The Pull of the Moon_ A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,40

through the door and I saw how tall he was, must have been a good 6 ’4”. I used to have a real thing for tall men—well, it was tall boys at the time. I wanted to be with a basketball player. I was tall myself, and it seemed very important to me to have the boy bend down far to kiss me. Nobody but a basketball player could do that. I only had one date with a very tall boy, and I was so excited I made a fool of myself. He never asked me out again. And he never kissed me, either, even though when he brought me home and we stood at my front door I laid my purse at my feet, signaling my readiness. “See you,” he said, and walked away. I watched him go, my tree man, my tower, my tall person who hated my guts.

After Ruthie was born, I developed a thing for beards. I asked Martin to grow one but he said no, he’d tried it once and it didn’t work, there were bare spots all over his face where it just wouldn’t come in. I said that was when you were younger, try again now and he said no. So I fell in love with our pediatrician, who had a wonderful beard. It was a play love, with a flame that went out whenever I was really around him.

So this tall man, Robert was his name, came in and sat in my tiny living room. Your cabin is nicer than mine, he said, looking around, and I said, oh, I’d just put a few touches in, that’s all, I’d been there a few days, was leaving tomorrow. He asked where I was from and I was suddenly very tired of explaining myself so I just said I was from Boston and I was on my way to visit my sister in Arizona, and I hoped he wouldn’t ask any questions because I knew absolutely nothing about Arizona except that I thought you could get nice turquoise there. Of course I knew absolutely nothing about sisters, either, never having had one. But what brings you here, I asked, and he started to answer me and then, I couldn’t believe it, he put his hands over his face and began to weep—racking, ragged sobs. I sat immobilized. I didn’t know what to do. It is such a terrifying thing to see a man cry. I know it’s supposed to be wonderful, men getting in touch with their feminine side and all that, but the truth is it makes me so uncomfortable I want to scream. Even when it’s just men on the movie screens, I want to say, “Stop that!” I want to say, “Remember yourself, why don’t you! You’re a man!” It’s a bad sentiment, it’s wrong; but it’s how I feel.

Finally, he stopped crying and looked up at me, red-eyed. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding like he had a cold, which seemed suddenly like such a sweet thing, like a pale green shoot in an early summer garden, something you’d want to bend over and protect. I said no, no, it was fine, it was all right, was there anything I could do? He asked if I had some Kleenex and I went into the bedroom to get him some and when I did I had a thought: This is sexual, being in a bedroom, getting something to bring out to a man. He blew his nose—in the usual manly, honking way, I was happy to see—and then said, “I just … I’m sorry. My wife just died. I’m here to … I needed to get away.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. He looked so young. I felt a million questions jostle for position in my brain. Died from what? Were you there? What did it feel like? What did you say to each other? And then Martin appeared in my head, alive, standing with his hands in his khaki pants, his blue shirt open at the throat. I had a thought to call him and say, “Don’t! Don’t do anything! I’ll be right home!” And then the feeling passed, like a shiver does.

Robert said, “It was … well, the funeral was a week ago. Maybe it’s too soon to be gone, but I just had to …” He stood up and apologized again, he was so embarrassed. I said listen, you don’t have to apologize. He said it must be weird,