Only you acknowledged the mishap. You mentioned it offhand when you came to give me yet another paperbound book from your home collection: Beyond the 38th Parallel. I didn’t confess it then but will confess it now. I hadn’t even read the last book you gave me. You told me it wasn’t exactly an academic piece of work. Just some pretty good firsthand accounts. Diaries. Letters. I thanked you for it and you winked. Just don’t spill anything on it, you said, and then sauntered off to the secretary’s desk for your midmorning flirtation.9“Beyond the 38th Parallel. That mean anything to you?” he asked, studying me.“It’s a book,” I said.“Clearly it’s a book, Homer. I guess I don’t need to ask if you’ve read it. Obviously you haven’t. Anyway. Not a bad book. I don’t remember giving that one to her, but I remember that I did lend Mary Anne a book or two, now and then. In any case, does that title mean anything to you?”“Not really.”“Think. In connection with 1950, I mean.
