For the next three months, the mother-to-be ate so poorly, she gained fewer than fifteen pounds. Her diet consisted largely of beans and rice-a perfect protein, she proclaimed, completely disregarding her unborn baby’s need for proper nutrition. She didn’t believe in prenatal vitamins, claiming that women since the beginning of time had managed to conceive and bear children without the interference of the pharmaceutical companies. Patrick found her attitudes infuriating, but there was no arguing the point. She interpreted any opposition or rebuttal as an assault on her autonomy. He finally threw his hands up and took to leaving the room the minute she walked in.

Most of the time, she kept a sullen distance, but there were moments when she made a minor effort to get along, thus fostering Deborah’s hopes that a bond could be forged, however limited it might be. Her optimism was always short-lived. Shelly’s mood would darken. The unstable elements in her personality would combine, setting off the inevitable explosion. Once she blew up, Greg stepped into the role of mediator, traveling back and forth between the bus and the house. He made excuses, soothing and mollifying first Shelly and then his parents. Deborah almost preferred Shelly’s hysteria to Greg’s pathetic attempts to broker a peace.

Patrick and Deborah took to eating dinner with friends on Friday nights at the Horton Ravine Country Club. According to the gossip, many couples in their social set were experiencing the same dismay, as their offspring, now young adults, got caught up in “alternative lifestyles,” which meant dope, secondhand clothes, long, unkempt hair, and a neglect of personal hygiene. The nights out were their only relief from the tensions at home and their only opportunity to blow off steam.

They’d known Kip and Annabelle Sutton since they’d joined the country club, shortly after moving to Santa Teresa from Boulder, Colorado. The Unruhs were in their forties, while Kip and Annabelle were ten years younger, with school-age children who took up a major portion of their time and energy. For the Suttons, the Friday-night get-together was a welcome respite from parental responsibilities.

Kip was an architect who specialized in commercial properties-office buildings, banks, department stores. Annabelle was a stay-at-home mom, just as Deborah had been in her day. The Suttons’ four children were two, six, eight, and ten, the oldest a girl named Diana. During the first round of martinis, the subject of Greg and Shelly came up, as it did most Friday nights.

Patrick said, “Take a lesson from us. These kids are malcontents and they’re spoiling for a fight. Our accomplishments are worthless as far as they’re concerned. You two have the same trouble coming up only I’m betting it gets worse.”

Annabelle said, “Don’t say that. I have my hands full coping with the terrible twos. Michael was a doll until his second birthday and now here we are, turning to drink.” She plucked an olive from her martini, popped it in her mouth, and then drained her glass.

Kip said, “I don’t see this business with Greg and Shelly as anything new. Kids have always been rebellious at that age, haven’t they?”

Patrick shook his head. “Not like this.”

“Shelly’s a beatnik,” Deborah said. “She told me she lived for months in a crash pad in North Beach, where all the ‘cool cats’ hung out.”

“A beatnik? That’s passé, isn’t it?”

“Not to hear her tell it. She claims she screwed Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti in the same six-day period.”

Annabelle looked askance. “She actually told you?”

“Oh, sure. Proud as Punch. I could see she was hoping I’d recoil in horror so she could accuse me of being uptight and out of it. I just sat there and blinked and then asked if she’d ever had the clap.”

Annabelle cracked up. “What’d she say?”

“She said that wasn’t the point. She was experiencing life to the fullest, which was more than I could say.”

Patrick said, “I hadn’t heard that bit. Where was Shawn all this time while she was getting it on?”

“They were all there together-kids, moms, strangers, potheads, and heroin addicts. They played guitars and bongo drums and made money writing poems they sold to tourists on the streets.”

Patrick finished his drink and signaled the waitress for another. Kip raised his hand as well, like two guys bidding on the same lot at an art auction.

Patrick shook his head in exasperation. “What’s wrong with these kids? You give them the best of everything and they end up spitting in your face. This girl knows it all. You should hear her mouth off. She doesn’t have a brain in her head and she’s got the gall to criticize the president of the United States, like she has a clue. She can’t even run her own life. They’re vegetarians, for god’s sake. Do you know how much time and energy that takes?”

Annabelle said, “More than I’d be willing to expend. I guess you have to give her credit. I couldn’t manage it.”

“Oh, please. You think Shelly cooks? No, ma’am. She refuses to subordinate herself. Deborah’s the one saddled with all the meals. You ask me, it’s just one more form of narcissism, making everybody jump to their tune while they sit there thinking they’re above it all.”

Annabelle said, “That’s ridiculous. Why don’t you make them fix their own meals?”

“My point exactly. Ask her,” he said, hooking a thumb in Deborah’s direction.

“You know what she eats, Patrick. If it were up to her, every meal would be soy cakes, sprouts, and brown rice. Shawn would starve to death if I didn’t give him peanut butter sandwiches behind her back. You should see him wolf down his food. He’s like a little animal.”

The waitress set down two fresh drinks along with a basket of Parker House rolls and a plate of individual butter pats. Kip turned to Annabelle. “Sorry, I should have asked. You want another martini or you want to switch to wine?”

“I better lay off. I’m embarking on a new exercise program-a half-mile ocean swim three mornings a week.”

“Starting on a Saturday? You’re not serious!”

“I am. I leave the kids with a sitter. It’s the only time I have for myself.”

“Must be freezing.”

“You get used to it.”

Deborah said, “I’ll make the sacrifice and drink her wine as long as you’re ordering. It’s the least I can do.”

Kip asked the waitress for a bottle of Merlot, pointing to his selection on the wine list before he surrendered it.

Deborah raised her hand. “Here’s one I almost forgot. Yesterday, I found Shelly sobbing her heart out. It was the first emotion I’d seen that wasn’t anger, petulance, or disdain. I thought maybe she missed her mother, but when I asked, she said she was still in mourning because Sylvia Plath had killed herself.”

Annabelle said, “Who?”

“A poet,” Patrick said. “She was mentally ill.”

Annabelle shrugged and chose a roll from the basket. She pulled off one segment and buttered it. She took a bite and tucked the nugget of bread into one side of her cheek, a move that slightly muffled her speech. “We know a couple who claim to be vegetarians. Talk about tedious. We had ’em over for dinner once and I served macaroni and cheese. After that I was stumped. They invited us back for a sumptuous bowl of vegetarian chili. The worst. Inedible. Not even close. What got me was they were wearing leather shoes. I voted to drop them and Kip was opposed until I told him he’d have to cook for them if they ever came back.”

That set Patrick off again. “Here’s the kicker as far as I’m concerned. Shelly doesn’t like vegetables. The only vegetable she’ll eat is beans. She doesn’t like fruit either. She says bananas are disgusting and apples make her teeth hurt. She’s got a list of food no-no’s that includes just about everything known to man. Except quinoa, whatever the hell that is.”