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next bout. Their intimacy deepened as Ruth read to her, stroked her head with a wet rag, sang to her. She even killed a chicken and made chicken soup. Vivian’s illness subsided and Ruth was torn between love and anger. “Vivvy sweetie, you are my best friend in the whole wide world and I’m so sorry you’re having such a bad time, but I have to tell you in all honesty that it doesn’t pay for you to get well, because as soon as you’re out of bed, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!” They laughed until they cried.
    Sometimes they struggled, as many volunteers did, with the idea of the United States, with its affluence that came packaged with crime, materialism, and empty values, purporting to teach traditional cultures to emulate it.
    â€œReally, Ruth, it’s ridiculous to think that these villagers, who know nothing about suicide and very little about emotional illness of any kind, where everyone knows his purpose in life and has a whole villageful of love, might someday be able to watch TV and actually want to be like us. That’s so crazy. No, they should be sending the Peace Corps to us .”
    â€œRight, like a reverse Peace Corps to teach us traditional values. Core Values. The CORE Corps.”
    â€œWith a model of a traditional village set up in Times Square.”
    â€œAnd the villagers would show us how to care for people who need it the most.”
    â€œWithout bitching about taxes.”
    â€œRight. And accepting everyone for who they are, without pushing everyone to be a doctor or lawyer.”
    â€œRight. Or asking them when they’re going to get married and have kids and settle down in the suburbs.”
    They indulged in this or any kind of discussion they wanted, playful, serious, creative, impassioned, tearful, or a combination. They never needed to hurry back to a paper due the next day, never feared being pre-empted by a boy calling. The evening’s only entertainment was a full discussion of the day’s insights, with the guarantee of a willing listener, a hefty measure of understanding of both the words and the intentions behind the words, and acceptance. The relaxed rhythm of their lives was as much a new experience as living in Africa. Their life together was intimate, but not sexual, though visiting volunteers—and they got more than their fair share because the ocean in their back yard made visiting them like a trip to the beach—spread whispers about the two girls who were … “you know … really really close.”
    When they were all talked out, they’d play Ray Charles on their battery-powered record player and do the twist to “What’d I Say” on the sand in the moonlight, until they were giggly and sweaty. They’d collapse and listen to the waves.
    Long afterwards, when the dust had settled, Ruth realized it had been naïve to think their friendship would survive the transition from the hothouse of their close quarters, new experiences, and isolation to their lives back home. They didn’t realize that, in the real world, they’d have to be satisfied with something less, and the diminution would be unacceptable.
    When the rift came, though, they just thought they were arguing about the Viet Nam War. Vivian was counseling young draftable men on their limited options: try for Conscientious Objector status, aim for one of the few remaining deferments, flee to Canada, or fight. They were having dinner at Chuan Hong, a Chinese restaurant on the Upper West Side. It was Szechuan, a new kind for both of them, and they were enjoying its spiciness and novelty. Vivian tried to convince Ruth to join her in working for “Is Fighting the Only Option?”
    Taking a bite of her Kung Po chicken, carefully avoiding the pepper pods, Ruth explained, “Look, Viv, I support what you’re doing, really I do, but I’m just not an activist sort of person.” She blew on her food. “I’m just not.