I wept and emoted and sprayed language through the crack beneath Mrs. Kooshof's bathroom door. I fell asleep at the end. (Emotion of any sort exhausts me.) When I awoke, Mrs. Robert Kooshof lay at my side. Her breath came in loud gusts. At first I felt certain she was sleeping, but after a moment it occurred to me that this sweet woman was shedding tears of her own. She shuddered and moved up against me. I held her. She held me. And then for some time we gave way to our grief, a pair of middle-aged love losers, two desperate souls.

Deep in the night, Mrs. Kooshof said, "Thomas, could you ever love me?"

Later she said, "I suppose not."

And then near morning, she put her head on my shoulder and said, "You're a scoundrel, right? All the lies. Just a hopeless, unreliable old tomcat-that was the whole point of your stupid story. And I'll never trust you. A promise-I won't let myself."

But this, too, was a performance.

At daybreak I woke to find her sound asleep, thumb at her mouth, curled up like a little girl.

I was on the road to Minneapolis by seven o'clock. The skies were clear, the air was balmy. At the halfway mark I stopped at a restaurant, consumed a hearty breakfast, and placed a collect call to the Kooshof residence in Owago. No answer, so I tried again when I reached my apartment, then twice every hour until dark. Inexplicably, I felt a flutter of disappointment. Almost terror, almost sadness. I went out for an early supper-called her once more between courses-then took a long, leaden stroll across campus before making my way home.

She stood waiting at the door to my apartment building. Inevitable, I suppose. Yet oddly touching.

I helped with her suitcases, of which there were four, and kissed her in the elevator. She wore high heels, a black blouse, glass earrings, carmine lipstick. She'd had her hair cut.

"Tampa," she said. "I'm still invited?"

"Yes, of course," I told her, then hesitated. "You realize that we don't leave for two more weeks?"

"I'll wait," she said. "Right here."

"Certainly."

"And I should warn you, Thomas. I get what I want."

"Do you, indeed?"

For a few seconds Mrs. Kooshof watched the elevator's floor indicator. "Tampa-it's so boring. Why not Mexico or Guadeloupe? Forget all this revenge business."

"Not likely," I said.

She shrugged and unbuttoned her black blouse. "You care for me, though. You do, don't you? I'll bet you're almost in love."

"Ah," said I.

The next morning, as I strolled to class, I spotted Goof a half block ahead of me, his face partially obscured by a stop sign. The old terror hit me like a hammer. I stopped, turned into a doorway, waited a few moments. When I looked back again, he was gone.

Granted, it had been thirty-some years since we last crossed paths.

But still.

Coincidence? Mistaken identity? My own failing eyesight? Not a chance. It was Goof.

Over dinner that evening, when I mentioned the incident to Mrs. Robert Kooshof, she squinted at me without comprehension. "Goof?" she said.

"Ghost from the past," I informed her. "And a very dangerous ghost at that."

"Some woman you messed with?"

"Female, no. Messed with, yes."

For my own reasons, which will become apparent in due time, I was not at liberty to elaborate on the matter, and the best I could manage was an oblique, somewhat evasive reference to certain wartime experiences.

Mrs. Kooshof laughed. (Frothy laughter. Bits of broccoli.) "Soldier?" she said. "You?"

"Precisely so."

"You're not serious?"

I regarded her with pique. "Not only that," I said stiffly, "but a hero to boot. Have I shown you my Silver Star?"

"I don't even know what-"

"Combat decoration. With a V-device, I might add. V as in valor. Very rare."

Again, the woman burst out in pointless laughter, showering me with the remains of her meal, and in a huff I pushed to my feet, strode into the den, retrieved the medal, marched back to the table, and dropped it on her plate with a sharp clatter.

"Do not," I said, "make the mistake of underestimating me. A common blunder. One which Goof himself came to repent. Tulip too."

"Tulip?"

"And Wildfire. And Death Chant. And Bonnie Prince Charming."

Mrs. Kooshof eyed my Silver Star, a flush spilling out across her cheeks and forehead. (It was apparent that her estimate of Thomas H. Chippering was in the process of rapid revision. Bedroom thoughts. Adulation. The usual.) "But, Thomas," she said, "you're not making sense. This wildfire business ... tulips and medals ... I just don't follow."

I fished the Silver Star from her plate, cleansed it with a cloth napkin, pinned it to my lapel.

