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don’t pay rent, and you’ve given me more than I ever dreamed of. I love you, Ike. If I had a million dollars, I would give it to you.”
    Liz was one of those women who could turn her hand to almost anything. She restored order to a house that had not known order for years. She sewed back the buttons I had lost, did my washing, insisted that the laundry I used could not iron my shirts properly and ironed them herself. She was consumed with new energy that appeared to be boundless.
    We began to invite my friends to dinner. There was general approval of Liz and, in some cases, envy. Charlie Brown advised me, “Marry her, Ike, while she’s still under the influence of whatever you feed her. Otherwise, she’ll wake up someday and ask herself what she’s doing in bed with an old fart like you.”
    When I repeated this to Liz, she looked at me quizzically and said, “What did you tell him?”
    â€œAll in good time.”
    â€œYou’d have to ask me first.”
    â€œI’m too old.”
    â€œWhat a cop-out!” she exclaimed. It was the first time I had seen even a touch of anger toward me in Liz.
    â€œAll right. Elizabeth Hopper, will you marry me?”
    â€œYes. Right now. I’ll take the day off work.”
    â€œIt’s not practical today. How about next week?”
    â€œOK. Next week.”
    â€œI’m Jewish and you’re Catholic. Does that make any difference?”
    â€œNot to me. Does it make any difference to you?”
    â€œGood heavens, no,” I said. “How shall we do it?”
    She threw her arms around me and kissed me. “Any way you like, City Hall or a rabbi or a priest—well, perhaps not a priest. How about a judge? You know enough judges.”
    â€œConsider it done,” I said.
    I was tired that Friday evening, and at nine o’clock, I told Liz that I was going to bed.
    â€œBut it’s only nine!” She was alive, alert, glowing—a new Liz, a different Liz—as if our discussion of marriage had cut the last bit of bondage that had tied her to William Sedgwick Hopper. Her cheeks were flushed, and at that moment I thought her totally beautiful.
    â€œI am old.”
    Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Don’t say that—not ever again! You are not old. You’re the youngest man I ever knew. When I was twenty, I often went to bed at nine. You have a right to be tired at any age, so go to bed and rest. Myself, I can’t sleep. I’m going out for a walk.”
    â€œNow? Alone? It’s dark.”
    â€œI don’t care. I’ll be all right, Ike. I’m just bursting, and I have to walk.”
    â€œI’ll go with you,” I said.
    â€œNo, no. I want to be alone and breathe and think. Go to bed, and I’ll crawl in with you the moment I’m back.”
    I let her have her way. Disagreements with Liz were infrequent, but I always let her have her way. There would be no memories of Hopper in our relationship. Liz put on a heavy sweater and left, with a hug and a kiss that did not lessen my anxieties. I undressed and went to bed. I decided that I would not sleep until she returned, but I must have dozed because the next thing I remember was Liz crawling into bed with me, her cold feet tangled with mine and her arms around me. I didn’t look at our bedroom clock or know what time it was.
    Since I’d met her, Liz had not missed a Sunday morning Mass. We talked a good deal about her Catholicism and my Judaism. When I said that I was a Jew without religion, she protested that I was a totally religious man. “I don’t go to confession,” she said, “and I don’t live by the pope’s every dictum. I do go to Mass and I receive Communion. I try to live decently and I believe in God.”
    This Sunday morning—just over two months after the incident on the bridge—at eight o’clock, with Liz at church for the early Mass, I