"I'm ashamed for all of us."

"Don't be. You're making up for a lot of others, Nimrod."

Releasing her hand, he said, "The last time I was here you talked a little about your family."

"I won't need to today because you're going to meet them-at least, my parents. I hope you don't mind but they're dropping in right after lunch.

It's my mother's day off from work and my father is working on a plumbing job not far from here."

Her parents, Karen explained, were originally from Austrian families and, in their teens during the mid-1930s, were brought to the United States as immigrants while war clouds gathered over Europe. In California they met, married, and had two children-Cynthia and Karen. The family name on the father's side had been Slonhauser, which was Anglicized to Sloan during naturalization. Karen and Cynthia knew little of their Austrian heritage and were brought up as native American children.

"Then Cynthia is older than you?"

"Three years older and very beautiful. My big sister. I want you to meet her another day."

The sounds from the kitchen stopped and Josie appeared, wheeling a loaded tea cart. She set a small folding table in front of Nim and fitted a tray to Karen's wheelchair. From the cart she served lunch-cold salmon with a salad and warm French bread. Josie poured wine into two glasses-a chilled Louis Martini Pinot Chardonnay. "I can't afford wine every day,"

Karen said. "But today is special-because you came back."

Josie asked her, "Shall I feed you or will Mr. Goldman?"

"Nimrod," Karen asked, "would you like to?"

"Yes," he said, "though if I do anything wrong you'll have to tell me.,, 1"It's really not difficult. When I open my mouth you pop some food in.

You'll just work twice as hard as you would feeding yourself."

With a glance at Karen, and a knowing smile, Josie retreated to the kitchen.

"You see," Karen said while their lunch proceeded, and after a sip of wine, "You're very good. Will you wipe my lips, please?" He did so with a napkin as she tilted her face toward him.

Continuing to feed Karen, he thought: there was a strange sense of intimacy in what they were doing together, a sharing and closeness unique in his experience. It even had a kind of sensual quality. Near the end of the meal, their awareness of each other heightened by the wine, she said, "I've told you a lot about me. Now tell me more about you."

He began casually, speaking of his background-boyhood, family, work, marriage to Ruth, his children Leah and Benjy. Then, prompted by questioning from Karen, he revealed his current doubts-about his religious heritage and whether it would be perpetuated through his children, where his own life was headed, the future-if any-of his marriage.

"That's enough," he said at length. "I didn't come here to bore you."

Smiling, Karen shook her head. "I don't believe you could ever do that, Nimrod. You're a complex man and complex people are the most interesting.

Besides that, I like you more than anyone I've met in a long time."

He told her, "I have that feeling about you."

A touch of red suffused Karen's face. "Nimrod, would you like to kiss me?"

As he rose and crossed the few feet of space dividing them, be answered softly, "I want to very much."

Her lips were warm and loving; their kiss was lingering. Neither wanted to break away. Nim moved his arms, intending to draw Karen closer to him. Then from outside he heard the sharp note of a buzzer followed by a door opening and voices- Josie's and two others. Nim let his arms fall back. He moved away.

Karen whispered softly, "Damn! What lousy timing!" then she called, "Come in!" and a moment later announced, "Nimrod, I'd like you to meet my parents."

An elderly, dignified man with a thatch of graying, curly hair and a weather-beaten face extended his hand. When he spoke his voice was deep and guttural, the Austrian origin still evident. "I'm Luther Sloan, Mr. Goldman. This is my wife Henrietta. Karen told us about you and we've seen you on TV." the band Nim accepted was a manual worker's, rough and calloused, but looking as if it were scrubbed frequently; the fingernails were clean. Though Luther Sloan wore coveralls with traces of the work he had just left, those also showed signs of care and had been neatly patched in several places.

Karen's mother shook hands. "It's good of you, Mr. Goldman, to visit our daughter. I know she appreciates it. So do we." She was a small, neat woman, modestly dressed, with her hair in an old-fashioned bun; she appeared to be older than her husband. Once, Nim thought she was probably beautiful, which explained Karen's attractiveness, but now her face was aged, while her eyes betrayed strain and weariness. Nim guessed the signs of the last two had been there a long time.

"I'm here for one simple reason," he assured her. "I enjoy Karen's company."

As Nim returned to his chair and the older Sloans sat down, Josie brought in a pot of coffee and four cups. Mrs. Sloan poured and helped Karen with hers.

"Daddy," Karen said, "how's your business going?"

"Not as good as it might." Luther Sloan sighed. "Materials cost so much-more every day; you will know about that, Mr. Goldman. So when I charge what it costs me, then add on labor, people think I'm cheating."

"I do know," Nim said. "At Golden State Power we're accused of the same thing for identical reasons."

"But yours is a big company with a broad back. Mine is just a small business. I employ three other people, Mr. Goldman, and work myself, and some days I tell you it is scarcely worth the trouble. Especially with all the government forms-more all the time, and half the things I do not see why they need to know. I spend evenings and weekends filling those forms in, and nobody pays me for that."

Henrietta Sloan reproved her husband, "Luther, the whole world does not have to hear our problems."

He shrugged. "I was asked bow business was. So I told the truth."

"Anyway, Karen," Henrietta said, "none of that makes the slightest difference to you, or to our getting you a van. We have almost enough money for a down payment, then we will borrow the rest."

"Mother," Karen protested, "I've said before, there isn't any urgency. I'm managing to get outdoors. Josie goes with me."

"But not as often as you could, or as far as you'd like to go." the mother's mouth set firmly. "There will be a van. I promise you, dear. Soon."

"I've been thinking about that too," Nim said. "Last time I was here, Karen mentioned wanting a van which would hold the wheelchair, and which Josie could drive."

