She met him at midterm, but it seemed she made more of a difference to his life than he did to hers. His name was Patrick Malone. A veterinarian who had moved up here from India­napolis, he had the kind of appeal women rarely find outside their fantasies. Though he was close to Frank’s height, he had twenty more pounds distributed among his chest, arms and legs. From a distance, his face was as symmetrical as a mechanical drawing, but with sharp green eyes which pierced that distance. Up close, a slight hump on the bridge of his nose added character, and his cheeks were dotted with tiny indentations, the rugged remains of teen-age acne. His smile was quick and boyish, his laugh full-bellied and richly masculine. His conversation, his gestures, every­thing about him, was affirmative yet gentle. My conversations with him flowed easily, sliding comfortably now and then into friendly gibes at one another. He loved the title my mother and Frank had given me—Irene the Arrogant—and he used it every chance he got. He liked to kid me about having had skin surgery: no one, he said, could have hair as naturally red as mine without having freckles as well. In return, I nicknamed him Craterface and told him he probably hadn’t had acne at all, but purposely poked those little holes in his cheeks because he was too pretty. Gloria loved our repartee and looked happiest when she could sit back, sip on a drink and just listen to us.

Unfortunately, the happy threesome became a tense foursome whenever Frank entered the picture. I saw the guardedness in Pat’s manner the first time he met Frank, and I could well imagine the source of it. But I felt mildly victorious as Pat and Frank began to relax around each other. Pat loved to talk and Frank was a probing listener, always asking questions and pursuing explanations. Gloria’s icy civility toward Frank had mellowed to become an artificial and awkward friendliness, and we all felt the strain. Whenever she had a few drinks in her and her defenses were down, she would slip into staring at him, watching his every movement and judging it. Frank’s reaction was to avoid conversation with her; when he did address her, he never looked her in the eye.

The foursome was short-lived. Frank bowed out gradually, at first with excuses of having to work. Later, excuses weren’t neces­sary. Measured against Frank’s “exile,” Pat’s presence made me resentful, and I soon went back to seeing Gloria alone.

Frank and I spent an increasing amount of time alone together. We were both working very hard; sometimes during the week our only amusement was reading to each other the papers we had written. Up to the time I met Frank, I had always mailed my papers home for my father to read. He taught English at Cedar Run High School, and he was more than a little proud of his influence in getting me interested in the same field. I knew my working on a Ph.D. would complete the dream he once had for himself. Naturally, he wanted to keep tabs on that dream. When I forgot to send the papers home after reading them to Frank, I soon received a one-line note from my father which read: “Ph.D. candidates don’t write papers anymore?” Chuckling, I showed the note to Frank, but he was not amused.