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"All he wanted was a great big lay," Roberta said. "Why are men like that?"

"Well," Garp said.

"Oh, I know you're not," Roberta said. "I'm not even attractive to you, probably."

"Of course you're attractive, Roberta," Garp said.

"But not to you," Roberta said. "Don't lie. I'm not sexually attractive, am I?"

"Not really to me," Garp confessed, "but to lots of other men, yes. Of course you are."

"Well, you're a good friend, that's more important," Roberta said. "You're not really sexually attractive to me, either."

"That's perfectly all right," Garp said.

"You're too short," Roberta said. "I like longer-looking people--I mean, sexually. Don't be hurt."

"I'm not hurt," Garp said. "Don't you be, either."

"Of course not," Roberta said.

"Why not call me in the morning," Garp suggested. "You'll feel better."

"I won't," Roberta said, sulkily. "I'll feel worse. And I'll feel ashamed that I called you."

"Why not talk to your doctor?" Garp said. "The urologist? The fellow who did your operation--he's your friend, isn't he?"

"I think he wants to fuck me," Roberta said, seriously. "I think that's all he ever wanted to do to me. I think he recommended this whole operation just because he wanted to seduce me, but he wanted to make me a woman first. They're notorious for that--a friend was telling me."

"A crazy friend, Roberta," Garp said. "Who's notorious for that?"

"Urologists," Roberta said. "Oh, I don't know--isn't urology a little creepy to you?" It was, but Garp didn't want to upset Roberta any further.

"Call Mom," he heard himself say. "She'll cheer you up, she'll think of something."

"Oh, she is wonderful," Roberta sobbed. "She always does think of something, but I feel I've used her for so much."

"She loves to help, Roberta," Garp said, and knew it was, at least, the truth. Jenny Fields was full of sympathy and patience, and Garp only wanted to sleep. "A good game of squash might help, Roberta," Garp suggested, weakly. "Why not come over for a few days and we'll really hit the ball around." Helen rolled into him, frowned at him, and bit his nipple; Helen liked Roberta, but in the early phase of her sex reassignment Roberta could talk only about herself.

"I just feel so drained," Roberta said. "No energy, no nothing. I don't even know if I could play."

"Well, you should try, Roberta," Garp said. "You should make yourself do something." Helen, exasperated with him, rolled away from him.

But Helen was affectionate with Garp when he answered these late-night calls; she said they frightened her and she didn't want to be the one to find out what the calls were about. It was strange, therefore, that when Roberta Muldoon called a second time, a few weeks later, Helen was the one who answered the phone. It surprised Garp because the phone was on his side of the bed and Helen had to reach over him to pick it up; in fact, this time, she lunged across him and whispered quickly to the phone, "Yes, what is it?" When she heard it was Roberta, she passed the phone quickly to Garp; it was not as if she'd been trying to let him sleep.

And when Roberta called a third time, Garp felt an absence when he picked up the phone. Something was missing. "Oh, hello, Roberta," Garp said. It was Helen's usual grip on his leg: it wasn't there. Helen wasn't there, he noticed. He talked reassuringly to Roberta, felt the cold side of his unshared bed, and noted the time was 2 A.M.--Roberta's favorite hour. When Roberta finally hung up, Garp went downstairs to look for Helen, finding her all alone on the living-room couch, sitting up with a glass of wine and a manuscript in her lap.

"Couldn't sleep," she said, but there was a look on her face--it was a look Garp couldn't immediately place. Although he thought he recognized that look, he also thought he had never seen that look on Helen.

"Reading papers?" he asked; she nodded, but there was only one manuscript in front of her. Garp picked it up.

"It's just student work," she said, reaching for it.

The student's name was Michael Milton. Garp read a paragraph of the paper. "It sounds like a story," Garp said. "I didn't know you assigned fiction writing to your students."

"I don't," Helen said, "but they sometimes show me what they do, anyway."

Garp read another paragraph. He thought that the writer's style was self-conscious and forced, but there were no errors on the page; it was, at least, competent writing.