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the weekends. Not that any of it mattered, now.
    On her long-anticipated date with Rob, they’d gone to see a movie at the only theater in Thief River Falls, a Saturday matinee. Ellen had thought it was rather good, a shoot-out between two rival gangs on the streets of New York, but Rob hadn’t liked it at all. On the drive to a steak house out on the highway, he’d complained about its gratuitous violence, another example of the movie industry’s lack of commitment to the younger generation.
    Despite the fact that Rob drove slowly, obeying every traffic law and speed limit sign, they’d arrived at the restaurant early. The hostess had seated them in the bar and asked if they wanted a drink. Ellen said a glass of white wine would be nice, but Rob had ordered plain 7UP. Then he’d warned her that it wouldn’t do for anyone in the community to see her drinking. She was a teacher, after all, and she should take her responsibility for molding young minds more seriously. She shouldn’t get the idea that he disapproved, but he only drank at home, where no prying eyes could see him.
    Though Ellen had kept her glass out of sight and there was no one else in the bar, Rob seemed to be terribly nervous. When the waitress had come to take them to their table, a lovely spot looking out over a snow-covered garden, Rob had insisted they move to a place in the center of the room. Windows could be drafty, he pointed out, and he didn’t want to take any chances of catching a cold and having to miss work. Even though he always left detailed lesson plans, a substitute couldn’t begin to teach his class as well as he could. They’d ordered a steak for her and chicken for him. Red meat was bad for the digestion and a man over thirty had to watch his cholesterol. No garlic bread either; he didn’t believe in strong spices. Decaffeinated coffee, of course, since it was past six.
    Ellen still wasn’t willing to give up on the only bachelor she knew. As they ate, she attempted to make conversation. Had he seen the special on public television about ancient Rome? Rob didn’t own a television set. He was firmly convinced that television had done more to corrupt the morals of the young than any other technological advance in their lifetime. Ellen scratched television off her list of possible topics and asked about his hobbies. There she struck pay dirt. It seemed Rob was an amateur photographer, specializing in local birds. Did she know that there were over seventeen varieties of finch in the three-mile area surrounding Thief River Falls? He’d recently acquired a very excellent telephoto lens, four hundred millimeters. And the first day he’d gone out with his motor-driven Nikon, he’d managed to capture the mating ritual of the North American crested grosbeak. He’d be delighted to show her his photographs after dinner.
    Accepting, Ellen had spent the rest of the meal wondering whether being invited to a man’s apartment to see his photos of North American crested grosbeaks was the same as being asked to view someone’s etchings. She hadn’t asked out loud. Rob had left a straight 15 percent tip and then they’d driven back to his apartment.
    That was when the trouble had started. He’d asked her to duck down in the seat three blocks before they’d reached his mother’s house. It didn’t look good for a bachelor to bring a woman home at night; people might talk. Ellen had complied, what else could she do? He’d driven into the garage, shut the door behind them, and whispered for her to be quiet so his mother wouldn’t find out she was there. And after they’d tiptoed up the stairs, he’d headed straight for the bottle of brandy hidden behind the sugar canister in his cupboard.
    She’d seen his pictures, all of them, and learned much more than she’d ever wanted to know about birds. By then he’d finished the bottle of