I once knew, nor any of the students. My friend Marty Stein, of whom I frequently have spoken, died in 1997. I do have a brother named William but we are estranged, & I am also estranged from my father. My mother is dead. I have no children, sisters, aunts, or uncles. At one time I had friends but now I rarely go out & I rarely have visitors. I am 58 yrs old now.
I do not know why I lied. Perhaps it was to have something interesting to tell you in my letters. Our correspondence has been very dear to me. I wish to make a fresh start now & to form a friendship with you based on truth. The one thing that gives me hope is knowing—I hope you will forgive me for saying it—that you, too, have had your secrets. I do not hold this against you. I hope you can forgive me as well.
Please consider this an invitation to come over anytime you like. I will wait for your call or your response.
Fondly,
Arthur
Then I opened my front door & put the letter in my mailbox & tipped the happy little red flag up.
• • •
Today marked the first visit of the girl from Home-Maid. Yolanda. I spent the morning thinking of what to wear. I couldn’t bring myself to do the wash, the wash being located inside of a closet that is not very maneuverable. Instead I took each one of my seven shirts out from the closet and laid them on my bed & inspected them for lint, holes, food, stains, & odors. The winner was my blue shirt so I put it on, making sure to align the buttons properly, & wetted a comb & ran it through my hair, & washed my face and hands as I was taught to, scrubbing behind my ears, scrubbing my nails especially.
I arranged myself on my couch: a glass of ice water placed virtuously on the end table, my glasses at the tip of my nose. I was reading something I thought would be impressive, a fat book on politics.
Noon came and went. I waited fifteen minutes & then began having a dream of Chinese food: the greased and glowing kind, unnaturally orange chicken with sesame seeds nestled in its crevices; white rice in buttery clumps that come apart wonderfully in the mouth; potstickers, ridged and hard at the seam and soft at the belly; crab rangoons, a crunch followed by lush bland creaminess; chocolate cake—nothing Chinese about it, but the best dessert for a meal of this kind, the sweet bitterness an antidote & a complement to all that salt.
Suddenly I became afraid of opening the door. I said a prayer that she wouldn’t come. I lifted my phone & had the idea of calling this agency, Home-Maid, & telling them that I had fallen ill and couldn’t have company. Before I could do this the doorbell buzzed.
I froze. A thrill of adrenaline went from my nose to the tips of my fingers. For what felt like an absurd amount of time I sat on my couch and did not move; I held my book before my face and looked up at nothing. Upon her second buzz I rose from the couch, rocking in place once or twice for momentum. I shuffled toward the door, still carrying my book. I was breathing hard; a drop of sweat rolled down my back. Coming, I said, so quietly that she might not have heard me.
I opened one half of the great double door. In front of me stood a little girl: she looked so young that at first I took her to be a lost child, the wrong person entirely. But she was wearing a uniform, a stiff, light blue dress with a white collar and pockets at each hip, like what waitresses wear in country diners. She was so tiny that it was too big for her. The shoulder seams were too wide for her shoulders and the waist was low, like the waist of a flapper’s dress. The hem too fell farther down her legs than seemed natural. A black purse hung off a long strap on her shoulder. On her feet were pink sneakers with little white stars on the tongue. She was looking at me wide-eyed, perhaps in terror.
“Yolanda?” I said.
She nodded.
“I’m Arthur Opp,” I said.
She nodded again. She had no coat & she was clutching her arms to her sides and clasping her