to adopt the pronoun “we.” I said no more to you about it, but I never missed morning coffee after that. When Sandy stopped at the table, I was friendly with her, so friendly that she could rarely have a conversation with you. I talked of “our” plans for next year. I occasionally let my hand rest lightly on your shoulder. And I watched Sandy withdraw a little until, by the time spring vacation began, I felt I could relax.
Or perhaps nervousness about my work simply distracted me. I had promised to give a sermon. I had to write it. It’s hard to remember now just why I chose the subject I did. It must have come out of a conversation with you, a play I’d read by Dorothy Sayers, one of my mother’s favorite writers, or some of my father’s marginal notes in a commentary, and the hope that, very indirectly, I might deal with some of my own doubts. Anyway, on that first Saturday morning, when the dormitory was as deserted as I had hoped it would be, I sat down at my desk, surrounded by books, making notes on various interpretations of the story of Cain and Abel. When the phone rang and rang down the empty corridor, I finally had no defense against it.
“Kate?”
“Andy! Where are you?”
“In the city. I just got in.”
“How long are you going to be here?”
“That somewhat depends—look, can I see you?”
“Of course.”
“This afternoon?”
“Well… yes, sure.”
“Is Esther around?”
“Yes, shall I see if she’s free?”
“No, better not. I’ll get in touch with her later. Do you look as good as you sound?”
“No, but I’m sure you do.”
“For that, I’ll change my tie.”
“Tie? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a shirt!”
“What a disappointment I’m going to be. I haven’t been out of long underwear all the Canadian winter. Why did you want to go to Spain when you live in a place like this?”
“As you’ll remember, I don’t know myself.”
“Are you free for dinner as well? I know that’s a very bad boy-girl thing, calling Saturday morning for Saturday night—”
“Don’t waffle. Just come along.”
I was surprised that Andrew Belshaw would call me rather than you, for though I’d had several whimsical letters from him during the year and one rather drunken and amiable phone call from Calgary, I assumed that he must have made a closer friend of you in the weeks you traveled together after I left. We had talked very little about those weeks, but now I remembered that, if his name came up in casual conversation, you rarely said much. Perhaps, out of loyalty to Peter, you had gone on mistrusting him.
I remembered, too, just for a moment, that last, long morning which I had used to myself as the final excuse for being driven away from all of you. I didn’t really believe it at the time, and now, caught by my own pleasure at the sound of Andrew’s voice, I let go of unnecessary defenses against him. I quite simply wanted to see him.
I worked peacefully for the rest of the morning, intending to make only casual preparations for his arrival. “Don’t spend all day on a meal you don’t intend to serve,” Doris would say. I’d let vanity rest in the high cheekbones and coloring of an unknown mother and in the handsome burnt-orange cotton dress my known mother had recently sent to me. I would be all one color.
“You’re gorgeous, Kate,” Andrew said, in almost surprised approval, and I thought that he had never seen me in a dress before.
“So are you—the sky-eyed boy, all dressed up in clothes.”
Perhaps the reason I liked Andrew’s handsomeness so was that it made him a little less real to me, a little less accessible; for I had nothing to offer that could belong to the other half of his silverware ad. Meeting him there in the large, empty living room, I was even sorry there was no one else around to admire him, for he looked as at home in his well-tailored suit as he had in his perpetual swimming trunks or old khaki trousers.
“How many
Or perhaps nervousness about my work simply distracted me. I had promised to give a sermon. I had to write it. It’s hard to remember now just why I chose the subject I did. It must have come out of a conversation with you, a play I’d read by Dorothy Sayers, one of my mother’s favorite writers, or some of my father’s marginal notes in a commentary, and the hope that, very indirectly, I might deal with some of my own doubts. Anyway, on that first Saturday morning, when the dormitory was as deserted as I had hoped it would be, I sat down at my desk, surrounded by books, making notes on various interpretations of the story of Cain and Abel. When the phone rang and rang down the empty corridor, I finally had no defense against it.
“Kate?”
“Andy! Where are you?”
“In the city. I just got in.”
“How long are you going to be here?”
“That somewhat depends—look, can I see you?”
“Of course.”
“This afternoon?”
“Well… yes, sure.”
“Is Esther around?”
“Yes, shall I see if she’s free?”
“No, better not. I’ll get in touch with her later. Do you look as good as you sound?”
“No, but I’m sure you do.”
“For that, I’ll change my tie.”
“Tie? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a shirt!”
“What a disappointment I’m going to be. I haven’t been out of long underwear all the Canadian winter. Why did you want to go to Spain when you live in a place like this?”
“As you’ll remember, I don’t know myself.”
“Are you free for dinner as well? I know that’s a very bad boy-girl thing, calling Saturday morning for Saturday night—”
“Don’t waffle. Just come along.”
I was surprised that Andrew Belshaw would call me rather than you, for though I’d had several whimsical letters from him during the year and one rather drunken and amiable phone call from Calgary, I assumed that he must have made a closer friend of you in the weeks you traveled together after I left. We had talked very little about those weeks, but now I remembered that, if his name came up in casual conversation, you rarely said much. Perhaps, out of loyalty to Peter, you had gone on mistrusting him.
I remembered, too, just for a moment, that last, long morning which I had used to myself as the final excuse for being driven away from all of you. I didn’t really believe it at the time, and now, caught by my own pleasure at the sound of Andrew’s voice, I let go of unnecessary defenses against him. I quite simply wanted to see him.
I worked peacefully for the rest of the morning, intending to make only casual preparations for his arrival. “Don’t spend all day on a meal you don’t intend to serve,” Doris would say. I’d let vanity rest in the high cheekbones and coloring of an unknown mother and in the handsome burnt-orange cotton dress my known mother had recently sent to me. I would be all one color.
“You’re gorgeous, Kate,” Andrew said, in almost surprised approval, and I thought that he had never seen me in a dress before.
“So are you—the sky-eyed boy, all dressed up in clothes.”
Perhaps the reason I liked Andrew’s handsomeness so was that it made him a little less real to me, a little less accessible; for I had nothing to offer that could belong to the other half of his silverware ad. Meeting him there in the large, empty living room, I was even sorry there was no one else around to admire him, for he looked as at home in his well-tailored suit as he had in his perpetual swimming trunks or old khaki trousers.
“How many
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