Even though it was Thursday, and barely dinnertime, the main street had a frowsy feeling, as if the performance had already happened, and somebody had forgotten to tear down the tattered posters. The place would not have looked sinister to anyone but me; it was just an ersatz hippie little college street of no particular distinction. Cuddly single-story abodes of the cottage type sat a little back from the street, surrounded by patches of scrappy lawn, and the retail establishments that flanked them followed a nonconformist conformity—bagels, juicery, head shop, bookstore, repeat. The signs on the stores reminded me of the precious way some people name their cats: Gypsy Threads, The Exuberant Alternative, Mrs. Pennyroyal’s Papers, Bagel Bountiful. Not in any particular hurry to get to the Glory Be Bed-and-Breakfast Inn, I decided to find myself a quick dinner first, then maybe do some scouting around.

The restaurant was called Mack The Cheese. It served only variations on macaroni and cheese. In a town filled with homesick college kids, I thought, this idea was a stroke of genius. Beside Mom’s Traditional, there was Spinach and Artichoke Macaroni and Cheese, Macaroni and Cheese with Andouille Sausage, and Taco Pizza Macaroni and Cheese. As I ate my Macaroni-and-Gruyère with green peppers and sun-dried tomatoes, I thought helplessly of Jep and me, more than twenty years ago, before Stefan, “cooking dinner” in our wretched studio apartment, believing that Kraft Spaghetti Classics in a box was a real gourmet triumph, especially with a healthy side of iceberg lettuce. We had been so sweet and earnest: How could this foul luck have come snuffling its dark way through time until it found us? Only a fool believes that people who do good must then derive good from fate; but we’re helpless in that belief. Why else do good? Why not teach our kids just to smash and grab in life?

When I finished dinner, it was still early, but I was exhausted. My plan was to go directly to the bed-and-breakfast inn, and, by eight o’clock, anesthetize myself with Valium and a slug of the innkeeper’s sherry. Although the weather was moderate for this time of year in north central Wisconsin, it was no day at the beach, as it were. Still, I decided on a short walk, just a couple of blocks, before getting into my car, to shake down the pound of macaroni and cheese I’d eaten and to clear my head.