I went right up, tiptoeing so as not to arouse family or boarders. I did stop in the bathroom on the third floor, to pee, and to brush my teeth. As I came out though I saw a woman in a long gown in the dark hallway. Her hair was dark gold.

My immediate thought was, “Oh, great, now it’s the Blessed Mother, this is all I need.”

And I was ready to walk right past her or through her without a word, but she said, “Hello”.

“Hello,” I said.

“You’re Arnold, right?”

“Yes,” I said, trying not to sigh.

The whole Holy Family had it in for me, or so it seemed. And where was Joseph?

“I’m Gertrude.”

This took me aback. And then it occurred to me that this was actually an ordinary mortal woman.*

“Oh, hi,” I said.

“I just took the apartment down the hall today. It looks like we share this bathroom.”

“Uh, yes,” I said, the soul of wit. “But I rarely use it.”

“Your aunt told me you write poetry.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’d like to read some of your poems.”

“You say that now,” I said.

“I’m a writer myself.”

“Oh really.”

“Gertrude Evans?”

“Yes?”

I confess I felt awkward. I had never spoken to a woman wearing a nightdress in a dark hallway before. Excepting my mother of course. I’m not sure this is an experience I would ever get used to, anyway.

“I thought perhaps you might have heard of me. Gertrude Evans. I’ve published two novels.”

“Unless they’re mysteries I doubt I would have heard of them, I’m afraid,” I said.

“But you’re a poet. You must read poetry.”

“Well –” I said.

“Who’s your favorite poet?”

I said the first one that came to my mind, even though I’d only read a couple of pages of his poem and hadn’t understood any of it.

“T. S. Eliot.”

“I love Eliot.”

Now that I thought about it, she really didn’t look anything at all like the Blessed Mother. Not that I knew what the Blessed Mother looked like.

“Well,” I said, but then I couldn’t think of anything else to say. To tell the truth I wanted just to go up to my little attic and go to bed, but she was standing in my way in the narrow hallway.

“I’ve come here to get away and try to finish up my latest book,” she said.

“Well, good luck,” I said.

“You’re shy, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“You shouldn’t be. Your other aunt told me you had a nervous breakdown.”

“Well, yeah, sort of,” I said.

“So how are you now?”

“Better thanks.”

Especially now that I was pretty sure she wasn’t the Blessed Mother.

“I had to be hospitalized once myself. Well, not exactly hospitalized. I signed myself into a rest home for a month. It was my present to myself for finishing my second novel. I’m really hurt that you haven’t heard of me, Arnold.”

“Don’t feel bad,” I said. “I haven’t heard of practically anyone.”

“But still. And your other other aunt told me you have a lady friend?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Your mother told me she’s very pretty. Are you going to marry her?”

“I’ve only known her for about a week,” I said.

“I have to use the bathroom, but would you wait out here a minute?”

What an odd request, but I have never known how to say no to a woman, so I said okay. She went in, and I walked the few steps down the hall to stand by the window. The sash was closed. I raised it up to let the fresh air in. Then I lit a cigarette in the fresh air. I had no idea what this woman wanted. I suppose I should mention here that she was an attractive woman.

Eventually I heard the toilet flush, and in due course she came out. She motioned to me, beckoning with her upturned index finger. I came forward.

“Wait here,” she said. “I want to give you something.”

She went down to the door on the other side of the stairs, and went in, leaving the door open. A minute passed. My cigarette had burned down, and I went into the bathroom and dropped the butt into the toilet. I wanted to flush it, but I knew this toilet, it wouldn’t be flushable for at least another two minutes, so I left the butt there and went back out into the dark hall and waited. Finally this Gertrude came out of her room. She had a book. She handed it to me.

“Here,” she said. “This is my first novel. I inscribed it for you.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You don’t have to read it right away. And you don’t have to say you like it if you don’t. But now you’ll have to show me your poems.”

“Right now?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Well, okay. But really they’re not very good. It’s just a hobby of mine.”

“But your mother told me you get your poems published.”

“Yes, but it’s only the Olney Times.”

“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“With your lady friend?”

“Well, not most recently,” I said.

“You’re a very mysterious man. I like you. Good night, Arnold.”

She put out her hand like a man. I took it and we shook hands like men. Except her hand didn’t feel like a man’s. It was small and soft and to my embarrassment I felt a tingle of concupiscence.

I mumbled good night, turned and went upstairs to my attic. I got undressed and I knelt down by my bed, something I hadn’t bothered doing in a week. And then after crossing myself I remembered why I hadn’t been saying my prayers. If there was a God I somehow doubted he wanted to hear my supplications and prevarications after having had sinful and perhaps perverted relations with a woman only a couple of hours before. So I crossed myself again, just to cover my bases, and got into bed. I had the bedside light still on. This Gertrude woman’s book was on the night table. I examined it for the first time. It was titled Ye Cannot Quench. By Gertrude Evans. The cover drawing showed a young woman in a nightdress not unlike the one Miss Evans herself had just been wearing. She lay in a bed, with one leg up, the nightdress had slid down, exposing the leg. The girl in the drawing was smoking a cigarette and looking out the window at what looked much like the Heintz factory from my own window back in Olney.

I opened up the book, and on the first page she had written, “To Arnold, mon semblable, mon frère! Best wishes, Gertrude Evans”.

I skipped to the inside back cover, where there was a picture of Miss Evans. She seemed to be looking right at me. I closed the book and pulled the chain on the light. This had been a very long day, and all I really wanted to do now was sleep, but so much was going through my head. I almost wished I had one of those awful deadening sleeping pills that the doctors used to give me. But then I remembered I had something better than a sleeping pill. I picked up The Waste Land, read a dozen or so very beautiful if incomprehensible lines, and sure enough I soon was fast asleep, lulled by the whishing sound of the leaves of that old oak outside my window and by the enormous and never-ending shushing of the ocean.

*Here again I’m afraid I was wrong.”