op over and there would be a case of beer
and discussions in which she seldom took part because her field had been
sociology and his was English： arguments over whether Pepys's diaries were
literature or history； discussions of Charles Olson's poetry； sometimes the
reading of works in progress。 Those and a hundred others。 No； a thousand。 She
felt no real urge to take part； it was enough to sit in her rocking chair beside
Jack； who sat cross…legged on the floor； one hand holding a beer； the other
gently cupping her calf or braceleting her ankle。
The petition at UNH had been fierce； and Jack carried an extra burden in
his writing。 He put in at least an hour at it every night。 It was his routine。
The Saturday sessions were necessary therapy。 They let something out of him that
might otherwise have swelled and swelled until he burst。
At the end of his grad work he had landed the job at Stovington； mostly on the
strength of his stories — four of them published at that time； one of them in
Esquire。 She remembered that day clearly enough； it would take more than three
years to forget it。