EPILOGUE

September in New York was a season unto itself. The air was crisp and still pleasantly warm. The trees were just starting to turn, and the whole city seemed to glow with a golden light.

Ruthie had taken the train up from Jersey that morning. She had sat through a three-hour seminar hosted by Random House in association with Columbia University, then eaten lunch with a school chum now employed at Lippincott, Williams and Wilkins. The afternoon was her own to do with as she pleased, and she had opted to go shopping.

The difference between the Ruth Zelnik now strolling down Fifth Avenue and the Ruthie Calavicci who had been brought under protest to Trenton Psychiatric four months ago could not have been more pronounced. She was confident again, contented and back in control. She took Aurorix now with every meal, and lithium still in the morning and at bedtime. She had her own apartment. Her boss had been overjoyed to learn she wanted her job back: apparently editors with her precision and naturally obsessive, meticulous nature were hard to find. Her life was back to normal, and the five months she had known Al Calavicci were already starting to fade into a detached and not entirely unpleasant memory.

Sometimes she missed him: when the kids were around, particularly the boys; when she made some dish he had loved; when she brushed her hair; and especially during those hours between eleven and one—twenty-three- and oh-one-hundred—when they had been wont to make love during the brief days of romance and post-nuptial fantasy. On the whole, though, the truth was that they were both happier apart. She was content again, and Al? He was off in Arizona, working on his top-secret research project and probably right back on the dating scene.

It was funny, then, how much the man in the electric blue zoot suit just bouncing out of the coffee shop on the next corner looked like him.

All of a sudden limber arms had her around the waist, spinning her around with no regard for the parcel of books in her arms or the satchel slapping against her hip. A familiar laugh rang out and a suave gravel voice said, "Hey, beautiful."

Ruthie laughed, too, because there was really no other adequate response. "Al!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in Arizona!"

"I am," he said, slipping the satchel from her shoulder to his and relieving her of her purchase. He curled his free arm about her shoulders and fell into step beside her. "But I came up here for the week to grease the palms of the politically essential. How have you been?"

"Fine," she said with conviction. "I'm happy."

"Good." Al sounded vehemently earnest. "You deserve to be happy. What brings you to Calavicci's old stomping ground?'

"Came for business, stayed for pleasure," Ruthie said, falling under his spell as surely as she had on Christmas night.

"Well, you've found it!" he quipped, leaning in to smell her hair. "You have plans, or can you while away an afternoon with an old flame?"

"I was doing a little shopping," said Ruthie.

"I don't mind shopping if I've got good company," Al told her. "What are you after?"

"I need a new pair of black heels."

He considered this. "You're right," he said. "You do."

She laughed again. Only Al would bother to remember the state of a wardrobe belonging to a woman he was no longer married to.

He leaned closer and whispered teasingly in her ear, "After that you could go and look for some new lingerie."

Ruthie clapped a hand over her mouth, giggling in embarrassed amusement. The thought that maybe she had forgotten to take her lithium this morning fleeted through her mind, but no, she remembered cradling all three pills in her hand as she poured orange juice to wash them down. Then it occurred to her that she was just happy—not manic, but actually happy. And why not? Al had said, just now, that she deserved to be happy. She smiled and shook her head.

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she demurred.

"Only the beautiful Jewish editor girls," Al replied, his casual hold morphing into a fond hug. "Shoes, hmm?" he said. "Let's see what we can do."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

They spent the whole afternoon together, wandering Manhattan like two old friends. Al was delighted to learn that Rachel was safely delivered of a beautiful, healthy baby girl by the name of Clarissa, and even bought a beautiful cotton romper suit for Ruthie to pass on. When the sun set he led her to a tiny Italian restaurant near the docks. Ruthie was surprised at the charm and class hidden by the dingy old storefront. The owner was a stunning middle-aged woman who was an old friend of Al's. Ruthie's sense of propriety did not permit her to ask if they had been in the orphanage together, but they were obviously close: she treated the pair of them like royalty. Ruthie had never much cared for Italian food before meeting Al, and she was surprised at how delicious everything was.

Afterwards they walked down Broadway. All the shows were in and the street was saturated with strange and vaguely unsavory characters. It might have been a frightening experience, but Ruthie wasn't afraid in the company of such a survivor. She had said nothing to Al all day about Vietnam, and she didn't intend to. As much as she wanted to know—and the research she had done since the divorce had only raised more questions—she had been enjoying the day far too much to drive a wedge between them.

Suddenly Al stopped and bent to kiss the crook of her neck. "Do you have to work tomorrow?" he asked, his voice low and velvety.

Ruthie shook her head. "The book business rests on the Sabbath," she said dreamily.