"Be that as it may," I said cryptically, "you may take my word that certain combat traumas are not easily forgotten. I am in point of fact being pursued like some wounded moose, and there is absolutely no doubt-none at all-that we must watch our collective steps."

My companion squinted again, skeptically, her lovely blue eyes locked to the twinkling Silver Star at my chest. "You're not imagining this, Thomas? I mean, after all these years?"

"It was a pledge," I said. "A threat. They swore they'd come after me."

"But why, though?"

I shook my head. "That part remains classified. Let us simply say that I more than earned this decoration. In point of fact, I was too brave."

"Thomas, for crying out loud, I can't see-"

"Believe me," I said, "even gallantry can be taken to an extreme. I repeat: too brave, too heroic, and the consequences have been dogging me ever since." I looked at her solemnly. "Imagine, if you will, Lord Jim in reverse."

Mrs. Kooshof sighed and began clearing the table. Plainly, she was baffled by it all, yet at the same time the dear woman could not resist taking several furtive peeks at the Silver Star upon my breast. (Storm clouds, yes, but also the standard silver lining.) After washing the dishes, and after carefully chaining the door of my apartment, I squired my overheated mistress bedward.

I need not dwell on the end product. She was my jockey, I was her explosive young charger.

Still, as we lathered down, I could not rid myself of that chased sensation. The ghosts were real. And for some time I lay sleepless, listening for footsteps, watching headlights sweep across the drawn bedroom shades.

Two mornings later I spotted Death Chant on the steps outside my classroom building.

Delusions?

Again, not a chance: I told you I was being chased.

That term I was teaching a pet course entitled "It's Your Thick Tongue," in which I placed special emphasis on pronunciation, grammar, and vocabulary. In part, the course was designed to augment a student's word base by one or two percent, a lowly enough goal but one with merit in this age of linguistic neglect. Near the end of each session I would circulate a list often common and reasonably useful words: e.g., debilitate, substance, prevaricate, conjugal, apostasy, turncoat, infidelity, treason, cuckold, tycoon. As homework, my students were required to spend time with their dictionaries, researching such matters as meaning, etymology, cognates, pronunciation, synonymy, and usage. (It is my well-informed view, I should add, that the dictionary stands as our supreme book of books, an embodiment of both civilization and the very idea of civilization. I tend toward zealotry on this subject. In the evenings, over a cup of Sanka, I read aloud from my Webster's just as certain Baptists recite from their Bibles.) In any event, to begin a class, I typically deliver an elegant little lecture organized around the terms listed during our previous session, employing each in context, finally incorporating all ten in a single efficient paragraph.

An illustration might be helpful. Consider, for example, the words listed above. At our first class meeting after spring break, freshened and revitalized by Mrs. Robert Kooshof, I concluded my minilecture with these vivid, solidly constructed sentences: "There is substance to the notion that infidelity, as practiced by turncoats and tycoons, represents our most debilitating form of modern apostasy. I do not prevaricate; I bear witness as a cuckold, a victim of conjugal treason."

One of my students applauded. A young woman, as it turned out. A brunette. Narrow hips. Trim.

After class, as a matter of good form, I was obligated to flag down my raven admirer. Lively chitchat ensued-invigorating, I thought-and naturally I inquired as to her name, which was Toni with an i, short for Antonia with a pair of firmly bracketing as. To our mutual pleasure, the conversation ran on for a full twenty-two minutes, Toni's eyes appropriately aglow, each tick of the clock chiming with innuendo and possibility. The girl was smitten. It happens: I could not fault her. Near the end of our dialogue we scheduled an appointment to discuss her honors thesis, exchanged hugs, then parted ways with sprightly steps.

Am I a rake? A predator?

Certainly not.

Lorna Sue was mistaken on both charges.

I mention my encounter with Toni for two reasons. First, the episode offers incontestable evidence regarding my stature both as a teacher and as a man of the world. Though far from flawless, I am not without virtues. Among them, I sincerely believe, you would soon discover a rigorous intelligence, manly charm, playfulness, and a rather dangerous sensuality.

I am a war hero. I stand just over six-six. I do my sit-ups. Women notice.

