Men and Angels by Mary Gordon

woman, Ben had said, she had a quite exhausting energy. Knowing herself to be beautiful, understanding that she was from the simple fact of her physical existence craved by people, she didn’t worry if people liked her. She was terrifically intelligent, a medievalist. The fourteenth century, you know. Made her career at Bryn Mawr. She didn’t care what she said, so she hurt people’s feelings. But she didn’t notice. She walked through crowds of people, Ben had said, like an admiral walking a deck. People hadn’t interested her much when she was young. Except her mother-in-law. They would come to parties and speak only to each other. Cut from the same cloth you might say, Ben had said.
    “And what about Stephen?” Anne had asked.
    “Poor old Steve. He was one of those disappearing types. On your own with him he could become invisible. And with his mother and then Jane, he was entirely blotted out.”
    “And yet you’re fond of Jane.”
    “Immensely.”
    “She sounds so daunting.”
    “Yes, well, naturally. She’s like a swim in a rough ocean. Nothing more exhilarating. Nothing has ever given me the sense of human possibility like an afternoon with Jane.”
    “All the same I’m frightened. I identify with Stephen in this story. I’m afraid I’ll disappear or be blotted out.”
    “Nonsense. Jane will love you. You’re devoted to the same dead woman. What could be a stronger bond?”
    “What if Caroline were alive?”
    Ben smiled. “She wouldn’t let you near her.”
    Jane was standing in front of the restaurant when Anne approached her, introducing herself. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Jane said, smiling formally.
    There was nothing of the personal about that smile. It was the well-used instrument of a woman who for years has known her power. And Jane Watson stopped the smile, shut it down really, at the first moment it was imaginably civil to do so. Then she used her hand to shield her eyes so that she needn’t squint as she looked up the street.
    “It’s unlike Ben to be late,” Jane said. It was unfortunate, Anne thought, how obvious she made her wish, both their wish, for Ben to come to their rescue.
    “Yes, but the traffic’s bad,” Anne said.
    “Ben would have walked.”
    “Of course,” Anne said, feeling the point Jane meant to make: she knew Ben better, longer. Anne needn’t imagine an equality that wasn’t there.
    “Ben has known you a long time, I gather. How clever of him to have pulled you out of the hat for this,” said Jane.
    The comparison made Anne uneasy; it was too apt. A rabbit in a hat. She had felt like that: foolish, white, vulnerable, blinking her eyes at the light. And then there was the audience, the strangers, who would applaud or hiss or not notice. What would happen to her? Would she have to go back into the hat? What did the rabbits do between performances? She didn’t have a chance with Jane; she could see it. Jane had decided she was a fool.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Ben said, insincerely, walking up to them.
    “It’s bad enough you’re making me have a large meal in the middle of the day, and wasting my time in restaurants, which, on the whole, you know I detest. You make it worse by being late,” Jane said crossly.
    “Yes, darling, I know, you’ve better things to do with your time. I, on the other hand, can’t imagine anything more perfect than a good meal with my two favorite women in the world.”
    “Nonsense,” Jane said, walking into the restaurant before them.
    Jane said that they must order lobster. Ben was rolling in money, and besides, it was a tradition for them: they always ordered lobster for their first meal together in America. She ordered for the three of them; she chose the wine. When the waiter approached with their lobsters, she set to with an enthusiasm which, had she not had those light eyes, that straight back, that thick white hair, that perfectly formed head, might almost have shocked. She sucked the legs to