Chapter 1

I ran into Mr. Becker only once after that goodbye. It was a literary conference being held in New York. My little column had landed me on a discussion panel, with Mr. Becker as moderator. I was a last minute substitution and I only saw him after I had sat down at the front table. It had been a decade but my heart still skipped erratically as I saw him walk up to the podium. I had changed a bit since then, so my first thought was I wouldn’t be recognizable. I had thinned out, shortened my shaggy hair, and now wore a new set of glasses. All cosmetic really, but for a moment I felt that my appearance might give me a chance to hide, to pretend that I did not know him. To pretend that that scene at my father’s grave did not exist. For a moment, I panicked, as his eyes met mine while he made the introductions to the audience. He smiled at me, one that nearly masked the surprise he must have felt, since he slightly stumbled across the pronunciation of my last name. Somehow that smile was all I needed – a signal, at least in my mind, that he had not obliterated memories of me with hatred or anger.

I want to say I was an excellent panelist, that my insights and comments were unique and provoking. I think I was about average with most of the others, and we all knew we were outshined by the closing commentary Mr. Becker made. Again, that quiet confidence shown through, that infallibility that had struck me that first day in class. I braced myself against a wave of nostalgia and the inevitable self-doubt that were inextricably linked to my memories of him.

I couldn’t avoid him, though it would have, in my mind, been the best all around. I knew that a move like that would be, to the other panelists, highly inappropriate, given the pseudo-celebrity air that hung around Mr. Becker. He had done well for himself, becoming the leading critic and academic on any studies related to television. He was, to some, irrefutable, his books bibles to be referenced and compared to. I used his work often in my own work, and that air of authority had translated well into written form.

Thus, I waited, nervously, I realized, noticing the rapid way I was tapping my fingers on the table. The discussion session had ended with a hearty applause and we now sat, answering some individual questions. Mr. Becker moved his way down the table, speaking to each panelist for a few moments, making some commentary to those he knew, quick personal introductions to some of the more fresh faces. Being the most, well, inexperienced of the panel, I had been seated to the far left. I, therefore, also ended up as the last person for Mr. Becker to speak with. I could feel him approach as I spoke with a petite female graduate from a small Midwestern college whose rapid fire questioning had my already fried brain begging for anesthesia. He, in true form, rescued me from her line of fire, drawing her away with several resources and book references to further her studies. As he turned to me, I suddenly wanted the girl to come back.

“Well, we definitely don’t need introductions here, do we?”

He smiled casually, without a hint of malice or any other negative feelings I imagined he harbored. I took this as a good omen.

“No, no we don’t. Though, I am not sure if I should address you as Professor or, uh, God, given your, well, your status here.”

I kind stumbled with my words. I was out of my element, and speaking to Mr. Becker with just two and a half feet between us was surreal to my senses. Flickers of the past played through my mind, mixing with the present images before me. I needed to make a run for it soon.

He sensed my mood, my terror for the situation in general. I think he related it to my distaste for crowds and suggested that we go somewhere quieter to catch up. I agreed before I realized what was going on, and we were, five minutes later, walking towards a coffee shop near the conference hotel. I kept the questions innocuous, centering them around his recent work and the directions he intended to head. I kept my questions steady to avoid any personal revelations, and hoped he might not press the issue. Being the guy he was, he waited until we sat down before he began that line of questioning.

“So I assume you’ve been pretty good. I’m addict to your column, by the way. It’s a weekly must read for me.”

I couldn’t help be flattered. After all, he was who he was. However, that feeling didn’t last.

“So, professionally, I don’t need any more updates, which leaves the only sensible question, how are things otherwise?”

His emphasis on the word things firmly implied that he meant personal things - things I had, long ago, shared with him openly. I hedged a bit, and decided ambiguity was my best defense.

“Ummm, things are…well…pretty much where they usually are in my life…” So it was a lousy attempt to avoid his inquiries. I knew it, and I could see in his eyes that he was going to force the issue. I countered.

“…and you, how are things with you?”

I think I heard him sigh. But he was graceful in his recovery and answered my question, ignoring my obvious reason for asking it.

“Actually, they have been pretty good lately. I’m settling down, bought a house about a year ago. It’s been a bit of a fixer-upper, but I’m learning.”

He paused a second, the added, “I also met someone about a year and a half ago…I’ve been with him ever since.”

He stopped there, and I felt his eyes fall upon me. He was watching and analyzing every nuance of my reaction. My head was slightly bowed, my eyes focused on the lid of my cup. I think I was surprised, and for a quick second, I knew I felt a wave of regret. That damn romantic in me, quietly holding out on the idea that he was waiting. I passed over those initial feelings quickly. I looked up, stared into those questioning hazel eyes, and smiled as genuinely as I could.

“That’s really wonderful news…really wonderful.”

He was confused, at least I am pretty sure he was, judging by the way he furrowed his eyebrows for a second. I wasn’t sure what he was expecting. I don’t think I was reacting the way he had envisioned.

“So does he work for the university, or did you pick him up in one of your classes?”

I flashed my best interpretation of a playful smirk and he understood that the issue was over. He let it go, and we ended up talking for a couple of hours. We covered a lot of ground and it really felt like old times – the times when everything was interesting, everything was fair game, and no boundaries existed between us.

As we got up to leave, he placed his hand on my shoulder, positioning me so I would look at him. Inside, deep inside, something ached; something that recognized the warmth of his touch, the physical connection that once existed between the two of us. He felt it too. I saw in his eyes a desire, a yearning. I also saw the same frustration that had filled them the first time I had said goodbye.

“One last question…”

“What would that be…”

“Why can’t you change your mind?”

I didn’t know what to say. He didn’t accept my answer the first time he asked that question years ago. The answer I had now wasn’t any different than the one I had given before. So I looked at him, placed my hand across his heart, shook my head, and said goodbye.