They filed by the coffin, placing rocks on, and I asked a young man if it was proper I do it. He smiled and said, "Yes. How did you know Mrs. Eisenman?"
"I didn't. I know someone she loved." So without ending his wonder, I followed along, picking a stone and placing it beside the others. Miriam and the rest of the family were near then, and after I placed my stone I looked up at them and her, and she looked at me. She did not recognize me, did not immediately think this is Mark, really Charlie, this is the man I let encourage me to touch my vulva, this is the man I tell to fuck me. She looked at me, and then at the next man, the young man I had queried. She nodded to him, and he nodded back. She had a life I had never touched: classmates, teams, clubs, friends, temple-and I was no part of that. I told her to pinch her nipples, to feel a cock in her cunt, and to imagine a whole load in her mouth. It was suddenly without meaning, a pitiable obsession of a man hobbled by life's vagaries.
The ritual over, I drifted alone among others toward the parking lot. Someone touched my arm. It was the young man who had spoken to me.
"May I ask you to our gathering, Friend," he said. His eyes were sincere. "At the house of the family. I am Ruth's nephew. It would please them, I am sure. Miriam asked if anyone knew you. Please."
I considered the ramifications and could think of none if I were prudent. It was a loving gesture by a family noticing the outsider and welcoming him. I assented. He handed me a small paper with an address, and said park on the street. I thanked him and said I had gps and would be there. I watched as Miriam, her husband, and father left in a dark car. I went on to my own.
It was a small, inconspicuous house in a neighborhood of similar houses. The Eisenmans were not rich nor did they have any pretensions about it. Miriam worked in this house, as her father's helper in his accounting business. Here she used the internet with me, sometimes when she was not home. I walked up the walk to the front door. I knocked, and Miriam opened it.
"Hello," she said seriously, "Come in. I am Miriam, Ruth's daughter. And you are...?"
"Charlie Potter," I said. She looked at me, not recognizing my real name, not understanding and most definitely not expecting. She might have recognized Charlie, perhaps, but she'd only seen Charlie Potter once, years ago, within an internet address. She still called me Mark in our shared dreams. I had described myself: average height, receding gray hair, now 63, too much weight-she did not put it together from such a general and common appearance.
"I did not know your mother. I am here because I know someone who was greatly saddened by her passing, and is in great pain." I stepped past her. She took my coat. I joined others in the various rooms, never committing to identification. I had never been among so many orthodox Jews, and I was surprised they welcomed me so-but I knew Miriam from so many conversations that were not just about sex, not about emotion, not about frustration-so I decided I should not have been surprised. These were her people and like her were friendly and genuine.
It was her father who put things together-that something did not fit and it was connected to me. Maybe he was just wary. She and I had discussed it weeks before. He seemed to suspect her, she said. Perhaps he had discovered her internet activities, or thought she had a boyfriend, or had bugged her computer. Perhaps he just knew his daughter's situation and understood it a bit.
"May I speak with you, Mr. Potter?" he asked. "In the next room, please." I followed him. It was a small bedroom, the bed made, the drawers shut, everything in its place. It seemed feminine.
"Why are you here?" he asked, his eyes not friendly, his tone accusing. So he did not know everything, but he suspected something: an affair, perhaps.
"I came to show support for a friend of mine who was greatly hurt by the passing of your wife," I said, sticking to the story because it was true. He did not seem persuaded by my answer. Nor would I have been.
"Who is this person wounded by my good wife's demise?" he asked. I considered telling him the truth, but I could not, would not, and did not. I looked at him, so he saw my hesitation. "I apologize. I should not have come. I will leave. You have my sincerest condolence, Mr. Eisenman, for your loss." I nodded slightly and went through the other room, saying I must leave and speaking condolence to each as I passed by. Mr. Eisenman followed me and signalled ahead, and Miriam was waiting with my coat, her husband beside her.
"I am sorry you must leave so soon, Mr. Potter. Is something wrong?"
I smiled at her. "'It is a wise father that knows his own child.'" Miriam started and dropped the coat at that quotation which she recognized, recognized because we had discussed it when we discussed his suspicions a few weeks ago. She looked at me, and at her dad. Many thoughts passed quickly through her mind, I'm sure. I picked up the garment and put it on. Mr. Eisenman was with me then.
"Goodbye, Mr. Potter," he said, firmly. He did not offer to shake my hand. I turned and opened the door, felt the chilling wind of Canada in October, and headed to my car.
Chapter 4 This Time of a Life
As all things must end, I was shocked to find that my internet relationship with Miriam continued a month later. She mentioned my visit only once, thanking me for the gesture. I said, our talk has meant something for me, and she said for her also. Perhaps her new knowledge that I was not tall, not particularly handsome, not thin, or not a movie star inhibited the activities we enjoyed, but I did not notice it.
She was, if anything, more energetic, more vocal, quicker to climax, naughtier. The one change was that she called me Charlie, never again Mark. It excited me more, and I considered it a gift. We engaged in activity every week, sometimes twice, when one or the other of us wanted sex but could not have it with spouse, or in my case never had it. We had sex only by text, actually. We had considered phone or Skype, but we preferred the effect of written words. Sometimes it was very hot. I think she had orgasms; she claimed some. I did, sometimes, but it was not as important WITH her as when I was solo. I enjoyed the idea of this woman typing about a sex act for my pleasure, so far away. Sex of a sort, experienced with someone, even this way, was sadly better.
It went on for five or so more years. She gave birth twice in that period-both boys-and we continued. It took a turn to bondage and sadism which we finally decided was diminishing rather than enhancing, so we turned back. We played roles, laughing at the stereotypes. She and her husband considered divorce at one point, and their sex life dwindled to almost nothing for some time. But eventually they came back together, and their sex life resumed if less actively. For some reason he had never had the sex drive I'd have expected-she wanted it and badly, but he was a once- or twice-a-month guy, if that. Far away, I'd shake my head at such a thing.
As all things must end, so soon shall my life. I am now and finally 68. I noticed the nausea and then pain in my stomach and spreading pain in my back, and the doctor did tests and shook his head. So did the next one. "We have a new drug," the last one said.
"Use it, test it on me, at least it will mean something if it helps or doesn't," I replied. It let me live another month or so in pain.
During this time, Miriam and I continued but rarely, and she did not know I was now impotent. She asked if something was wrong, and I said, "Not feeling well, that's all." She did not question more, but she must have suspected it was more serious. Still, our relationship was based in trust, ONLY in trust, so she accepted that that was true or what I wanted her to believe for my own purpose-so she did.
My wife and I have faced the reality of the sickness that is weakening me, and I will be glad to go as a relief for her. She worried that I suffered, and it was increasing, but so far bearably. I sleep more with the increased pain medication. I expected to be moved to hospice soon, at my wife's prerogative. My wife, lovely woman, took care of the arrangements, and notified the kids spread all over the USA. They wanted to fly in despite the fact I could linger. I was still a bit energetic. I said, let them visit when I am declining, unable, or the doctors say I will be too drugged. You will have lots of things to discuss, then, about the funeral and property and me.
