MY EKG and blood tests were normal, and the hippopotamus went somewhere else to sit, but Dr. Silt wanted to monitor me for signs of a heart attack, so he admitted me to the telemetry unit overnight. I was given a double room without a roommate and connected to a telemeter, a small box with four wires, which ran to pads on my shoulders and rib cage and hung around my neck like a high-tech ribbon from a country fair. I was sitting in bed inspecting the dinner menu when Glenna walked in, and all at once I felt frightened and relieved. Frightened because if I was dying, I’d have to leave her. Relieved because loving her, I felt as though I’d live forever.

She sat on the bed and kissed me. “I spoke to Dr. Silt. He thinks you had an esophageal spasm.”

“That’s serious?”

She shook her head and glanced down at the menu.

“Then how come you’re—”

“Scared?” Glenna said, staring at me. “For God’s sake, you scared me.” In late July, for our first wedding anniversary, we had vacationed for a few weeks in Florence, Rome, Venice, and the fishing village of Portofino, and her face was tanned a dark gold.

I said, “What causes the spasms?”

“No one knows. Possibly anxiety.”

“Maybe it’s that I finished the novel this morning, and Todd called. He’s almost got the option contract done, and he gave me the name of a literary agent who wants to talk to me. The pain started when I got off the phone.”

“Ah.”

I’d written a family saga about three generations of men who go off to war. Half of it was made-up. It was the other half that troubled me, picturing strangers taking a peek at my life. Glenna had read every word, usually responding with a kind comment or two, except for those times when she had said nothing and a shadow of sadness passed across her face.

I said, “If you have to go back to the office—”

“I don’t. That’s why I have Jennifer.” Jennifer Austerlitz was a young pediatrician that Glenna had hired as an associate.

I said, “We still on for tomorrow night?”

“You’re fine. No reason to cancel. You’ll be out of here before noon.”

“I’m fine? You and Dr. Silt—you’re sure?”

“You’re fine, Gordon. There’s only one thing to worry about.”

“What’s that?”

She gave me the menu. “Whether to order grape or raspberry Jell-O.”

BY SIX o’clock the next evening, the pork ribs glistening with my molasses-and-vinegar barbecue sauce were in the oven approaching perfection; my corn bread was cooling in a glass dish on the stove; and I was spreading Mrs. Richardson’s butterscotch sauce over a graham-cracker pie crust with a spatula. When that was done, I nuked a pint of Ben & Jerry’s vanilla in the microwave, then spread the softened ice cream and topped it off with another layer of butterscotch.

As I put the pie in the freezer, Glenna, who was at the island slicing tomatoes, said, “If an investigator from the Office of Professional Medical Conduct saw this dinner, I’d lose my license.”