“Can you come by tomorrow so we can have a better chat?” David asked. His voice was tentative, fearful that she’d say no. “Sadly, I have to get off the phone because I just promised Mother that I’d drop by in a few minutes.”
“Oh, of course. I mean. Uhm. . . I’m sorry. Good-bye.”
“No, no. Please. I don’t want you to rush off. It’s just that she’s a bit blue lately.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Is she. . . is she all right?”
“She’s having chemo at Mount Sinai.”
“Oh.”
“Liver cancer. . .” David nodded, his jaw firm.
“Oh God, I’m so sorry. My question was so intrusive. Forgive me. I didn’t know.”
“No, no, no, Ella. Not at all. I’m so pleased you called. Tomorrow? Can you come? Please?”
“Yes. Yes, absolutely. I’d love to,” she said.
“Morning? Anytime before noon. Yes?” David found himself nodding encouragingly at the phone. He so wanted to talk to her again.
“Yes, yes. You should go.” Ella released him, then hung up the phone herself, feeling flush and scared at once. She realized that she felt happy at the thought of seeing him for certain. That every morning she had looked forward to going to work because she would see him there. It had been so long since she had anticipated seeing somebody in this way.
She stood at his door, her fist at her mouth, uncertain if she could knock. She pulled back her shoulders a little. The brass plaque on his door read, DAVID J. GREENE, DIRECTOR OF DEVELOPMENT. Tall and thin, with a thoughtful slouch of his head and an inward curve of his shoulders. He listened with his eyes and face and, naturally, with his handsome ears that lay close to his head, leaning in with his heart toward the speaker. David was thirty-five years old, ten years her senior, and the only child of a prominent New York pediatrician and a devout Roman Catholic mother. He gave off a kind of light when he talked, never gossiping or swearing. When he laughed, he did it with his entire self, and you felt you were the wittiest person in the room. The only disagreeable thing Ella had ever heard David repeat was how poorly his deceased father had viewed development as a career choice: “A man makes donations, David. Does not ask for them. A grown man should not be working for his former elementary school.” His father did not use contractions, David said. That was that.
David wasn’t married yet, and as far as she knew, he didn’t have a girlfriend. Mrs. Fitzsimmons, the headmaster’s wife, used to tease that the young Mr. Greene （everyone was young to Mrs. Fitzsimmons） was infatuated with the beautiful Korean assistant director, but Ella tried not to mind her careless jokes.
But there were moments. Once, when she was sitting next to him on the sofa in his office, reading out loud a capital campaign letter to the class of 1972, he brushed the loose hair away from her face before she had a chance to tuck it behind her ear, and when she lifted her face in his direction, for a flash it looked as if he were moving to kiss her; and terrified that he might, and not knowing what she’d do if he did, Ella dropped the letter on the rug and bent to pick it up. The moment was lost, and when she straightened up, David had already adjusted himself to a relaxed stance, arms folded to his chest, and he’d smiled at her warmly. It was all in her imagination, she told herself later. But she wondered what it would have been like to be kissed by David. He had a lovely mouth. Not all men did, she thought.
She had only been with Ted. Casey said that was an amazing fact, almost impossible to behold. Before Ted, she’d let a few boys kiss her, cuddle her a little, and she’d liked the affection, but she had no real experience of men to compare with. Casey said if you hadn’t had an orgasm with a man, then you were really a virgin in her book. Ella had never had an orgasm. Ted tried many things, and sometimes she thought she felt something, but often she felt as though she wanted to feel something just so Ted wouldn’t feel he’d failed. Casey told her that she should try smoking a joint; that might help. Ella couldn’t possibly. Besides, where did you get pot? Also, lately he hadn’t wanted to make love, and she couldn’t imagine telling him that she wanted to do that. What would she say? Or do? How did you ask your husband to make love to you? All these thoughts just made her feel embarrassed. Ted worked a lot lately, and she hadn’t felt romantic in a very long while; but wasn’t that normal after you’d had a baby? She’d heard a joke on television the other night: What’s the best way to stop having sex? Get married. Ha, ha.