had never forgotten the evening when they were about nineteen, drinking beer in his parents’ den. They had dared each other to reveal something embarrassing. His contribution was that his mother couldn’t pick him out in his second-grade school photo.
“And I was there! I still remember the scratchy collar on my Sunday suit that I had to wear for photo day.”
Emma had not believed him and harangued him until he brought the old album out. Despite her determination to prove him wrong, she had ended up asking, “So, which one are you?” And to his shame he had to admit he didn’t know either.
“Oh, come on! You remember the jacket. You must know who you stood next to, don’t you?”
“You’re right. It was Fritz. He had no father. He later got caught stealing the candy from a wedding party.”
When she looked at him oddly, he added, “No, really. You know how it is in a small village. They used to buy huge bags of hard candy to throw at the wedding guests or maybe at those locals who’d come to the church but weren’t invited to the reception. So, anyway, he went into the vestry when the ceremony was going on in the church and stole the whole bag. Of course, not being the brightest bulb in the chandelier, he then handed out candy to all the kids in handfuls … for days. Consequently, before the week was out, the local cop had him standing before the mayor, my father. He thought Fritz stole the candy as revenge for having to live with a single mother.”
“Which one is Fritz?”
Despite the story and the vivid memory of the hard, lemon candy he had kept under his tongue the whole time his father had paced the living room the night Fritz was caught, he couldn’t remember what he looked like either.
“I mean, just look. We’re all the same—buzz cut on the sides like military recruits, combed carefully across the top, missing front teeth, cardigans, and suspenders holding up those horrid shorts.”
“I know. I think all school photos should be made illegal.”
Ron flipped through the pictures in his hand and finally triumphantly said: “Ha! Here I am—the only one in long pants. I remember that. It was the year my mother decided that, since I was the mayor’s son, I had standards to uphold. The kids teased me horribly, but what could I do?”
“Why did you suddenly become the mayor’s son that year and not before?”
“Of course, I had been all that time, as she’d been the mayor’s wife, but I think it was around that time she became addicted to those ‘penny dreadfuls,’ the soft-core porn of the sixties where good women married bad men and came to no good.”
“What about the men?”
“What about them?”
“Bad men married good women? Unlikely. Bad men don’t marry … but, anyway, what happened to the men?”
“Oh, I see.”
Ron had rubbed his index finger along his hairline, a habitual gesture Emma had learned to recognize as indicating confusion.
“I don’t remember. I think men became the obstacles against which the women dashed themselves, like waves against shore boulders.”
“Was your father one of the bad guys?” Emma asked.
He had shrugged and suddenly looked very sad. She hurried to say, “Mine certainly was. And he enjoyed the role, I think … mostly the part about beating his offspring for all misdeeds, real and imaginary.”
It had been one of their most intimate conversations and cemented a trust that had carried them through years of separation, different partners, and breakups. Now, they met once a month.
Curiously enough, Emma didn’t know much about Ron’s life except the bits he chose to reveal during their meetings. They avoided talking about her marriage or his lack of partners unless it was urgent. This way, they could be timeless friends and still offer each other breathing space whenever necessary.
He was already sitting when Emma arrived at the cafe, and the waitress had just delivered two coffees.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I worked in a kiosk?” Emma said instead of greeting him. He shrugged and pulled her chair back so she had enough space to sit.
“It was a summer job. Lousy pay and all, but I just remembered: It was the early seventies, and the world was in an uproar.”
“Yeah, I remember that time. I was there.” He grinned at her. “What happened?”
“I had a stack of flyers for some demonstration, an anarchist meeting or something. I slipped them into the daily newspapers. I thought it was a good way to spread the word, you know?”
He nodded, so she continued, “That afternoon one of my regulars came by. He was one of the dark suits, a lawyer or more likely an accountant or something. He came by and told me in his most serious official voice that what I was doing was illegal, and, if he wanted, he could have me arrested. I was so scared I hardly slept the whole rest of the week and expected the uniforms to show up any time, day or night. You think what he said was true?”
Ron shrugged. “Sounds a bit extreme. I mean, I’m sure you’re not supposed to solicit, but jail? You sure he wasn’t just kidding?”
“Oh, he wasn’t the type. One of those gray men, you know? But maybe he realized it was enough just to give me a good scare. You know, people like us didn’t end up going to jail … we were law-abiding. Even though I did have dreams of being a martyr for the cause—civil disobedience and suffering for the betterment of the world …”
“Yeah, well, and then?”
“Actually, nothing, of course. I didn’t distribute any more flyers, but even now I feel ashamed of my fear. I so wanted to be a hero and always hoped I could be, if the situation arose.”
“Well, as they say, being a hero is not NOT being afraid, but overcoming fear and doing what is necessary despite it.”
“Yeah, I know. I read that too. I think the hardest bit would be …”
“ … Physical pain … ”
“ … Isolation … ”
“ … Ridicule … ”
Emma held up her hand to stop the rapid flow of words. “Yes! I think that’s it. To be ridiculed would be the hardest … and doubting the rightousness of your beliefs.”
“Like the Jehovah’s Witnesses? I read about them. They’re really something! Everybody makes fun of them, and, still, they’re out there professing their faith … ”
“Don’t talk about faith! That always makes me think of my father, and I’d rather not.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Ron dutifully changed the subject. ”How’s your computer practice coming along?”
Emma did not have a computer at her house because Manfred believed they were bad for the children, and he didn’t want even the temptation at home. Emma had taken an adult education class in Internet 101, and she was excited with the possibilities.
“I feel like the world has suddenly opened up under my fingertips. I can go so many places … ”
Ron nodded. In the past, he had vehemently argued that she needed to put her foot down and get a machine at home: “Nobody in the first world lives without access these days … except for you!” They had come close to a fight, and so now he didn’t push any longer. However, he never let a chance go by to inform her how talented her son, Karl, was around the computer. “I mean, he’s only twelve, but the guy makes my computer do things I never tried, and it works. I am impressed. He tells me they teach computer at school, but most of the stuff he does I’m sure he didn’t learn at school. Does Manfred know you’ve got a budding engineer there?”
“You know how he is. If you push him he’ll just dig in harder. But I’ll support