Tete-a-Tete

his name. And she was talking, talking, talking, touching the stone, talking to the stone.

And he? What else? Was not listening.

I waited, heard, shut my eyes and backed away.

With the sun gone and fog coming in with night I passed the bench. It was still empty, which made it worse.

So what can you do?

I called Sid.

«About that tape recorder of yours?» I said. «And some of those tapes?»

On one of the last nights of summer, Sid and I took our usual stroll down the kosher esplanade, passing the fine pastrami and cheesecake emporiums, stopped for some of that and walked on near the two dozen benches by the sea, talking and greatly contented, when Sid suddenly remarked, «You know, I have often wondered?»

«What's to wonder?» I said, for he was looking ahead at that bench, which had stayed empty for almost a week.

«Look.» Sid touched my arm. «That old woman?»

«Yes?»

«She's back! I thought she was sick or something, but there she is.»

«I know,» I smiled.

«Since when? The same bench. And talking like crazy.»

«Yes,» I said, and we walked closer.

«But,» said Sid as quiet as he could, «there's no one there. She's talking to herself.»

«Almost,» I said. We were very close. «Listen.»

«You give me the same smarts. Arguments, who needs?» the old woman was saying, leaning forward toward the empty half of the bench, eyes fiery, face intense, mouth in full motion. «Arguments, who needs? I got plenty. Listen!»

And then, even more astonishing: a reply.

«Give a listen, she says!» a voice cried. «For what, how come!»

«That voice!» Sid exclaimed, then whispered. «His voice. But he's dead!»

«Yes,» I said.

«And another thing,» the old woman said, «look how you eat. Sometime, watch!»

«Easy for you to say!» the old man's voice shot back.

«Go ahead, say!»

There was a click. Sid's eyes slid down. He saw what I saw, his borrowed small handheld recorder in the old woman's palm.

«And another thing,» she said, alive.

Click.

«Why do I put up with this?» his voice cried, dead.

Click.

«I got lists you wouldn't believe!» she cried, alive.

Sid glanced at me. «You?» he said.

«Me,» I said.

«How?» Sid said.

«I had your tapes from all those nights,» I said. «I cut them together, him talking, and put spaces between for her to yell back. Some places he just yells, no answer. Or she can click him off so she can yell, then click him back on.»

«How did you know??»

«She was in the graveyard,» I said. «I couldn't stand it. Her just talking to that cold piece of marble and no answers. So I recopied your tapes, just his raves and yells, and one late afternoon looking into the graveyard I saw that yes, she was there and might be there forever and starve and die being there. No answers. But there had to be, even if you don't listen or think you don't, so I just walked in by the grave, turned on the tape, handed it to her where she sat by the stone, made sure he was yelling, and walked away. I didn't look back or wait to hear if she yelled, too. Him and her, her and him, high and low, low and high, I just left.

«Last night she was back here on the bench, eating some cheesecake. I think she's going to live. Isn't that swell?»

Sid listened. The old man was complaining. «Why do I put up with this? Someone tell me! I'm waiting. So?»

«Okay, smartie,» the old woman cried.

Sid and I walked away in the late summer night. Her high voice and his deep voice faded.

Sid took my arm as we walked. «For a goy,» he said, «you make a fine Jew. What can I do you for?»

«Pastrami on rye?» I said.