Free Then She Found Me by Elinor Lipman Page A

better. You were an innocent, he was a cad—but a cad with a common name who posed as a medical student, which God knows explains the attraction. He seduced you, lied to you, abandoned you. And did it all under a false name and occupation. That’s what’s convenient.”
    She closed her eyes. “Unbelievable,” she said. “Unbefuckinglievable.”
    “Me?”
    “Yes, you! I’d like to know who did this to you?”
    I shook my head, not understanding.
    “Your paranoia! You’re suspicious of everything. You mistrust everyone. Can you explain this—what made you this cynical and … unromantic? It certainly wasn’t my genes.”
    “I consider myself extremely romantic,” I said.
    “This is not the outlook of a romantic person, believe me. You don’t even know how negative you’re being.”
    “I have good reason,” I said.
    She raised her eyebrows. Good reason? Something juicy and confessional at long last?
    “I meant your JFK story.”
    She looked away, gathering patience and strength. “I apologized for that! Am I going to have to do penance for the rest of my life?”
    No, I told her. Just tell the truth. I can tell the difference.
    She stared for a few moments, then said, “I just hope you remember this smug little accusation. Memorize this moment so you’ll feel like a goddamn fool when you get to know me better.”
    I said, “I’m sorry. I hope you’re right.”
    She said slowly, “Call me naive and stupid for letting it happen. Call me promiscuous. Call me a lousy historian. But don’t tell me who put his dick in me and got me pregnant. I’m the only one who knows that.”
    I said quietly, “And it was Jack Flynn? You stand by that story?”
    Bernice opened her purse and extracted a cigarette. She shook it at me in warning. “Memorize this moment,” she repeated.

TWELVE

    B ernice enlisted Anne-Marie as her informer. Was there anyone at school for April? Perhaps a widower with children, someone a fussy woman might overlook on the first, second, or third inspection?
    “Forget it,” said Anne-Marie, taking it all down in shorthand for transmission later to me. “The ones who aren’t already married you wouldn’t want to know about.” I was walking into the office as she said it. She handed me the receiver. I covered the mouthpiece and said, “You were having a nice chummy conversation.”
    Anne-Marie swatted away the remark. Go on, talk. You’re tying up my line.
    “Is this important?” I asked Bernice.
    “Hello to you, too,” she said.
    “I’m not supposed to leave my class—”
    “Blah, blah, blah. What are you doing tonight?”
    I asked why.
    “How does this sound: Double. Date.”
    I made a screwy face for Anne-Marie and said, “Sorry, I can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Work. Quizzes I promised I’d hand back yesterday.”
    “That’s not a reason,” said Bernice. “That’s the excuse of someone who is avoiding a social life. Look, you bring someone and I bring someone and we have dinner together, the four of us.”
    “I think not,” I said.
    “Because you’re truly too busy or because you don’t want to?”
    “Because I have work to do and a deadline.”
    “In other words, you don’t have anyone to ask.”
    I said, “This is not an emergency phone call. I thought we agreed that only emergencies warranted phone calls to school.”
    “What about a fix-up?” Bernice asked. “I’ve had some marvelous fix-ups over the years. I’m sure if I thought about it I could come up with someone.”
    “No, thanks,” I said.
    “Why not?”
    “I’ve never had a fix-up that wasn’t a disaster.”
    “That’s ridiculous. That’s like saying, ‘I’m going to shut myself off from a huge number of potential men out of a false sense of pride. ’ We’d all rather meet a man on our own in some natural, spontaneous way. But it doesn’t always work out that way and we have to keep ourselves open-minded about the B-list.”
    Anne-Marie signaled that I should wrap it up. She