Karen said firmly, "Now will all of you stop worrying. Please!"

"I wasn't worrying. But I did remember that our company-GSP & L -often has small vans which are sold off after they've been used a year or two and are replaced by new ones. Many are still in good condition. If you like, I could ask one of our people to look out for something which could be a bargain."

Luther Sloan brightened. "That would be a large help. Of course, however good the van is, it will need adapting so the wheelchair can go in and be secure."

"Maybe we can help with that as well," Nim said. "I don't know, but I'll find out."

"We will give you our telephone number," Henrietta told him. "then if there is news, you can call us."

"Nimrod," Karen said, "you are truly dear and wonderful."

They went on talking easily until, glancing at his watch, Nim was startled to see how much time had passed since he arrived. He announced, "I have to go."

"So do we," Luther Sloan said. "I am renewing some gas lines in an old building near here-for your gas, Mr. Goldman-and the job must be completed today."

"And in case you think I'm not busy," Karen chimed in, "I have a speech to finish."

Her parents took their leave affectionately. Nim followed them out.

Before going, he and Karen were alone briefly and he kissed her for the second time, intending to do so on her cheek, but she turned her head so their lips met. With a dazzling smile she whispered, "Come again soon."

The Sloans and Nim had the elevator to themselves going down; all three were briefly silent, each occupied with private thoughts.

Then Henrietta said in a monotone, "We try to do the best we can for Karen. Sometimes we wish it could be more." the strain and weariness Nim observed earlier-perhaps nearer to a sense of defeat-were in her eyes again.

He said quietly, "I don't believe Karen feels that way. From what she's told me, she appreciates your support and everything you've done for her."

Henrietta shook her head emphatically, the bun of hair at her neck emphasizing the movement. "Whatever we do is the least we can do.

Even then it is a poor way to make up for what happened to Karen-because of what we did-long ago."

Luther put a band gently on his wife's arm. "Liebchen, we have been over it all, so many times. Do not do this to yourself. It does no good, only harm to you."

She turned on him sharply. "You think the same things. You know you do."

Luther sighed, then abruptly queried Nim. "Karen told you she contracted polio?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Did she tell you how? And why?"

"No. Well, not exactly."

Henrietta said, "She doesn't, usually."

They had reached the street floor and stepped from the elevator, pausing in the small, deserted lobby while Henrietta Sloan continued: "Karen was fifteen, still in high school. She was a straight-A student; she took part in school athletics. Everything ahead seemed good."

"The point my wife is making," Luther said, "is that that summer we ourselves-the two of us-had arranged to go to Europe. It was with others from our Lutheran church-a religious pilgrimage to holy places. We had arranged, while we were gone, that Karen should go to summer camp. We told ourselves that some time in the country would be good for her; also, our daughter Cynthia had been to the same camp two years before."

"The real truth is," Henrietta said, "we were thinking more of ourselves than Karen."

Her husband went on as if he had not been interrupted. "But Karen did not want to go to camp. There was a boy she was seeing; he was not leaving town. Karen wanted to stay at home for the summer and be near him. But Cynthia was already away-, Karen would have been alone."

"Karen argued and argued," Henrietta said. "She said being alone did not matter and, as to the boy, that we could trust her. She even talked about having a premonition that if she went as we wished something would go wrong. I have never forgotten that. I never will."

His own experience gave Nim a sense of the scene being described: the Sloans as young parents, Karen barely out of childhood, and the strong and clashing wills-all three so different then from what they had become.

Once more Luther took up the narrative, speaking quickly as if wishing to have it done. "The upshot was, we had a family fight-the two of us taking one side, Karen the other. We insisted she go to camp, and in the end she did. While she was there, and we were in Europe, a polio outbreak happened.

Karen was one of the victims."

"If only she had stayed home," Henrietta began, "the way she wanted . . ."

Her husband interrupted. "That's enough! I'm sure Mr. Goldman has the picture."

"Yes," Nim said softly, "I think I do." He was remembering the verses Karen had written him after Wally Talbot Jr.'s electrocution.

"If only" this or that On such and such a day Had varied by an hour or an inch; Or something neglected had been done Or something done had been neglected!

He understood better now. Then, presuming something should be said but not sure what, he added, "I don't see why you should go on blaming yourselves for circumstances . . ."

A glance from Luther and a, "Please, Mr. Goldman," silenced him. Nim realized what he should have known instinctively: there was nothing else to say; the arguments had been marshaled before, and emphatically rejected.

There was no way, never had been, in which these two could be relieved of one iota of the burden they carried.

"Henrietta's right" Luther said. "I do think the same way she does. Both of us will take the guilt with us to our graves."

His wife added, "So you see what I mean when I say that whatever we do-including working to pay for a van for Karen-is really nothing."

"It isn't nothing," Nim said. "Whatever else is true, it's a whole lot more than that."

They walked from the apartment lobby to the street outside. Nim's car was parked a few yards away.

"Thank you for telling me what you did," he said. "I'll try to do something about the van, just as soon as I can."

As Nim

had come to expect, some verse from Karen arrived two days later.

When young Did you ever run on sidewalks, Playing the game Of avoiding cracks?

Or, much later, Straddle hairlines mentally And strut vicarious tightropes, Dreading, yet perversely courting, Disaster from a fall?

"Disaster" did I say?

An aberrant word!

For there are other falls and penalties Not wholly catastrophic, But cushioned by largesse Of joy and glory.

Filling in love is one.

Yet wisdom cautions: A fall is a fall With aftermaths of hurt and pain Only delayed, not circumvented.

Tish, tosh!

Away with wisdom Hooray for crazy paving, tightropes, hairline!

Right now, who's wise, or wants to be?