“But Rabun isn’t Gauguin or Picasso. He’s a Hugh Hefner of the sciences.” Diana mentioned the name of the prominent feminists’ bête noire.

Considering her own mental condition he was a little irked that she insisted he fulfill his psychiatric promises. The total bill came to sixteen hundred and fifty dollars for which he received a few interesting recipes, some good travel talk, the suggestion that there were some infantile characteristics in his psychological makeup, and the pointed advice that he should send his wife to medical school rather than continue bothering her about a child. Was she involved with the psychiatrist? The greatest disappointment in her life had been winning first runner-up to a Washtenaw County Puerto Rican in the medical scholarship competition. The psychiatrist also had some interesting ideas on the fact that whereas orgasm caused an immediate, temporary memory loss, it didn’t matter because no one had more than a slightly reliable memory in the first place. He never would admit it to Diana but he felt much better after he completed his thirty-three lap time trials with the psychiatrist who, incidentally, thought Warlock hopeless and harmless.

On the first anniversary of his dream of the future, though he didn’t know it, they took an arduous walk along the Manistee River. On her days off they had been taking long, irksome nature walks at his insistence. He claimed he wanted to know details about birds, trees and flowers, when he really wanted to cure her depression. Nothing out in nature, it seemed, resembled anything in the guidebooks. All of it did to Diana, but perhaps she was faking it, he thought. At least these walks built up a good appetite.

One mid-morning they sat on stumps facing each other and sharing the contents of his old boy scout canteen—a tepid Chablis tasting acridly of tin.

“You have to go to medical school.”

“Did the shrink say that?”

“Absolutely not. It’s my idea and I insist. I’ll visit on weekends. Don’t forget I’m rich as Croesus.” Who was Croesus? The money had been coming in from Gloria and Ted Rabun and Feingold hadn’t stopped sending him Dr. Rabun’s check because he said he hadn’t been “told to.” “Promise you’ll go to medical school or I’ll abandon you out here.”

“I promise. It would be chicken of me not to try it.”