We strolled. It was another fine mild California night, the kind we don't tell Eastern relatives about, fearful they might believe.
«I don't want to hear,» he said.
«Shut up and listen,» she said.
«Don't tell me,» I said, eyes shut. «They're still at it. Same couple. Same talk. Shuttlecock's always in the air over the net. No one's on the ground. You really going to use your tape recorder?»
«Dick Tracy invented, I use.»
I heard the small handheld machine snap as we moved by, slowly.
«What was his name? Oh, yeah. Isaac.»
«That wasn't his name.»
«Isaac, sure.»
«Aaron!»
«I don't mean Aaron, the older brother.»
«Younger!»
«Who's telling this?»
«You. And bad.»
«Insults.»
«Truths you could never take.»
«I got scars to prove it.»
«Hot dog,» said Sid as we glided on with their voices in his small device.
And then it happened. One, two, three, like that.
Quite suddenly the bench was empty for two nights.
On the third night I stopped in a small kosher delicatessen and talked, nodding at the bench. I didn't know the names. Sure, they said, Rosa and Al, Al and Rosa. Stein, they said, that was the name. Al and Rosa Stein, there for years, never missed a night. Now, Al will be missed. That was it. Passed away Tuesday. The bench sure looks empty, right, but what can you do?
I did what I could, prompted by an incipient sadness about two people I didn't really know, and yet I knew. From the small local synagogue I got the name of the almost smaller graveyard and for reasons confused and half-known went one late afternoon to look in, feeling like the twelve-year-old goy I once was, peering into the temple in downtown L.A., wondering what it was like to be part of all that chanting and singing, with all those men in hats.
In the graveyard I found what I knew I would find. The old woman was there, seated next to a stone bearing his name. And she was talking, talking, talking, touching the stone, talking to the stone.
And he? What else? Was not listening.
I waited, heard, shut my eyes and backed away.
With the sun gone and fog coming in with night I passed the bench. It was still empty, which made it worse.
So what can you do?
I called Sid.
«About that tape recorder of yours?» I said. «And some of those tapes?»
On one of the last nights of summer, Sid and I took our usual stroll down the kosher esplanade, passing the fine pastrami and cheesecake emporiums, stopped for some of that and walked on near the two dozen benches by the sea, talking and greatly contented, when Sid suddenly remarked, «You know, I have often wondered―»
«What's to wonder?» I said, for he was looking ahead at that bench, which had stayed empty for almost a week.
«Look.» Sid touched my arm. «That old woman?»
«Yes?»
«She's back! I thought she was sick or something, but there she is.»
«I know,» I smiled.
«Since when? The same bench. And talking like crazy.»
«Yes,» I said, and we walked closer.
«But,» said Sid as quiet as he could, «there's no one there. She's talking to herself.»
«Almost,» I said. We were very close. «Listen.»
«You give me the same smarts. Arguments, who needs?» the old woman was saying, leaning forward toward the empty half of the bench, eyes fiery, face intense, mouth in full motion. «Arguments, who needs? I got plenty. Listen!»
And then, even more astonishing: a reply.
«Give a listen, she says!» a voice cried. «For what, how come!»
«That voice!» Sid exclaimed, then whispered. «His voice. But he's dead!»
«Yes,» I said.
«And another thing,» the old woman said, «look how you eat. Sometime, watch!»
«Easy for you to say!» the old man's voice shot back.
«Go ahead, say!»
There was a click. Sid's eyes slid down. He saw what I saw, his borrowed small handheld recorder in the old woman's palm.
«And another thing,» she said, alive.