lynn bey

An old teacher said he’d always played fair. Friends from college called him their glue. His mentor envied his fine instinct, and colleagues—rivals, too—declared him virtuosic. Weeping, the youngest daughter pledged to make him proud.

Standing at the lectern, I recognized his wife from a photograph I’d hung onto: stylish, assured, unjarred by life’s missteps.

“What can I say?” I shrugged. “With me he could be himself.”