He stepped back. Then, with the autocratic inflection that is so characteristic of doctors you figure that med schools must give elocution lessons, Biff said, “Glenna’s pregnant and … I … will … take … care … of … it.”

“Bet you will,” I replied, feeling like I was peering backward into my brainpan, watching Roman candles spit and burn. “Be your big chance to get her pants off.”

Glenna said, “Gordon, try not to be a dipstick,” and stamped up to her room.

I can’t describe how intensely I hated Biff just then. Had he proffered one haughty piece of doctorly advice, I would have stubbed out my cigarette between his eyes. I opened the front door and shot the butt into the yard, then closed the door and felt like a nitwit because while I was hating Biff, I knew that it wasn’t his fault.

Upstairs, the overhead Japanese lantern was on, the muted colors of the light sparking in the specks of mirror that dappled Glenna’s plum-red, embroidered tunic. She was sitting on the bed, her back propped up against the pillows.

I sat across from her. “You tell Biff and not me?”

“I was upset. Palmer asked me what was wrong. He’s my friend, and I told him. You make it sound like I was unfaithful to you.”

She stared at me, and for one terrifying blink of an eye, I thought Robin must have given her chapter and verse on our trip to Woodstock when they had gone to the Risings for Thanksgiving.

I said, “How could you be pregnant? You were supposed to be taking the pill.”

“You think I want to be pregnant?”

“Do you?” I asked, vaguely hoping her answer would be yes. It wasn’t.

“Are you high?” she said.

“No, but you musta been. How do you get pregnant if you take the pill?”

“Remember when I told you I was switching my prescription to a lower dosage? Well, I finally did. Two months ago.”

“So?” I asked.

“So something went wrong. You need more, Palmer can give you a lecture on ovulation.”

“When—”

“How do I know when? You fuck me every day like I’m some broodmare.”

This wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. She seemed to be suggesting that I’d knocked her unconscious with a Louisville Slugger and ravished her.

“I’ll marry you,” I said. Technically, I’d never considered marrying her, and the proposal had seemingly come without my consent. Yet, I had considered losing Glenna, and I couldn’t envision going through it.

“Marry me? Where will we live? Who will take care of the …”

“The baby?”

“Just because you can say the word doesn’t mean—”

“I’m serious,” I said, reaching for her hand.

“You’re serious?” she echoed, pushing my hand away. “You go to school, you don’t go to school. You’re a reporter, you’re not a reporter. You write fiction, you don’t write fiction. You’re real serious. You’re real prepared to be a husband and father.”