“Weekday mornings while Pat was working.” She lit a cigarette. “Hal was quite violent. I had to keep warning him against leaving marks.”

“What did he use—a rubber hose?”

She laughed. “Not violent that way.”

“How did Pat find out?”

“The usual way. The only day I ever went out with Hal for lunch, Pat saw us and followed us back to Hal’s. He didn’t tell me. The next morning he drove by Hal’s and saw my car in the driveway. Then he confronted me and I confessed. Then he walked out for two weeks. He wouldn’t let me in his office and he hung up every time I called. I almost went crazy. I thought I was going to lose him, I thought some woman would get him and that would be the end of it. When he came back, he said if it ever happened again, he’d leave me for good and take the baby too. And I knew he meant it. You know what’s crazy? I don’t think I really loved him until he said that. I was very lucky. Sometimes I get the chills when I think how it could have all gone another way.”

“Yes, it could have.”

We sat quietly for what seemed a long time. I watched her circle the ashtray with her cigarette butt.

“It’s all chance, isn’t it?” she said. “Who we meet and who we don’t. I know it sounds sophomoric, but when you realize it emotionally, it’s frightening. If I’d never met you or Pat . . . Are you happy, Irene?”

“I . . .” Maybe it was the grass, maybe an echo of the past, but suddenly I suspected a trap. “Yes.” Her eyes rolled up to meet mine. “I guess so. Reasonably.”

She smiled. “A reasonable answer.”

“Sometimes I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of change. This damned war, King and the Kennedys assassinated—it’s gotten Frank all worked up and involved and it scares me. And then Regina, the whole last year. And school, of course. We had so many fights last year, all that racial stuff. And some problems with drugs. And here I sit smoking grass with you. It’s just so strange. Even a year ago I couldn’t have pictured myself doing it.”

“Well, you’re doing it and it’s all right, so relax. In fact, I think I’ll send a little news item to our alumni paper: ‘Irene Mattison, née Rutledge, Queen of Sparta, renounces crown and scepter for daily dose of dope and relaxation.’ ”

“No one would believe it.”

“That, my dear, is why it makes good copy.”

She suggested we switch from coffee to Coca-Cola and have another joint. When I hesitated, she assured me we had eaten recently enough to keep us from getting too stoned. Just as she struck the match, the doorbell rang.

“Oh, my God, the cops!”

She laughed. “Very unlikely. Probably a moonlighting Avon lady. I’ll get rid of her.”

I watched her walk through the living room and open the door. The porch light wasn’t on, so I couldn’t make out the figure on the porch. “Oh, yes,” I heard Gloria say, “I remember you. Come on in. Irene, you’ve got company.”