“He used to come down to dinner sometimes. We’d have strudel when the apples were cheap, and chicken. He’d come down for that. But I took him up a strudel last week and when I went back a couple of days later it was still there. He says he has to keep in shape so he’s not eating at all except horsemeat and brown rice.”

She put a “sh” in “strudel.” Her accent and little-girl whine irritated me more than the cat shit.

As the semester dragged on, the discussions no longer took place in the campus cafeteria at dinnertime. I ate in my room a lot but walked over to the campus three days a week to classes. One night I got a long-distance call from Sam’s father on the phone in my hall. The next morning I went out to the college for breakfast.

Rennel was eating antacid tablets for breakfast. It was late, nearly time for lunch. The cafeteria was empty. Rennel sat in one far, dark corner, munching and belching sourly. I set my fried eggs down in front of him. His face went green. He scrabbled for another chalky tablet.

“Take that someplace else to eat it.”

“I want to talk to you.”

I rummaged my toast in the yolks, spread it around good, got the toast really runny with yolk, and then slid it into my mouth. I chewed voluptuously, never quite closed my lips. Rennel watched, fascinated, his fingers clenched on the roll of antacids. He just thought I was disgusting; it would never occur to him that I’d do it on purpose. I showed him a dripping bit of egg whites and poked my slimy tongue out of my mouth. Rennel pulled back, and his eyes bulged. His face was sweating, his cheeks swelled dangerously. He belched at length.

I lit a cigarette. Propped my muddy boots next to his little roll of Tums.

“Sam’s father phoned me from New York last night,” I said. “I guess Sam gave him my number and said he could be reached there. Anyway, Mr. Rosen was very upset. The school wrote to him to tell him Sam’s flunking.”

Rennel looked indignant. All his friends were crazy. The affront to his therapeutic powers gave him a sour stomach.

“I haven’t seen him in a while,” I continued. “Is he still playing the guitar?”

“Some. That was a healthy enough thing. Now he’s really falling into something.”

I could tell Rennel was carefully assembling a profound dissertation: his brows wrinkled, his eyelids drooped, his fat pink lips pouted.

“You know he spent his freshman year here faking mononucleosis. He didn’t go to any classes. He just sat in the dormitory.”

“Yeah.”