to ask you for legal advice, but there's a situation that's beginning to trouble me. It's about my father."