In the spring, without any discussion at all, Jon found out his father had signed him up for two monthlong sessions of summer camp, back to back. Lionel had committed to a series of speaking engagements that would have him zigzagging across the country nonstop during June and July. The day after school was out, Jon was shipped off to Michigan. This was a so-called sports program, meaning an intense boot camp for fat boys, during which they were weighed daily, lectured about nutrition, berated for their eating habits, and forced into long sessions of exercise, during which the occasional boy collapsed. Oddly enough, Jon enjoyed himself. His loneliness, his guilt, the silence of the house, even the yawning loss of his mother, all of that was set aside for two months, and he needed the relief. The boys were encouraged to choose a sport—basketball, football, soccer, hockey, lacrosse, or track.

Jon took up long-distance running. He liked sports where individual achievement was the goal. He liked competing with himself. There was nothing in his nature that lent itself to team spirit. He wasn’t cooperative by nature, not a rah-rah kind of guy. He didn’t want to wear a uniform that rendered him indistinguishable from fifty other boys on the field. He preferred being on his own. He liked pushing himself. He liked the sweat and the harsh laboring of his lungs, the pain in his legs as he covered ground.

By the time he came home from camp, the promised growth spurt had materialized. Jon’s weight had dropped by twenty-two pounds and he’d added three inches to his five-foot-six-inch height. During ninth and tenth grades his braces came off and he shot up another four inches. He also dropped an additional ten pounds. Running kept him lean and filled him with energy. He took up golf and in his spare time caddied at the club. He and his father operated on separate but parallel tracks, and Jon was fine with that.

In August of 1964, prior to Jon’s freshman year at Climp, Lionel appeared at the door to the den where Jon was slouched on the sofa watching television. He had his feet propped on the ottoman and he held a glass of Diet Pepsi balanced on his chest. His father had been going out a lot, but Jon hadn’t thought much about it.

Lionel stuck his head in the door and said, “Hey, son. How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Could you turn that down, please?”

Jon got up and crossed to the TV set. He muted the sound and returned to his seat, his attention still fixed on the screen though he pretended he was listening to his dad.

Lionel said, “There’s someone I want you to meet. This is Mona Stark.”