Al kissed her again, lingering longer this time. "Would you like to spend the night?" he whispered.

"Where?" she breathed.

"Here." He gestures at the building he had halted before. Ruthie stared up at it in wonder.

"It's the same hotel," she said.

Al shrugged. "Sure," he said, his voice equilibrating back to casual. "I always stay here when I'm in New York. The concierge and I? Oh, we go way back."

"The beautiful female concierge?" Ruthie asked, teasing. It was amazing how amusing Al's way with the ladies was now that they were no longer man and wife.

"What? Oh, naw. Gabe Mahlman. My old sparring partner," Al explained.

"Sparring partner?" Ruthie could not help confirming this assertion.

Al swaggered a little. "Miss Zelnik," he said; "you are looking at the local Golden Gloves regional champ of 1950."

Ruthie could not stifle the giggle. "You were a boxer?" she asked skeptically.

Al put up his fists and began to dance, throwing a couple of admittedly practiced shadow-punches. "And I was good, too—pop! Pop!" Then he relaxed and laughed as well, throwing a companionable arm around her shoulders. "So how 'bout it, cara mia?" he asked. "You want to spend the night?"

She curled her hand around his chest and leaned her head towards his shoulder. "I'd like that," she said.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

It was even the same room he had brought her to on Christmas night—not surprising, if indeed he was a regular guest. Soon they were on the bed, and Al was reminding her what a kiss was supposed to be like. This time when he reached for her zipper she slid off his suspenders, and suddenly they were making love amid the soft sheets. They fell asleep curled around each other, Al's face buried in Ruthie's long, dark hair.

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

Ruthie wasn't certain what woke her—the sunlight on her back or the voice in her ear.

"Volare," it sang, drowsily and off-key; "oh-oh. Contare, oh—"

Ruthie kissed the serenading lips. "Al, wake up," she murmured.

He sighed and opened his eyes. "Ruthie…" he said, yawning. "Is it morning?"

She nodded. His hand ran up her back.

"How 'bout breakfast in bed?" he asked.

"I've got a better idea," Ruthie said, slipping out of his arms and starting to collect and don her clothing. "Why don't you drive me home, and I cook you breakfast?"

"Now there's an offer I can't refuse," Al said, sitting up and pawing at his hair. "Of course," he amended thoughtfully; "I'll have to steal a car…"

"Al!" Ruthie cried. She didn't really think he'd do it… probably.

He batted his eyelashes, which gave him the look of a not-quite-trustworthy cherub. Then he smirked. "Relax, Ruthie. I'll borrow Gabe's car."

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM

The drive back to Jersey City in the borrowed Volkswagen passed quickly—too quickly. Almost before Ruthie realized it they were pulling up in front of her building. Al flew around the car to open the door for her, and she recovered her parcels from the back seat. Al smiled.

"Time to say goodbye," he said.

"What about breakfast?" asked Ruthie.

Al shook his head. "No time," he said. "I have a lunch date with some Ivy League heavyweights. The top-secret projects business doesn't rest on the Sabbath."

"But—" Ruthie stopped herself. Better not to make a scene. After all, they weren't married anymore. Focus on the good things, Doctor Tamblyn liked to say. "Last night was great," she said. "I guess that's what we should have done nine months ago, huh? A nice little one-night stand."

"And miss out on all the experiences?" Al said. "Never! Besides, this way we know it never would have worked out."

Tears threatened to sting in Ruthie's eyes. What if it could have? What if it wasn't too late?

"I agree last night was great," Al went on. "Write me a letter once in a while, okay?"

Ruthie's throat was constricting. "You're quite a guy, Al," she said.

He grinned impishly. "Go on, tell me I'm a mensch," he said.

He was. He was a great guy. A real mensch. But Ruthie was scared she would start crying if she said it. So she tried a trick a certain Naval pilot loved to use. She tossed her head and scoffed merrily.

"You should be so lucky!" she said.

Al grinned and pecked her on the cheek. "Well, goodbye," he said.

There was a silence. The last silence.

"Al, last night…" Ruthie began. "I really am glad we got to…" Old habits stopped her. "You know, just one more time."

His smile was enormous. "So am I!" he said blithely.

Then he got into the car. At the stop sign on the corner he stuck his head out the window and looked back.

"Next year in Jerusalem!" he bellowed.

Ruthie's heart palpitated. She had forgotten how fascinated he had been with the Seder rituals.

"Next year, may all be free!" she shouted in answer.

He grinned, then ducked back into the car and vanished into the traffic.

Ruthie stood on the curb and watched him go. A guy like Albert Calavicci only came along once in a lifetime, she thought wistfully.

Then she grinned as she turned back towards her door.

That was a good thing because, really, once was enough.

FINIS