I was in the shower when Frank came home. By the time I dried off, combed my hair and got dressed, he was loading up the car with the boxes.

“What’s the rush?” I said. “Don’t you want to go have dinner first?”

“I want to do this now before I eat and get drowsy.”

He had worked so quickly that by the time we were ready to go, I only had to carry one shopping bag down to the car. When we arrived at the trailer, he did the unloading while I cleaned the toilet and washbowl. As we were tossing around suggestions about where to go for dinner, I happened to glance at the box that had the top desk drawer things in it.

“Hey, what happened to that picture that was sitting on top of this stuff?”

“What picture?”

“The one of you and a girl. It was right here on top of everything.”

“Maybe it slipped down in. Come on, let’s get going.”

“Just a minute.” I lifted everything from the box, but the picture was gone. “Oh, damn it! Didn’t you see it, Frank? It was right on top.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It was you and this girl; you were sitting under a tree. I found it in your top desk drawer while I was packing.”

“We’ll find it later. And if we don’t, it’s not important.”

“It certainly is important if you kept it all these years.”

“No, it’s not, really.”

“Who is she?”

“Just a girl I knew once.”

“A girlfriend?”

“Not in that way.”

“She looked—well, a little retarded. Was she?”

“Mildly, yes.”

“And you looked like you were going to bite someone’s head off. Who took the picture?”

“I don’t remember. Some relative or neighbor. Now will you come on—I’m starving.”

The next day I went through all the boxes I had packed, looking for that picture. But I never found it. And Frank was blandly unconcerned over its disappearance.

At the time, it didn’t occur to me to think anything of it. . . .

We were married in July in the Cedar Run Presbyterian Church. Frank had his hair cut for the wedding although I told him not to do it on my account. But he insisted, knowing it would please my parents. It did. My father must have mentioned a hundred times what “an improvement” it was. Frank merely smiled and said nothing.

The day of the wedding and the day before it were eventful, to say the least. Since Frank had no really close friends, he had asked Bernie Golden, another graduate instructor in history, to be his best man. During the rehearsal, Bernie walked around telling everyone, “I don’t know how Frank got her. He ought to write a book about it. Send his secret in to Playboy.” My annoyance with him was fast approaching verbalization, but every now and then Frank would squeeze my hand and whisper, “Patience. You can afford it.”

I had had a real debate with myself over asking Gloria to be my maid of honor. It was Frank who talked me into making the offer. Her acceptance was pointedly unenthusiastic, but I chose to write it off as a cover-up. When she arrived in Cedar Run, she had given up her subtle sullenness and replaced it with a look of stoic resignation. And so between Gloria and Bernie and my father (whose disappointment in me I felt was still potent), there was enough friction in the air to keep me on edge.