An Available Man by Hilma Wolitzer Page A

on at Fenton. At first the mere routine of going to work had helped to sustain him, but now his old excitement about teaching had revived. Even the mild spark he’d struck in Nathaniel Worth during their tutoring sessions had provided some gratification. He told Roberta that each new crop of students was a challenge and a joy.
Tabula rasa
. She said that she had grandchildren about to start school; she hoped they’d find dedicated teachers like Edward.
    After their omelets were served, she said, “Vince always had the western with a side of sausage,” and her eyes filled with tears. Edward put his fork down and touched her hand. “It’s hard, I know,” he said. And he did know. The stages of grief weren’t so neatly arranged or easily disposed of. And as that pharmacist’s widow had said in her letter, dating after death wasn’t easy. But why had Roberta responded to the ad if she didn’t feel ready? Or even read the personals in the first place.
    Yet who was he to talk about readiness? On New Year’s Eve, he’d finally agreed, under pressure from Sybil and Henry, to drop in on their supper party, arriving alone on the late side andfleeing before midnight, like Cinderella, without leaving behind what he’d thought of as his glass heart. At least Lizzie hadn’t come on to him again.
    “Very hard,” Roberta agreed. “We were married for thirty-four years, six weeks shy of thirty-five.” She fumbled in her purse, for a Kleenex, Edward assumed, but she pulled out a cell phone instead. Was she going to leave, call for a cab?
    She fiddled with the phone for a moment and then passed it to Edward. “Our wedding,” she said. He stared at a photo of a younger Roberta, swathed in white, gazing up at a tall guy in a tux.
    “You were a handsome couple,” he said, passing the phone back to her. She fingered some buttons and handed it back to him. “Our kids,” she said. Edward saw three children sitting under a beach umbrella, everyone and everything in faded colors. “They’re much older than that now, of course,” Roberta said. “But they all live in different states, so I like to remember when they were little and everybody was together.” She asked how many children Edward had.
    “Two, plus a daughter-in-law,” he said. “They were Bee’s, my wife’s, kids, but I inherited them.”
    “Tell me about your wife,” Roberta said huskily, leaning toward him, and he was struck dumb, sideswiped by emotion. “Do you have any pictures?” she asked.
    Edward had never kept photos of anyone on his cell phone or in his wallet. “No,” he said. He looked down at his plate, where the folded eggs were congealing next to an orange slice. “Not on me.” And then, suddenly, there was a whole slideshow of pictures going through his head.
Help me
, he thought, and Bee said,
Don’t say I didn’t warn you!
    “What can I say?” he told Roberta.
That she was my one true love? That she hated brunch?
“We had a very good life together,” he said.
    “Oh, we did, too!” Roberta said. “We met in high school, we were high school sweethearts.” And she went into a précis of the years since then. Edward only took in the highlights of what she was saying—college, the army, first apartment, first baby—before he stopped listening. He pushed his food around on the plate, the way Nick used to do, hoping it would somehow disappear. Roberta seemed to come out of her reverie. “Don’t you like what you ordered?” she asked.
    “It’s fine,” he said, taking a bite of toast and washing it down with a swig of coffee. “I’m just not as hungry as I’d thought.”
    She sighed. “I guess I’m used to a man with a big appetite,” she said. “Vince always cleaned his plate.”
    Edward was reminded of the bereavement group, where the dead were praised for everything from good penmanship to good teeth before the survivors’ defenses gave way, and they admitted to their loved ones’ human flaws. He waited for