—HELEN ROWLAND THERESA About the same time BILLY’S WAITING for me at the apartment. My youngest. I’m afraid I spoiled him, once upon a time, but then you’re apt to do that with your baby. You want to hold onto his precious youth with both hands, because it’s your youth too, isn’t it? If he’s still a baby, you can’t be all that old yourself. He’s not a baby now, however. He jumps from one of the armchairs in the drawing room, and his polished blond head nearly scrapes against the ceiling. He snatches a cigarette from his mouth and says, “Ma! There you are!” I accept his kiss and ask him what kind of nerve he’s got, smoking his filthy cigarettes in my drawing room. He puts out the gasper. I tell him that’s better, and then I ask why he’s here at all. Isn’t Princeton keeping track of its freshmen anymore? (And don’t call me Ma, for God’s sake. This is Manhattan Island, not the middle of the Oklahoma Territory.) “Mama, Oklahoma’s been a state for a while now,”
