I went to German lessons twice a week, in the late afternoon, darkness crowding in earlier with each succeeding visit.

　　It was Howard Dunlop's working rule that we sit facing each other during the full length of the lesson. He wanted meto study his tongue positions as he demonstrated the pronunciation of consonants, diphthongs, long and short vowels.

　　He in turn would look closely into my mouth as I attempted to reproduce the unhappy sounds.

　　His was a mild and quiet face, an oval surface with no hint of distinctiveness until he started his vocal routines. Thenthe warping began. It was an eerie thing to see, shamefully fascinating, as a seizure might be if witnessed in acontrolled environment. He tucked his head into his trunk, narrowed his eyes, made grimacing humanoid faces.

　　When it was time for me to repeat the noises I did likewise, if only to please the teacher, twisting my mouth, shuttingmy eyes completely, conscious of an overarticulation so tortured it must have sounded like a sudden bending of thenatural law, a stone or tree struggling to speak. When I opened my eyes he was only inches from my mouth, leaningin to peer. I used to wonder what he saw in there.

　　There were strained silences before and after each lesson. I tried to make small talk, get him to discuss his years as achiropractor, his life before German. He would look off into the middle distance, not angry or bored or evasive—justdetached, free of the connectedness of events, it seemed. When he did speak, about the other boarders or the landlord,there was something querulous in his voice, a drawn-out note of complaint. It was important for him to believe thathe'd spent his life among people who kept missing the point.

　　"How many students do you have?""For German?""Yes.""You're the only one I have for German. I used to have others. German has fallen off. These things go in cycles, likeeverything else.""What else do you teach?""Greek, Latin, ocean sailing.""People come here to learn ocean sailing?""Not so much anymore.""It's amazing how many people teach these days," I said. "There is a teacher for every person. Everyone I know iseither a teacher or a student. What do you think it means?"He looked off toward a closet door.

　　"Do you teach anything else?" I said.

　　"Meteorology.""Meteorology. How did that come about?""My mother's death had a terrible impact on me. I collapsed totally, lost my faith in God. I was inconsolable,withdrew completely into myself. Then one day by chance I saw a weather report on TV. A dynamic young man witha glowing pointer stood before a multicolored satellite photo, predicting the weather for the next five days. I sat theremesmerized by his self-assurance and skill. It was as though a message was being transmitted from the weathersatellite through that young man and then to me in my canvas chair. I turned to meteorology for comfort. I readweather maps, collected books on weather, attended launchings of weather balloons. I realized weather wassomething I'd been looking for all my life. It brought me a sense of peace and security I'd never experienced. Dew,frost and fog. Snow flurries. The jet stream. I believe there is a grandeur in the jet stream. I began to come out of myshell, talk to people in the street. 'Nice day.' 'Looks like rain.' 'Hot enough for you?' Everyone notices the weather.

　　First thing on rising, you go to the window, look at the weather. You do it, I do it. I made a list of goals I hoped toachieve in meteorology. I took a correspondence course, got a degree to teach the subject in buildings with a legaloccupancy of less than one hundred.

　　I've taught meteorology in church basements, in trailer parks, in people's dens and living rooms. They came to hearme in Millers Creek, Lumberville, Watertown. Factory workers, housewives, merchants, members of the police andthe fire. I saw something in their eyes. A hunger, a compelling need."There were little holes in the cuffs of his thermal undershirt. We were standing in the middle of the room. I waited forhim to go on. It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things.

　　Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.

　　When I got home, Bob Pardee was in the kitchen practicing his golf swing. Bob is Denise's father. He said he wasdriving through town on his way to Glassboro to make a presentation and thought he'd take us all to dinner.

　　He swung his locked hands in slow motion over his left shoulder, following throug............