My parents always called Jim Betty’s
friend, right up until the day she got married to someone else.
By then the two of us had an apartment together, and at the
reception my mother introduced us as simply, “Henry and Jim.” Not
friend or roommate, just Jim—in those days, no one
felt compelled to define us further. My mother treated him like one
of the family when we visited, and that was all I wanted. Let her
believe we slept in separate bedrooms, if that’s what she needed to
think to welcome him into her home.
We bought this house in ’64; the market was
good and the realtor didn’t question both our names on the
mortgage. Jim was in college at the time, working nights at the
packing plant just to pay his half of the bills. We had plans for
the house—I wanted a large garden and
