“Crazy.”

“It is, but I understand it. I think that’s what happened with your man: he couldn’t have you and it drove him crazy. So he did the only thing he could do to own you for a few minutes: scared you. It always works. For today, or however long you’re going to be afraid of him, he does own you.”

“Damn it! Damn that power men have. Whenever they don’t like something, they can always hit us. You’ll never know that feeling. Always that little bit of fear in our heart.”

“Not all men hit women, Miranda.”

“But you can, and that’s the difference.”

A small white bullterrier ran into the room and over to Hugh.

“Easy! Miranda, this is Easy. Whenever we play, she runs and hides. The only dog I’ve ever known that actively dislikes music.”

“That breed always scares me.”

“Bullterriers? She’s a cream puff. She only looks like a thief.”

She looked more like a bleached pig, but her face was sweet and her tail was wagging so furiously that I couldn’t resist reaching out to pat her. She moved over to me and leaned like a stone against my leg.

“Why do you call her Easy?”

“My daughter named her. No reason. I brought her home from the kennel; Brigit took one look and said her name was Easy. Simple as that.”

“How many children do you have?”

“A daughter and a son. Brigit and Oisin. Oy-sheen.”

“Oisin? Is that Irish?”

“Yes. Both kids were born in Dublin.”

“By the way, why didn’t you go to Dublin?”

“Because you were coming. When you said you’d be happy to see my assistant, I thought, Uh oh, when would I see her again? I knew I had to be here.”

Once again I tried to figure out how to respond.

“You say things that throw me off, Hugh.”

“People say I’m too direct. I didn’t go to Dublin because I had to see you again. It’s that simple.”

Courtney called out from down the hall, asking him to come. He stood up, put the violin on the chair, and started out of the room. “I was going to call you the other day but you called me. I didn’t want to wait any longer. Ever since we met, most of my days seem to be about you.”

He left me sitting with Easy leaning against my leg. It took a while before my body started shaking, but when it did, it came on strong. So strong that it roused the dog from her doze. She looked up at me. I closed my eyes. My heart pounded inside its cage of bones. I couldn’t wait for him to return.

Here I am, an old woman with a shaky hand and a cheap pen, writing about sex. Is there any greater irony? Most of the time I cannot even recall what I ate yesterday. How do I presume to remember and write honestly about that most evanescent act, fifty years after it happened?

I will stand up and walk to the kitchen. On the way I’ll think about how to do it. There are some chocolate cookies left. I want to eat two and drink a glass of cold water. Eating is sex for old people.

This is my home, what’s left of a life in its final few rooms. There are some photographs. My parents. Hugh and me. Zoe on the porch of this house. The only piece of furniture I have kept over the years is Hugh’s easy chair. Despite having been re-covered two times it is shabby-looking now, but I would never give it away. On the table nearby is a photograph of Frances in her New York apartment. All of her possessions surround her, the paintings and rugs, that lush abundance of color so much a part of her being. The difference is, Frances wanted to remember everything. I don’t. Better to keep my last surroundings simple. Avoid any fatal memory or malevolent connection from things best left to their uneasy sleep in my heart.

Certain things must be here. Most importantly the pile of sticks in the fireplace. Every one of those pieces of wood is important. Written on each is a date and a reason. I have never counted, but would guess there are twenty now. Hugh’s collection was much larger, but he started his years before I did.

It was his idea: When anything truly important happens in your life, wherever you happen to be, find a stick in the immediate vicinity and write the occasion and date on it. Keep them together, protect them. There shouldn’t be too many; sort through them every few years and separate the events that remain genuinely important from those that were but no longer are. You know the difference. Throw the rest out.

When you are very old, very sick, or sure there’s not much time left to live, put them together and burn them. The marriage of sticks.

An hour after I visited his office to have the painting appraised, Hugh Oakley and I were walking through Central Park. He told me about the marriage of sticks and suggested I start my collection right then. I was so nervous about what was about to happen that without thinking, I did. It was from a copper beech tree. I knew nothing about trees then. Foliage, plants, things that grew. I was a city girl who was hurrying to a hotel to have sex with a man I knew was happily married with two children.

“What’s the matter?” He stopped and turned me so we were face to face. We were holding hands. A moment ago we’d been racing to get to a hotel. I assumed he’d been there before. How many other women had he sped along like this, rushing to get them into bed?

“You look miserable.”

“I’m not miserable, Hugh, I’m unstrung! Somebody hit me this morning, and now I’m here with you.” I stared at our clasped hands and kept staring while I spoke. “I don’t do things like this. It’s everything together, full volume. Dangerous, right, wrong… Everything. I thought you’d be in Ireland. I thought your assistant was going to appraise the painting and I’d go home. Not this. This is all new territory for me.”

He looked around and, seeing a park bench, pulled me to it. “Sit down. Listen to me. What you’re doing is right. It’s your heart and the adventurous part all saying go. Our checks and balances hold us back too much from risking anything.

“Don’t let them, Miranda. Do it. If nothing else, you’ll remember this later and say it was crazy but you’re glad you did it.”

My eyes were closed. “Can I ask a question? Will you answer honestly?”

“Anything.”

I straightened my back. “Are you worth it?”

I heard him take a sharp breath to answer but he stayed silent a long moment. “I think so. I hope so.”

“Do you go to hotels a lot with women?”

“No. Sometimes.”

“That doesn’t makes me feel special.”

“I’m not going to apologize for the person you didn’t know till today.”

“That’s facile, Hugh. This is a big thing for me.”

“I’ll do whatever you want, Miranda. We can stay here and talk. Go to a movie, or go somewhere and make love. It’s all the same to me. I just want to be with you.”

Two Rollerbladers pounded by, followed by a bunch of kids in crooked caps, carrying a big boom box.

We watched the parade pass before I spoke. “Know what I want to do? Before anything else?”

“What?”

“Go to the Gap and buy a pair of khakis.” It was a test, plain and simple. I said it only to see how he would react.

His face lit up and he smiled. It was genuine. “Sure! Let’s go.”

“What about the hotel?”

He paused. When he spoke his voice was slow and careful. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not twenty, Miranda. I don’t ride my cock around like a witch on a broomstick. I want to be you. If that’s in bed, great. If not, then together is all the matters.”

“Then why were we going to a hotel?”

“Because I do want to touch you. I thought you felt the same. But I was wrong. Big deal. Let’s go buy your trousers.”

“Really?” The word came out scared.

He put his hand on my cheek. “Really.”

We walked out of the park as fast as we’d walked in. I would have given a month of my life to know what he was really thinking. He took my hand again and we kept squeezing back and forth as if to say, I’m here, I’m still with you. No matter how this day ended up, I knew I’d be running the replay in my brain for a long time.