Ordinary People by Judith Guest

tell him of his “loss.” His mother had “passed away”—another term he was more familiar with, having heard it used frequently in connection with the elderly, wraithlike beings who inhabited the east wing of the Home, coming and going very quickly. He remembered the feeling of awe that possessed him that day. He was aware that an event of some magnitude had happened to him. Someone close to him had passed away and it was his loss, and his alone. For a short time he became a figure of some importance to his peers. And he was invited to the director’s office for cocoa and sermons on Love and Loss, and How a Christian Deals with Grief. The only difference he perceived was that he no longer had any visitor or presents on his birthday, or at Christmas. Well, that wasn’t true, really. He had presents, they just weren’t from anyone he knew. But he did not, at the time, understand the meaning of loss. And of grief. He still had not experienced those words at all.
    He had grieved over Arnold, though. Not when he died, it was too late, then; years since he had seen him. But when he discovered that it had been a business venture, after all, that had felt like grief. It was grief. He and Beth had, together, repaid the money. It was, as Bacon pointed out to him, a financial obligation. It took five years, but it was not a hardship. Beth had her own money; he had a good scholarship, and they hardly felt the monthly bill. But Arnold’s indifference, after the marriage—that had hurt him so much. It had undermined him, taken away something that he hadn’t even realized he possessed; he had regarded it so lightly, so casually.
    Cherry swings into the room with her smile, to put the papers on his desk. Seductively, that is how she does it. She works hard at it. Too hard. She has a good telephone voice. That’s about it. Can’t take dictation worth a damn, and she won’t file. He wonders where she found this one; she must have had to do some hunting for it. Her boy friend goes to Northwestern, gets out of class at five o’clock each day, she has informed them. She is firm about leaving the office at exactly that time. Her habit of sneaking error-spotted letters on the desk for his signature, as she gives him the look of wide-eyed innocence, drives him crazy. What would Bacon have to say about a secretary like this? “Calvin, you get what you deserve.”
    I’m the kind of man who — hasn’t the least idea what kind of man I am. There. Some definition. He is no closer than he was back in the director’s office, back when he listened to the sermons, his mind wandering, not even aware, then, that he was searching.
    So, how does a Christian deal with grief? There is no dealing; he knows that much. There is simply the stubborn, mindless hanging on until it is over. Until you are through it. But something has happened in the process. The old definitions, the neat, knowing pigeonholes have disappeared. Or else they no longer apply.
    His eyes move again to the calendar. Wednesday, November fifth. Of course. Obvious. All the painful self-examination ; the unanswered questions. At least he knows what is wrong today. Today is Jordan’s birthday. Today he would have been nineteen.

7
    Karen smiles at him. Deep dimples in her cheeks. He had forgotten that about her, had forgotten how she lowers her head when she is embarrassed or nervous. Nervous now as she sits down across from him in the narrow booth. It makes him feel protective. She doesn’t have to be afraid of him.
    “Hi. How are you?”
    “Fine. And you?”
    He grins; shrugs his shoulders. “Not bad. Light, scattered paranoia increasing to moderate during the day.” He means merely to jog her memory, but she frowns and looks away. He has offended her. “Hey, I’m only kidding. I’m fine. Really.”
    She leans awkwardly to the side, shrugging out of her coat; folds it neatly beside her on the seat. She has gained weight since the hospital. It looks good on her. She