“Shalom was too boring for her!” Mrs. Rubin chimed in.

“I heard she moved there,” Mrs. Pechter said, smirking at Mr. Goldman, “to be near an old boyfriend.”

She popped a caramel in her mouth triumphantly.

In the old days Mr. Goldman would have risen to the bait. He would’ve strenuously denied the boyfriend rumors and insisted that Goldie moved to Vegas for the weather or her health or to be closer to a cherished grandchild. He would’ve come up with something.

But that night, he just sat there, staring down at the liver spots on his hands. I could practically see him cringing at each verbal dagger.

Normally my sympathies were with the ladies, but tonight, I’d switched allegiances. The gals were showing him no mercy. They chattered on about Goldie’s alleged boyfriend, relishing every minute of Mr. Goldman’s misery. For once, my heart went out to him.

“Okay,” I said, eager to put an end to his torture, “who wants to read first?”

For the first time in the history of the class, Mr. Goldman didn’t volunteer to read. He sat there silently all night long, a shell of his former irritating aggravating bombastic self. He had no tales to tell of his life as a carpet salesman, no incendiary commentary on the other essays.

The ladies were in their glory, reading their memoirs of weddings and grandchildren and long-dead relatives, secure in the knowledge that they would not be interrupted by Mr. Goldman’s hand waving in the air.

The evening passed uneventfully, with none of the usual Goldman-inspired verbal slugfests. At last, the final essay was read, and the ladies began filing out of the rec room.

“Good night, darling!” Mrs. Pechter called out to me. “I gotta hurry back to my room. There’s a movie on TV I want to catch.” She practically shouted the name of the movie, for Mr. Goldman’s benefit. “Viva Las Vegas.”

Then she and Mrs. Rubin giggled like teenagers and bustled out of the room.

Poor Mr. Goldman. He just sat in his seat, staring down at his hands, which I now saw were trembling.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, sitting down next to him. “I know how much you cared for her.”

He looked up at me, with small sad eyes, and shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“It’s the story of my life. You may have trouble believing this, Jaine, but I’ve never been a success with the ladies.”

“Really?” I tried to look surprised.

“It’s true,” he sighed. “Most ladies don’t like me. Even my own wife wasn’t so crazy about me. You know what her sister said to me at her funeral? That she died in self-defense.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “I’m sure your wife died of a real disease.”

I patted the liver spots on his hand.