In One Person

your
fiction
writing?” I asked her.
    “I don’t think I can go to Mexico with you, Billy—not right now,” was all she’d said.
    I’d had a recent boyfriend problem of my own, but when I dumped the boyfriend, I had rather soon developed a girlfriend problem. She was a first-year faculty member at Favorite River, a young English teacher. Mrs. Hadley and Richard had introduced us; they’d invited me to dinner, and there was Amanda. When I first saw her, I thought she was one of Richard’s students—she looked that young to me. But she was an anxious young woman in her late twenties.
    “I’m almost thirty,” Amanda was always saying, as if she was anxious that she was too young-looking; therefore, saying she would soon be thirty made her seem older.
    When we started sleeping together, Amanda was anxious about where we did it. She had a faculty apartment in one of the girls’ dorms at Favorite River; when I spent the night with her there, the girls in the dormitory knew about it. But, most nights, Amanda had dorm duty—she couldn’t stay with me in my house on River Street. The way it was working out, I wasn’t sleeping with Amanda nearly enough—that was the developing problem. And then, of course, there was the
bi
issue: She’d read all my novels, she said she
loved
my writing, but that I was a bi guy made her anxious, too.
    “I just can’t believe you’re fifty-three!” Amanda kept saying, which confused me. I couldn’t tell if she meant I seemed so much younger than I was, or that she was appalled at herself for dating an
old
bi guy in his fifties.
    Martha Hadley, who was seventy-five, had retired, but she still met with individual students who had “special needs”—pronunciation problems included. Mrs. Hadley had told me that Amanda suffered from pronunciation problems. “That wasn’t why you introduced us, was it?” I asked Martha.
    “It wasn’t
my
idea, Billy,” Mrs. Hadley said. “It was Richard’s idea to introduce you to Amanda, because she is such a fan of your
writing
. I never thought it was a good idea—she’s way too young for you, and she’s anxious about everything. I can only imagine that, because you are
bi
—well, that’s got to keep Amanda awake at night. She can’t
pronounce
the word
bisexual!
”
    “Oh.”
    That’s what was going on in my life when Uncle Bob called me about Kittredge. That’s why I said, half seriously, I had “nothing but mud season to look forward to”—nothing except my writing. (Moving to Vermont had been good for my writing.)
    The account of Kittredge’s death had been submitted to the Office of Alumni Affairs by Mrs. Kittredge.
    “Do you mean he had a wife, or do you mean his mother?” I asked Uncle Bob.
    “Kittredge had a wife, Billy, but we heard from the mother.”
    “Jesus—how old would Mrs. Kittredge be?” I asked Bob.
    “She’s only seventy-two,” my uncle answered; Uncle Bob was seventy-eight, and he sounded a little insulted by my question. Elaine had told me that Mrs. Kittredge had only been eighteen when Kittredge was born.
    According to Bob—that is, according to Mrs. Kittredge—my former heartthrob and tormentor had died in Zurich, Switzerland , “of natural causes.”
    “Bullshit, Bob,” I said. “Kittredge was only a year older than I am—he was fifty-four. What ‘natural causes’ can kill you when you’re fifty-fucking-four?”
    “My thoughts exactly, Billy—but that’s what his mom said,” the Racquet Man replied.
    “From what I’ve heard, I’ll bet Kittredge died of AIDS,” I said.
    “What mother of Mrs. Kittredge’s generation would be likely to tell her son’s old school
that
?” Uncle Bob asked me. (Indeed, Sue Atkins had reported only that Tom Atkins had died “after a long illness.”)
    “You said Kittredge had a
wife
,” I replied to my uncle.
    “He is survived by his wife and his son—an only child—and by his mother, of course,” the Racquet Man told me. “The boy is named after his father—another Jacques. The wife has a German-sounding name. You studied German, didn’t you, Billy? What kind of name is Irmgard?” Uncle Bob asked.
    “Definitely German-sounding,” I said.
    If Kittredge had wasted away in Zurich—even if he’d died in Switzerland “of natural causes”—possibly his wife was Swiss, but
Irmgard
was a German name. Boy, was that ever a tough Christian name to carry around! It was terribly old-fashioned; one immediately felt the stiffness of