The house resembled other houses on the street, though something did make it less obtrusive. It might have been the hedge around the front yard, or the pointed evergreens that guarded the steps to the porch. Ren had noticed the absence of flowers in the beds where only sturdy green shrubs grew, hiding small tufts of weeds.

 

She rang the bell. An old lady with dry, frizzled white hair poked her face through the opening in the curtains to look out. She opened the door and Ren asked her about Michele.

 

"Yes, she lived here, but in the basement. I don't think she's come in yet."

 

"Oh. Do you know what time she'll be home?"

 

"Is she expecting you?" the old lady inquired, inspecting Ren's suitcase.

 

"No, not exactly. I have just come in from out of town."

 

"Well now, she might be home any time now. She usually gets home by four,"

 

Ren turned to go. "Thank you. I'll come back."

 

"Miss? Why don't you wait just a minute? I'll let you in. She's left a key here somewhere. "The wrinkled old face smiled cautiously. "I suppose it will be all right if I let you in." She wobbled off and came back with her hand stuck deep into her dress pocket. "Come on with me."

 

As they walked around the side of the house, the old lady chatted steadily as old ladies often do when they are forced to impress important matters upon the unsuspecting. "Have you come very far?"

 

"From Michigan."

 

"Oh, you're from Michigan. Are you from her school?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Well now, isn't that wonderful? She's told me all about that school. I think she's always homesick for it. You didn't go to school together, did you?"

 

"No."

 

"I didn't think so. You're a little older than she is." The old lady unlocked the door, went Inside and turned on a lamp.

 

"I'm a teacher there. I was a... I was one of her teachers."

 

"Then you must be Dr. Rennon. "

 

"Yes, I am. "

 

"Oh, Michele's told me all about you. Why I feel almost as If I've known you,"

 

Ren was surprised--and pleased--by the revelation. She tried not to smile.

 

"My husband was on the faculty at the school here. That's one of the reasons I rent this apartment to professors. Michele's one of the nicest ones I've had. She's such a quiet person. You just make yourself at home. I have to get back upstairs. She should be home in a few minutes. Yes, she's very nice, never complains about anything. Once in a while she comes upstairs just to visit. Last winter she even shoveled the walks for me." She chuckled. "Most professors, especially the young men, seem to think they're above shoveling snow. She's always been very thoughtful. Well, you sit down and be comfortable." The old lady scrutinized the room and, as if she were satisfied, hurried to the door.

 

"That girl must read all the time. I never saw so many books except in a library."

 

Ren, without taking off her coat, sat down in a large green upholstered chair.

 

"She should be home shortly. Do you teach science, too?"

 

"Oh, no. I'm in the theology department."

 

"Theology. Now that's a fine field for a woman. My husband used to joke about the divinity students. He taught history. He always said there had to be twice as much devilment in a divinity student, since they all knew how upright they'd have to be when they got out of schools I don't suppose they're much different than the rest though, only they think about God more."

 

"No, I don't suppose so," Ren agreed to be polite.

 

"Well, I'd best get upstairs."

 

"Thank you for your trouble."

 

"Oh, it's no trouble at all. I'm glad Michele's having some company for a change. My goodness, I hope my potatoes aren't burning. It's been very nice meeting you, Dr. Rennon."

 

"Thank you, and thank you for letting me in."

 

"You're very welcome." She left then, closing the door behind her.

 

Ren glanced around the room, noticing the way it was decorated. Her eyes rested on the books nearest where she sat. She read the authors' names where they were visible in the dim light. Thomas Paine, Aristotle, John Stuart Mill, Einstein, Rabelais, Emily Dickinson, St. Thomas Aquinas. She lit a cigarette and got up to find an ashtray. After she had found one, she took off her coat, folding it in half, and laid it on top of her worn imitation-leather suitcase. The light filtered by the lamp shade made little criss-crosses of shadow over the carpet.

Sitting down, she decided not to sit too erectly, and slid down into the comfort of the chair. She didn't want to look stuffy. Most people considered her to be stuffy. It had never mattered much, for she had decided what a woman professor was supposed to be like, and look like, and act like. Even as a young woman starting college, she had believed that people would not be so apt to offend her if her propriety did not allow it. Very few knew why she was so conscious of her bearing. Michele was an exception.

 

She heard the key turning in the lock. Though she had been waiting for it, the sound startled her and Michele was inside before she had time to think of standing up,

 

"Ren?" The voice had not had sound enough to falter.

 

"Yes." Immediately she stood up in a manner that suggested a fear of intruding yet at once asked that she not be thought of as an intruder. The things she had told herself she would say, suddenly were not adequate or appropriate.

 

"It has been a long time," Michele said uncertainly.

 

"You don't mind that I've come, do you?"

 

The younger woman hesitated before she answered, studying Ren's face intently without quite understanding why. "No. I'm just surprised, that's all."

 

Ren felt the doubt before she saw it in Michele's eyes, "Is it too long?" She knew that she would have to speak then before any further silence grew between them. Nothing had ever been so difficult to say; never had she had such a desire to say anything as much. Apology, confession, revelation, prayer, they were all the same. The question she saw on Michele's face hurt. It reflected hurt.

 

"Four years is a long time, Michele."

 

"Yes, a long time."

 

"Your letters...we've never talked about it since that day."

 

"No."

 

"I had to come now."

​

"I know; it's just that I thought you wouldn't." A single tear overflowed from beneath a lowered lid of Michele's eye. Ren watched it zig-zag down her cheek and stop above her upper lip.

 

"Has it changed? I mean..."

 

"No."

 

"I wouldn't blame you, if there were someone else."

 

"There is no one else."

 

Among Ren's memories was the recollection of a kiss she had turned away from, the gentle kiss of a tender young woman, a woman who had had a strange power to understand what she had not understood. The memory had filled her mind many times. Now the same woman, no longer young, stood facing her, waiting, waiting for her decision, waiting after a long time of waiting.

 

"I've been very foolish."

 

Ren felt the warmth of a hand touching but not caressing her cheek. They kissed, and the queer unhappiness that had lived with her so long was suddenly gone.

 

She would never turn away again, not for God Himself. She didn't believe He would ever ask her to.