THE SNOW had let up, but the streets were deserted as we walked toward the rainbow blaze of lights in Times Square. The wind had blown the snow across the sidewalks, and we had to high-step through the drifting powder.

As we crossed Broadway and headed to Grand Central, Glenna said, “Be easier if we had snowshoes.”

I was too winded to answer and watched the huffs and puffs of my breath smoke in the cold. I wished Glenna would take my arm, but she kept walking ahead of me and climbing over the hard mounds of snow the plows had packed in along the curb.

“Glenna, if I keel over, you’ll know what to do?”

“Call 911.”

“Nice,” I said.

“Hey, I’m a pediatrician, not a cardiologist.”

“I guess 911 would be better than you telling me to take two aspirin and call you in the morning.”

“Aspirin would be good,” she said. “Prevents blood clots.”

“I knew that.”

“And think of the money you saved not going to med school.”

At the corner of Forty-Fourth and Fifth, Glenna was walking over a snowbank when she suddenly sank to her thighs. She tried to climb out by herself, but it was like being stuck in quicksand.

“Need some help?” I asked, my grin stretching ear to ear.

“Don’t you dare make fun of me, Gordon. Be a gentleman and help me out of here.”

“I have a medical question.”

She arched her eyebrows, and I recalled that look, equal parts annoyance and amusement. I wanted to laugh; I wanted to jump into the snow with her.

“What’s your question, Gordon?”

“Well, ever since I turned fifty, whenever I see a doctor, he wants to stick his hand up my ass.”

“Terrible, isn’t it? Now help me up.”

“Seriously,” I said, taking her gloved hands in both of mine. “I tell the guy I’ve got a backache; he says, ‘Oh, let me check your prostate.’ I tell him my knees hurt; he says, ‘Gee, bend over.’ Why is that?”

“We like a patient to get his money’s worth.”

I tugged her up out of the snowbank. After Glenna brushed off her coat and dug the snow out from the top of her boots, I offered her my arm.

Glenna said, “You’ll tell me why you’re here, right?”

I brought up a vague imitation of a smile, and she hesitated, studying me, then threaded her arm through mine.

Part VI

Past

Chapter 28

BY JUNE, I had completed basic and advanced infantry training and flew to New York from Fort Jackson, South Carolina. My most vivid memories of those ten days in Brooklyn before leaving for Vietnam were my father’s interminable advice on how to stay alive, my mother’s ferocious silence, and my struggling against my impulse to call Glenna. I had written her a letter from South Carolina, explaining where I was, and I had received a postcard in return. It said: