That winter we were poor. Gudrun made eleven hundred dollars a month, but rent and groceries and student loan payments took away a thousand. My own funds were dwindling.
At the beginning of December, I borrowed sixty dollars from eleven different people to cover my rent. Broccoli-and-instant-noodles was a standby meal. Christmas travel wasn’t possible.
We planned to spend the holiday at my place—my roommates were elsewhere for ten days—and we decorated a little spruce tree in a terracotta pot with paper snowflakes. A snowstorm filled the city on the solstice and I remember Gudrun asking if Sebastian was in town. I said I hadn’t seen him in a while.
“Call him right now.” I dialed his number and he promptly picked up. “Sebastian,” I said, “what news?” “Oh,” said Sebastian, “just leafing through ‘The Sylvia Plath Cook Book.
’ Almost finished. I’ve got the oven at three-fifty.” Gudrun picked up the other extension.
“Hickey? Get over here. You’re coming for dinner.” “Look here,” said Sebastian, “I’ve wanted to have chaps for dinner.
I mean, I’d invite you to my hovel, but it’s such a disaster I can’t prepare a meal for myself without vomiting.” “Invite us another time,” I said. “Tonight, come here.
” “Well, I do have some peach schnapps I’d like to get rid of—” “We don’t care what you have,” said Gudrun. “Just come.” “May I bring my new companion?” “Your new companion?” Gudrun said excitedly.
�.
