He Tells His Father

He tells his father this girl is terrific. He can't wait for them to meet.

"She's a lawyer. She clerked for a Supreme Court Justice. She told me that in his letter of recommendation he wrote that he thought of her as a daughter."

"Good, Tom," Stuart says. "That's—I'm impressed."

It's important that this newest girl be different. In the home where his father speaks to him, one doesn't have to look far to find evidence of other women who seemed fantastic, but who ultimately failed Tom. Failed to measure up to his own greatness, his generosity.

On the dresser in his boyhood bedroom are pictures of his many dear friends, several pictures of girls he dated: a girl named Maggie with her arm around Tom on the Inca Trail, a snapshot of him and a date swing dancing at a wedding. Another photograph from a time Tom lived in Vail. This woman watches as he begins his descent down the slope, her mouth open.

When they have guests over to the house, and Stuart gives them a tour, he brings them into Tom's room, where the pictures are prominently displayed. And here's Tommy. Who's that with him? Oh, well—

"When I come in town, I can meet her. I mean, that is, if you guys are still—you know. I'll take you guys out," Stuart says. "Of course, I'll want us to have some alone time, too. I mean, I hope that you can carve out some time just for us."

"Of course. I mean look, it's still early. I know that. But—I have a feeling. It's just a sense. I was walking home from her place just a few minutes ago, and I thought 'You know, this might be for real.'"

They chat a bit more. Stuart remarks on how long it has been since he saw Tom, though one has the sense Tom doesn't think it was long enough. Tom talks about how he is enjoying a new job. He has made his white collar work itinerant and has never settled roots. Stuart speaks of some consulting he is doing to keep himself busy since retirement. He doesn't add that it would be good if Tom called more often.

It's late. Tom doesn't speak to his mother.

They hang up. Tom sets the phone down on his coffee table. He thinks that his father is proud of him. He fixes himself a scotch and soda and he turns on the television.

The woman can redeem him in a way. He has only the vaguest sense that his previous failures cast him in a bad light with his family and his friends. In fact, it's much worse than he knows. To Tom, every woman he meets could be the one—it's almost a motto. Often, there is a point later when he expresses "not feeling it"—something that seems to bewilder and make him sad.

As for him, they feel it too greatly. Tom is like an amusement park before it opens. Only later, sometimes years, when the lights dim, do the rust, litter, and the aching of the cars become evident. Before, however, there is the great speed, a curvature one rarely sees.

It is this quality that the newest woman, Diana, finds remarkable about him.

Tom was playing pool at a bar her firm held weekly happy hours in. She had gone reluctantly—an associate she was mentoring wanted to get her a drink. She watched Tom playing with several men she assumed were close friends of his, though in fact he had just met them. He would tell a joke, they'd laugh, the pretty bartender stood beside and laughed too, the tray wedged between her hip and arm, Tom leaned over—the thin fabric of his T-shirt against his back, wide as a manta ray, levering the cue back and forth. Diana couldn't tell if he was 30 or 40. He might have been younger.

She had planned...