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that there are few things more important for a young man than a good education, & although certain aspects of the application process have changed since I taught, I believe I might still be able to offer some advice on schools or take a look at his essays. It would be lovely to see you too after all these years.
    That said there are several things that you should know. I have changed quite a bit since you last knew me. By this I mean that I have gained quite a bit of weight. I say this so that you won’t be shocked.
    I have also—I am embarrassed to say this—I have also been untruthful in several ways over the years. I do not travel, really. I do not keep in touch with any of the other professors I once knew, nor any of the students. My friend Marty Stein, of whom I frequently have spoken, died in 1997. I do have a brother named William but we are estranged, & I am also estranged from my father. My mother is dead. I have no children, sisters, aunts, or uncles. At one time I had friends but now I rarely go out & I rarely have visitors. I am 58 yrs old now.
    I do not know why I lied. Perhaps it was to have something interesting to tell you in my letters. Our correspondence has been very dear to me. I wish to make a fresh start now & to form a friendship with you based on truth. The one thing that gives me hope is knowing—I hope you will forgive me for saying it—that you, too, have had your secrets. I do not hold this against you. I hope you can forgive me as well.
    Please consider this an invitation to come over anytime you like. I will wait for your call or your response.
    Fondly,
Arthur
    Then I opened my front door & put the letter in my mailbox & tipped the happy little red flag up.

• • •
    T oday marked the first visit of the girl from Home-Maid. Yolanda. I spent the morning thinking of what to wear. I couldn’t bring myself to do the wash, the wash being located inside of a closet that is not very maneuverable. Instead I took each one of my seven shirts out from the closet and laid them on my bed & inspected them for lint, holes, food, stains, & odors. The winner was my blue shirt so I put it on, making sure to align the buttons properly, & wetted a comb & ran it through my hair, & washed my face and hands as I was taught to, scrubbing behind my ears, scrubbing my nails especially.
    I arranged myself on my couch: a glass of ice water placed virtuously on the end table, my glasses at the tip of my nose. I was reading something I thought would be impressive, a fat book on politics.
    Noon came and went. I waited fifteen minutes & then began having a dream of Chinese food: the greased and glowing kind, unnaturally orange chicken with sesame seeds nestled in its crevices; white rice in buttery clumps that come apart wonderfully in the mouth; potstickers, ridged and hard at the seam and soft at the belly; crab rangoons, a crunch followed by lush bland creaminess; chocolate cake—nothing Chinese about it, but the best dessert for a meal of this kind, the sweet bitterness an antidote & a complement to all that salt.
    Suddenly I became afraid of opening the door. I said a prayer that she wouldn’t come. I lifted my phone & had the idea of calling this agency, Home-Maid, & telling them that I had fallen ill and couldn’t have company. Before I could do this the doorbell buzzed.
    I froze. A thrill of adrenaline went from my nose to the tips of my fingers. For what felt like an absurd amount of time I sat on my couch and did not move; I held my book before my face and looked up at nothing. Upon her second buzz I rose from the couch, rocking in place once or twice for momentum. I shuffled toward the door, still carrying my book. I was breathing hard; a drop of sweat rolled down my back. Coming, I said, so quietly that she might not have heard me.
    I opened one half of the great double door. In front of me stood a little girl: she looked so young that at first I took her to be a lost child, the wrong person entirely.