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So that is what they do.”

After that one the old poet opens her eyes and yells for Marie. Her voice is surprisingly strong. Barbara thinks with dismay that she has been found wanting and is going to be escorted out by the woman in the fawn-colored slacks.

“You have another twenty minutes, Livvie,” Marie says.

Olivia ignores that. She’s looking at Barbara. “Are you attending classes in person, or are you Zooming?”

“Zooming for now,” Barbara says. She hopes she won’t cry until she gets out of here. She thought it was going so well, that’s the thing.

“When can you come? Mornings are best for me. I’m fresh then… or as fresh as is possible these days. Are they possible for you? Marie, get the book.”

Marie leaves, giving Barbara just enough time to find her voice. “I have no classes until eleven.”

“Assuming you’re an early riser, that’s perfect.”

As a rule Barbara is far from an early riser, but she thinks that’s about to change.

“Can you come from eight until nine? Or nine-thirty?”

Marie has returned with an appointment book. She says, “Nine. Nine-thirty is too long, Livvie.”

Olivia doesn’t stick out her tongue, but she makes an amusing face, like a child who’s told she must eat her broccoli.

“Eight to nine, then. Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. Wednesdays are for the goddam doctors and Thursdays are for the motherfucking physical therapy chick. The harpy.”

“I can do that,” Barbara says. “Of course I can do that.”

“Leave the poems you brought. Bring more. If you have books of mine you want signed, bring them next time and we’ll get that nonsense out of the way. I’ll see you out.” She gropes for her canes and begins the slow process of getting up. It’s like watching an Erector Set building constructed in slow motion. Marie moves to help her. The old poet waves her away, almost falling back into her chair in the process.

“You don’t have to—” Barbara begins.

“Yes,” Olivia says. She sounds out of breath. “I do. Walk with me. Throw my coat over my shoulders.”

“Faux, faux,” Barbara says, without meaning to. The way she writes some lines—often the best lines—without meaning to.

Olivia doesn’t just laugh at that, she cackles. They move slowly down the short hall, the old poet almost invisible beneath the fur coat. Marie stands watching them. Probably ready to pick up the pieces if she falls and shatters like an old porcelain vase, Barbara thinks.

At the door, one of those frail hands grasps Barbara’s wrist. In a low voice carried on a waft of faintly bad breath, she says, “Did Emily ask you if your poems were about what she likes to call ‘the Black experience’?”

“Well… she did say something…”

“The poem I saw and the ones you read me weren’t about being Black, were they?”

“No.”

The hand on her wrist tightens. “I’m going to ask you a question, young lady, and don’t you lie to me. Don’t you dare. Give me your promise.”

“I promise.”

The old poet leans close, looking up into Barbara’s young face. She whispers: “Do you understand that you are good at this?”

Barbara thinks, On the basis of three or four poems, you know this how?

But she whispers back, “Yes.”

2

She walks home in a daze, thinking of the last thing Olivia said to her. “Gifts are fragile. You must never entrust yours to people who might break it.”