Ordinary People by Judith Guest Page A

with grief, had come charging into the office to tell him.
    “How could I have been so stupid, Cal? How could I have been so selfish, thinking I had it so tough, having to come home to a squalling baby every night? She’s gone, Call She left me! What the hell am I going to do without her?”
    Well, things change; people change. Lynn had left, and Nancy had come back, and they had moved out of their apartment and bought the big house in Glencoe. And surely Nancy is not the type of woman to live with somebody she doesn’t love “for the sake of the children.” No illusion there. They are still married; therefore, they are happy. But he sees the point she had been making. Depending upon the reality one must face, one may prefer to opt for illusion.
    He wants so much to believe that all is well. But, then, if it is, why does he keep taking pulses, and looking for signs?
    The front door opens. He hears the familiar sounds, of his feet scuffing the doormat, of the hangers clanging against each other in the closet as he hangs up his jacket.
    “Hi. You’re late tonight.”
    “Am I?” He looks at his watch. “Yeah, a little. Hey, it’s snowing.”
    “Is it? Must have just started.”
    “Yeah, it looks nice.” He sits down, and Cal hands him the sports section. “You finished? Thanks.”
    “How’s it going?”
    “Fine. Great. He gave back the trig quiz today. I got an A on it.”
    “Great. Terrific.”
    “Well,” he says and shrugs, “it was just a quiz.”
    But a gift. To have offered it is to show that it must have value for the giver, also.
    “That your first A this semester?”
    He looks up from the paper. “Yeah. I’m getting back in the swing of things, huh?” He grins.
    So truth is in a certain feeling of permanence that presses around the moment. They are ordinary people, after all. For a time they had entered the world of the newspaper statistic; a world where any measure you took to feel better was temporary, at best, but that is over. This is permanent. It must be.
    Beth comes in from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”
    Conrad puts the paper down. “I’m coming. Just have to wash my hands.”
    “Didn’t you just take a shower?”
    He grins again. “Forgot to wash my hands.”
    Cal laughs. “Tricky.”

12
    At first he was afraid that the hours after school would drag, but they do not. He fills them with studying, at school, or in town, at the library. The old building is comfortable and secluded and dark, with its narrow stained-glass windows and soft leather chairs. He can stay there until five-thirty and make it home on time. Or else he walks, keeping an eye on his watch, checking the time. Down Deerpath, past the Presbyterian church to the north campus of Lake Forest, where he can sit on a park bench and watch the birds. Nut-hatches, creepers, chickadees, grosbeaks (he bought himself a bird book, and is learning to identify them) go sedately and earnestly about their business, which is eating. He carries envelopes of sunflower seeds in his jacket pockets. He has his own Life List.
    This month he has another activity. Christmas shopping. He wanders through the stores of the U-shaped, outdoor mall admiring the piles of merchandise in the windows—sweaters, shirts, gloves, scarves, jewelry, sports equipment, shoes—the monotonous beauty of wealth. Crystal wine goblets on red velvet. Onyx chess sets. Japanese cameras. Golf clubs. Books. Undaunted, the traditional Christmas scene-stealers—carders, coaches and horses, shepherds, angels, wise men, kings —do battle in the same windows, with the tainted goods that surround them. Good for you. Fight the good fight. He is not daunted, either. Christmas means gifts, and he puts his money down with the rest; says, “Have a nice Christmas,” when he is handed his packages. “You, too,” they say.
    Before class one morning, Lazenby corners him at his locker. “What happened? Salan says you quit.”
    He nods curtly.
    “Why?”
    The halls are