("Predator!" Lorna Sue once yelled, but where was the crime? A closed office door? A Do Not Disturb sign? I touched no one. No one touched me. We live in a world increasingly populated by know-it-alls and backbiters and conclusion-jumpers and ignorant moral watchdogs. My ex-wife, I fear, was one.) Second, and much more important, I bring up the comely Toni for strictly narrative reasons. Every dark cloud may well have its silver lining, but I have come to learn that every silver lining has its dark consequences. That same evening, during the dinner hour, my slim-hipped coed made the mistake of calling me at home. Worse yet, I committed my own callow error, allowing Mrs. Robert Kooshof the privilege of answering the telephone.

When she returned to the table, Mrs. Kooshof's complexion had turned splotchy. Instantly, with not a word of warning, she raised her voice to me in a manner that was completely unjustified. I sat stunned. A moment earlier we had been happily discussing our travel plans, daydreaming aloud about Tampa, and now she was bellowing such words as predator and deviant and cradle robber. It was a sonic replay, you might say, of my most unfortunate experiences with Lorna Sue. I felt my own anger rising. Very forcefully, with the outrage of the innocent, I responded by making it clear that I had just met the silly young candy cane, that I had done nothing improper, that I was not lord and master of the city's telephone lines.

Mrs. Kooshof seemed taken aback. "She called you Lucky Duckie."

"Perfectly explicable," said I.

"How?"

I did not have the stamina to explain. I rose to my feet, moved away from the table, and spent the remainder of the evening in an injured sulk. The hurt was real. In virtually every detail, the evening's incident had haunting antecedents in my defunct marriage, in my whole hideous history with Herbie and Lorna Sue: the rush to judgment, the maligning of character. Even the telephone.

Late in the night, as Mrs. Kooshof slept, I found a screwdriver and proceeded into the den. A pity, I thought. Silver linings and so on. How quickly the fair bud of romance fades into trickery.

I took apart the telephone, deactivated its ringer, snapped off the red wire that connects to my answering machine.

A familiar routine. Through several tense years of marriage, the screwdriver had served as a first and final line of defense. (Have I yet mentioned my troubles with the telephone? How Lorna Sue kept asking why the damned thing never rang? How one afternoon she came home with a brand-new Southwestern Bell Freedom model? How I spent half the night prying off its plastic base plate, struggling to decipher its internal workings? A tense few hours, believe me. I have since invested only in the most unsophisticated telephones-rotary style, basic black, no gadgets.) With my engineering complete, I retired to bed, where I slept peacefully but alone. Mrs. Kooshof took her slumber behind the locked door of my bathroom.

My apartment was far from spacious. A galley kitchen, a modest bath, two bedrooms (one of which I had converted to a den), and a living room that could be navigated in three or four untaxing strides. Cramped quarters, in other words, especially for two mature adults. Despite all her marvelous qualities, which were legion, Mrs. Robert Kooshof cannot be faithfully described as petite, and as a consequence our twelve days of cohabitation proved stressful at times. Agility was required. Patience, too, and geometrical compromise. We were quite literally stuck with each other. Moreover, though it's depressing to admit, I had become accustomed to the bachelor's life since Lorna Sue's departure, setting my own hours, adhering to certain tidy routines, and it was only natural that I encountered a number of purely psychological difficulties in adjusting to Mrs. Kooshof's overwhelming presence.

The telephone represented one such problem. Basic courtesy another. The woman took keen interest in my personal affairs-a chronic snoop, in my opinion. A suspicious, shameless busybody. More than once I returned from class to find my underwear refolded, my checkbook updated, my social calendar stained with coffee and large Dutch fingerprints.

Much as I enjoyed Mrs. Kooshof's company, it soon became apparent that precautions were in order. Within a week I had my mail held for pickup. I disconnected the door buzzer. For truly vital communications, I passed out my unlisted phone number to certain favored students, among them the ebony-haired Toni.

Not that I had anything to hide.

Rather, after my experience with Lorna Sue, I lived in fear of even the slightest misapprehension. Mrs. Kooshof, for instance, might well have found cause for worry in those ten or twelve occasions when young Toni required after-hours assistance with her thesis. On my own part it was an open-and-shut case of professional responsibility. I had personally suggested the girl's topic (a close textual study of Western matrimonial vows), and it therefore seemed reasonable that I should be on call for emergencies.

Even so, I was careful. Toni and I rendezvoused at her dormitory, in a cozy sitting room to which she had the only key, and over many productive midafternoon hours the two of us pored through documents both modern and ancient. We put our heads together decoding the Latin, Gallic, and Germanic wedding vows; we rejoiced in our discovery that fidelity, in one form or another, stands as an unvarying multicultural pledge of nuptial union (i.e., "to love, honor, and obey"); we recited the Greek vows aloud, working on syntax and inflection; we stumbled across astounding parallels between the English admonition "to have and to hold," et cetera-with its conspicuously carnal overtones-and the German analogue, "und ehren und ihn in Freud und Leid treu bleiben, bis der Tot euch scheidet ..."

Altogether, I must say, here was a genuinely refreshing academic experience. Rarely does joint scholarship generate such sparks, such red-hot fire, and in all respects my trim Toni positively blistered as a model student. Never tardy. Worshipful. Erotic. The girl dressed well, favoring silks and linens, and plainly appreciated my wit. On one occasion, I recall, the little marshmallow fell into convulsions at some clever barb of mine, her tender brown knee brushing my own, the tips of her fingers alighting on my arm.

I could not help myself. I stiffened. (Affection is one thing, respect another.) I saw no reason to reject the poor girl, whose heart and soul were engaged; thus I settled on the tact of feigning nervousness, adjusting my tie, gently quoting a few lines from Shakespeare: "Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty/Youth's a stuff will not endure." The idea was to defuse things. To objectify our master-student paradigm.

Toni misunderstood. She jerked her hand away and said, "The fuck does that mean?"

Instantly, I recanted.

The quotation, I insisted, was simply a case in point. No offense, no harm.

Toni gave me an insolent stare. "I should turn you in," she said fiercely. "Bring you up on charges or something. No joke, I should."

"Now, please," I said. "I was merely citing-"

"What a manipulator," said Toni.

Manipulator: another word that ices my soul. Turtle, engine, Pontiac, yellow, cornfield, rose, substance, mattress, manipulator. Lorna Sue used the term often, violently, with a sadist's relish, knifing me with each cool syllable.

My resolve hardened.

"You're in the presence of a war hero," I said sternly, "so be careful. Let's talk this out quietly. Like a pair of grown adults."

"Bullshit," said Toni. "I'm not an adult."

I nodded and said, "Fine, then. We'll start there."

It took a good portion of the afternoon, a greater portion of my spiritual resources, but in the end I succeeded in mollifying my hypersensitive young chippie. Flattery, I have learned, is the key. I extolled Toni's intelligence, her work habits, the fact that she would be receiving a unique A-plus in "It's Your Thick Tongue." My dark maiden raised a questioning eyebrow. She sat down, crossed her long and shapely legs, brushed her hair back, lit a Virginia Slim without permission. Her expression was ripe with greed. Slowly at first, then rapidly, the girl's anger ebbed as I discussed my wholehearted support for her honors thesis, my willingness to provide help in any way possible.

"Yeah? Well, how so?" said Toni.

I smiled and held up the palms of my hands. "Whatever strikes your fancy."

"Write it," she said.

"Write it?"

"The thesis," she said. "I want you to write it."

We parted on amiable terms. A close call, obviously, but wisdom won the day.

That evening, after one of Mrs. Kooshof's sumptuous suppers, I retired to my den and began composing the first chapter of a thesis that would later bear the title "To You, Betrothed." In a number of ways I enjoyed the task. I am deft with language; I take pleasure in the wax and wane of ideas. Still, my attitude toward young Toni had been altered irretrievably for the worse, and as I typed well into the night, page after numbing page, I paused frequently to intone the word manipulator.*

The two weeks prior to our departure for Tampa were among the most grueling of my life. On top of a full course load, with the usual crush of exams and papers, I was under pressure to sort through my wardrobe, purchase film and suntan lotion, prepare a game plan for revenge, attend to Mrs. Kooshof's needs, and complete the final six chapters of Toni's honors thesis. The girl proved a demanding taskmistress. Several times she sent me back to do rewrites, or to the library for additional research. She would scan my hard-won pages, frowning, chewing on a pencil, scrawling comments and suggestions in the margins. "Too dense," she'd write. "Too stiff. Too wooden. Fix it!"

All in all: a most nerve-racking experience. I felt dizzy at times. I snapped at assistant professors. At one point I temporarily misplaced my sex drive, which was always just short of rapacious.