The Last Time They Met by Anita Shreve

abnormally high number of professor-student love affairs, alcohol overdoses at frat parties, a near epidemic of razor-cutting (mostly females), the endless machinations of jealous faculty.
I see my job as one of encouragement. It’s difficult to teach someone to write.
    — Do you encourage the poor students?
    — One has to.
    — Aren’t you just wasting their time? And yours?
    — It’s what I’m there for. I suppose if I had a truly hopeless case, I’d suggest alternatives. If I thought the student could handle it. But I’m a bit of a coward when it comes to criticism. And I’m an easy marker.
    He smiled.
    — I had dinner with Mary Ndegwa,
she said.
    — I’ve hardly had a chance to see her.
    — She’s very graphic about what she missed.
    — Well, it’s the core of all her poetry.
    — Her son, Ndegwa, is with the Ministry of Finance.
    Thomas shook his head again — a man who had largely isolated himself and was thus bedazzled by change; a man for whom a child’s life stopped at five.
Baby Ndegwa,
he said with something like awe.
I’ve never been able to write about Kenya. It doesn’t seem to belong to me.
    — We were only visitors.
    In another room, a man began to play a piano. The bar was rapidly filling. She and Thomas had to speak more loudly to hear each other.
    — Sometimes I think about Peter,
Thomas said.
I often wish I could just call him up and apologize.
    Linda took a sip of her drink.
I can’t remember ever making love to him,
she said.
What we did, I mean. I know that it happened, but I can’t see it. And I can’t understand how I can have been that intimate with someone and have no visceral memory of our time together. I don’t know whether I’ve simply forgotten or I was never paying very close attention.
She paused and shook her head.
What a horrid thing to say. I’d die to think I’d meant so little to someone I was once married to.
    Thomas was silent. Perhaps he was struggling not to ask her if she remembered their own lovemaking.
    — Do you know we only made love four times?
Thomas asked.
In all those years? Four times.
    — Technically,
she said.
    — Rich was fucking my wife. I saw them through the binoculars. He said he wasn’t, but I’ve never believed him. It’s been a thorn between us all these years. If I’m right, I could never forgive him, and he knows that. If I’m wrong, he’ll never forgive me for thinking him capable of it. Either way, we’re pretty much screwed.
    She waited for Thomas to say more about Rich, but he remained silent. She noticed that Thomas had a new way of holding his mouth; the lips a bit tighter, making him seem more wary. She wondered: was there such a thing as human decency?
    — Thank you for the drink,
she said.
But I have to go back to my room. I’m worried about my son. His lover is going to take him into rehab tonight if Marcus is willing.
She paused.
My son is gay.
    Thomas looked not shocked, but almost weary with the knowledge, as if the weight, the weight, of all these
facts
was almost too much to bear.
Has it been difficult for you?
    — That? No. Not really.
She slowly slid off the bar stool.
This will be, though.
    ----
    There were no messages from anyone. When Linda tried Marcus’s number, a voice, David’s, said:
You have reached the happy abode of David Shulman and Marcus Bertollini.
Linda cringed for Marcus.
    — That might mean they’re on their way to Brattleboro,
she explained to Thomas, who had taken an armchair in the corner of the bedroom. She propped a pillow behind her back and sat with her legs stretched out along the bedspread. She kicked off her shoes, and Thomas took off his jacket.
Whatever became of Donny T.?
she asked suddenly.
    — What made you think of Donny?
    — I don’t know. He was always on the edge.
    — Of disaster, you mean.
    — Or of great success.
    — The success won out. He’s some kind of banker and worth millions. Probably billions by now.
    Linda smiled and shook her head slowly. She