It was so hot that summer it was easy to keep a promise to start swimming. I started going to the pool every morning. I would swim laps for a while, then smear myself with Coppertone suntan lotion and lie by the pool and order bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches and sign the chits. I had never signed chits before and I thought it was very grand. I thought the Dunleith Country Club was very grand. I forgot all about the pool I had worked so hard to have built in Franklin, Kentucky. This was a private club without any weird people hanging around the dressing rooms. Yes, perhaps my father had been right and it was good we had moved home to Alabama. He had begun to corner me in the evenings and campaign for me to leave Vanderbilt and go to school in the state. “It would save me a lot of money, Sister,” he would say. “You could have a car and more money for your clothes. Of course, Auburn’s my first choice, but you can go down to Tuscaloosa with little Irise, if you like.”

“I won the freshman writing contest,” I would say. “I think I should go back.”

“I wouldn’t mess with those sapsuckers if I was you. Your momma says there’s an ace chapter of Chi Omega at Tuscaloosa. Well, you think about it.”

I was thinking about it. Meanwhile, I was swimming every morning at the country club. I would dive into the cool water of the pool and begin my count, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. I would go out early while the pool was deserted and swim sometimes for an hour. I think now it was the only time of the day when I actually understood what I was doing. The rest of the time I floated in and out of consciousness, being acted upon by any influence at any moment, floundering in search of grace.