Then She Found Me by Elinor Lipman

murmured.
    I smiled uncertainly. Had Dwight Willamee said that? Would a gay man say that? Had I heard a clue to his sexual preference, or had I imagined the words and the emphasis?
    He said, serious again in a way that erased his moment of wryness, “She’s a talk-show hostess, and they’re all exhibitionists of one sort or another.”
    “Yeah,” I said, still off balance. Then: “I think she thinks I’m fascinated, though, and that she’s giving me an education.”
    Dwight blushed. He used both hands to rearrange the lunch in front of him: two sandwiches, one banana, one large, lumpy homemade cookie; his thermos.
    “Please go ahead and eat,” I said.
    He swiveled to look at the wall clock behind him, and said he might have to begin.
    I reiterated:
So
. Just a dinner. He and I could talk aboutschool. Bernice loved to hear about school. He must not feel he has to create any kind of false impression that I talk positively about Bernice. And he mustn’t feel he has to pretend that we had worked more closely than we actually—
    I understand, said Mr. Willamee.
    “You’re being a good sport,” I said.
    “It’s fine.”
    “I don’t know why she makes me so crazy.”
    Mr. Willamee said, blinking for effect, “Your birth mother appears out of the blue and tells you your father is John F. Kennedy and you wonder why she makes you crazy?”
    I smiled and said, “Thanks. Good point.”
    “What time tonight?”
    “I’ll call you,” I said. “Are you going to be home after school?”
    He patted his breast pocket for a pen. I pulled one out of my purse and offered him my lunch bag. He wrote the numbers carefully and handed me back both. “Don’t throw it out with your crusts,” he said, smiling.
    “I eat my crusts.”
    “And don’t ask for Mr. Willamee or you’ll get my father.”
    “Okay. Dwight.”
    “Good,” he said.

THIRTEEN

    S he asked me to meet her at the piano bar at the Ritz. There would be a man with her. My Indian imports, she said, were nice, entirely suitable for the classroom, but would I dress up tonight? Did I have something chic?
    “I’m bringing Dwight Willamee,” I said.
    She paused. “Why do I know that name?”
    “He works with me. I mentioned him on the phone.”
    “Seee,”
she sassed. “Look and ye shall find.”
    “It’s not a date.”
    “Dwight? Isn’t that a man’s name?”
    “He’s a colleague.”
    “Married?”
    “Married?” I repeated.
    “You’re such a prude,” said Bernice. “Was he ever? Is he now?”
    “No.”
    “Good. Sort of.”
    I didn’t pursue it. I didn’t want to hear her version of why not being married was good, sort of.
    “What does he look like?”
    “Tall—six feet five or so. Gangly.”
    “What’s his mouth like?” she asked.
    Dwight’s mouth? “A regular mouth. Teeth. A big face; bony.”
    “What color eyes?”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “What color?”
    “Bluish, I think. Or hazel. And glasses.”
    “Good-looking?”
    “God, no. Just the opposite.”
    Bernice paused in her questioning. After a few moments she said, “So what you’re saying is, he’s not conventionally good-looking, but he has his attractive qualities.”
    “Not at all,” I said. “He’s the librarian—the one Anne-Marie joked about when I asked if she’d run off and married anyone.”
    “Not good-looking, then?”
    “He’s just a friend. And when you see him in person—”
    “I’ve never been attracted to conventionally handsome men, either. I’ve always been drawn to personalities first. Their looks are secondary.”
    She was lying, of course, but she believed it. If I had challenged her, she would have argued her thesis until I was sold. At that moment, Bernice was rewriting her sexual history, inventing attractions to homely men of character.
    “Is he outright ugly?” she asked.
    “Some people might find him ugly.”
    “Some people are jerks,” she said. “It’s what’s inside that counts.”
    Thank you, Mother, I wanted to say;