I have to finish up. I have an exam on Monday and tonight one of my professors and his wife, who have somewhat adopted me, are taking me to see a play called Endgame or something. I’ll tell you guys all about it in my next letter.

Love, Raj

Dear Raj:

Despite what I thought, it’s a boy. Believe it or not, we still haven’t come up with a name for him. Lew’s dad says he doesn’t want the child named after him or anyone in his family. I know my dad would like him to be called Salvatore Eduardo, but while I love my dad, Raj, I’m going to admit to you that I don’t admire him. My mom thinks it best to give him a “normal” American name: John, Peter, Mark, Simon, Robert, etc.

You said you were thinking of coming back for the break. It would be great to see you and for you to see Baby, who has a full head of blond hair and the most alert blue eyes (nothing in him of me!). Of course we all suspect he is the most brilliant infant ever born, every frown a sign of intense thought, rather than yet another effort to empty his bowels.

You’ve probably heard that Nora and Walter Novus are engaged. Apparently he made his mind up to marry her when he was thirteen. It was on the day I got into a fight with Seamus in the lunchroom, and Nora chased him out—remember?

I miss talking to you. I waited so long for your last letter and I have to admit I was disappointed: nothing of you, really. You were always elusive, but I used to be able to see what you were feeling at times, certainly to know if you were lying to me; few people have a face as delicately responsive as yours. I like to hear about your friends, about the things you are going to see, but it seems to me that your last letter might have been written to anyone. When I went to visit Ruth a few weeks ago, she read me out a funny section of a letter you’d written to her—about that lecture in the church—and it was word for word what you’d written to me. Or rather, to me and Lew, as you always insist on doing. I wait for your letters with such anticipation. Lew has become as silent as his father. He seems almost afraid of Baby. I’ve noticed that when he has to touch Baby, he makes a strange little series of motions. He’s grown a beard—a scruffy, woodsman kind of beard. There are other things also, but I feel disloyal. I don’t want to burden you. I tell you because I don’t know who else to tell.

Love,
Annie

Dear Annie and Lew: