Monitors and religious magazines and leaflets to barbershops and places like that. She’s never been happier or healthier. She not only says it but looks it. She’s even given up coffee and regular tea. They’ve visited the mother church in Boston twice since they got together and for their honeymoon they’re flying to Paris to see avant-garde plays for a week — Lincoln speaks fluent French — and then to study there for a month with what she guesses could be called a Christian Scientist guru. Lincoln’s bought an Italian motor scooter and they zip around town on it like a couple of kids and they both got jobs on the same soap for this fall. The wedding date and place are a secret except to their guests, this woman says, “presumably to keep it from you and another of her past suitors. She certainly knocked off a few.” Calls her at Lincoln’s, she answers and he says “So how are you?” and she says “I’m fine, what do you want?” and he says “Oh God, gruff voice, I thought you said you wanted to talk to me in a couple of weeks,” and she says “Lincoln explained it to you once; that should be enough,” and he says “Please don’t ride on motor scooters; they’re dangerous. Oil slick comes, it’ll skid and you’ll crash or fall off. Get a helmet at least,” and she says “You’re probably right about the helmet; I’ll get one for Lincoln too.” “And you gave up coffee and tea that has caffeine, I heard. You used to love coffee, made the best I ever had. Ground it fresh every morning, mixed it with whatever you mixed it with — chicory, sometimes two different beans.” “It became a fetish. And it’s a stimulant. I happen to love herbal teas or vegetable broth first thing in the morning, at least as much.” “Good, all that makes you feel better, live longer, you don’t need doctors anymore, but he’s twelve years older than you, someone said.” “So what? I wasn’t hiding it.” “But when you’re twenty-eight, he’ll be forty. Thirty-eight, he’ll be fifty, and so on. By comparison to you, he already looks old.” “He looks as young and is probably in twice the physical shape you or any man your age is, including professional athletes. He never drank, smoke, did anything to poison his body, and because his principal theatrical interest is mime, just practicing it hours a day keeps him incredibly fit. He can stand upside down on a single finger and then walk on two — you know what it takes to do that? As for his mind, it’s clear, imaginative, and youthful as they come.” “Religion is the last refuge of a dumbbell or whatever someone once said. Who needs to bow? Who needs to pray? Like a bunch of beggars the way they hand around that dumb money tray. And who needs to read some wacko whose hip bones stitched naturally after a break but starts up her own religion from it.” “You haven’t read her. We don’t bow. Other than for what we think are its practical benefits, praying can be like meditation, which you loftily once said you thought there could be some value to and you might want to try. You ought to witness a Science testimonial some Wednesday afternoon or night at any of the churches around town or go to a Sunday service. Everyone’s lovingly invited, even tourists, and you’ll see we’re not robots and there are no ministers. It’s entirely run by laymen and women, services and church. I could lead a service if I wanted to and knew enough.” “You’ve been brainwashed. Your mind’s hanging out to dry and is getting bleached by the sun and holes in it from the wind.” “I knew you’d get around to that business eventually. Insults and ignorance. We’ve seen it before. Please don’t call again, Howard. You were once sweet and caring but you’re now a headache. Right after this I’m having our phone disconnected,” and hangs up. Calls back a few minutes later to apologize and the phone’s busy. Calls the next day and it’s busy and day after that the number’s been changed and new one’s unlisted. It’s an emergency, he tells the operator and she says “Not even for emergencies it says.” Writes her letters, apologizes in them, says he was feeling crazy and depressed before, so because of it bitter and unloving, but he’s now over it, pleads for her to meet him so he can ask her forgiveness in person, but they’re never answered or sent back. Wants to get away from her, hitch and train around the country, have adventures, more experiences, meet lots of women, work at various places to make money to continue traveling. Goes to D. C. to say good-bye to his oldest brother. In an elevator at the Press Club an acquaintance of Jerry’s steps in, they’re introduced, says “He the brother who wants to be a writer?” “Both,” Jerry says, “but the older one’s actually getting published.” Remembers Jerry telling him Howard worked as a copyboy at CBS when he was in college, wonders if he’d like to fill in for a vacationing reporter for three weeks. Does, stays for two years. Year after he has the job he gets Lincoln’s number from Information. Calls a few times over the next months. Lincoln always answers and Howard always hangs up. Once though he says in a muffled fake voice “Hello, this is Balicoff Studios in Los Angeles, is Miss Austin in?” “Hold on, please,” and in the background Lincoln says “It’s fantasyland; what do they want?” and she gets on and says “Janine Austin speaking,” and he says nothing and she says “Hello, what studio in L. A., my husband wasn’t able to catch it so fast?” and says nothing and she says “Have we been cut off? Could you speak louder, if you’re speaking, or do you want to call back? Yell yes and I’ll hang up.” Nothing and she says “I think I hear someone there; is anyone there?” and waits a few seconds and says “Oh well, if it is some studio, try to call back, thanks,” and hangs up. She sounded the same, maybe a little artificial because she thought it was an important professional call. Pictured Lincoln seated beside her on the bed, holding her hand, ear near the receiver. Then them both waiting for the studio to call back and after a half hour or so dialing California information for Balicoff Studios or any name sounding like that, and then realizing it was a prank and maybe even Howard calling, or maybe they realized it right after she hung up or Lincoln realized it before, or there could be a new guy carried away by her and they thought it might be him. Calls her folks a couple of weeks later when he’s drunk and depressed and says “Howard Tetch, you remember me,” and her father says “Sure,” and says “How’s Janine?” and he says “Fine,” and says “Good, any other news about her?” and he says “None we know of — take care of yourself, Howard, nice speaking to you,” and says “That’s great, and nice talking to you too, sir.” Wrong thing to do, thinks next morning. They’ll tell her, they’ll all say how immature he still is and doesn’t he realize how disturbing it is getting a drunken late-evening call like that? Writes her folks an apology, saying he’d gone to a party, too much to drink, got sloppily sentimental — doesn’t know why, Janine hasn’t been on his mind for a year — it’ll never be repeated, wishes them well, doesn’t hear back from them. He and another reporter quit their jobs to form their own radio news service, running it out of the radio-TV gallery in the Capitol. Month after they start it his partner has a stroke, partially paralyzed and can’t type or speak on the air anymore and Howard can’t run it alone or bring in anyone else as his partner was the brains behind it. Could go back to his old job but returns to New York permanently because just around then the freighter his brother Alex was on disappeared in the Atlantic and he thinks he should be near his sister and folks. Moves in with them, job, calls up one of Janine’s best friends, doesn’t mention her name but hopes she and her husband will and tell him something about her. They’ve heard him on radio several times, seen him on TV asking questions at the political conventions and of visiting dignitaries like Khrushchev and Macmillan and Mrs. Roosevelt at Washington airports and in the Capitol and such and once on a panel show on some news subject, glad he’s found something he likes doing and is good at and he says he doesn’t much like it, still wants to write and actually gets some lines down now and then. They invite him for dinner, wonder if they should invite Janine. “Why,” he says casually, “she still in the city?” “You didn’t know?