It was one of those end-of-college parties. Potluck clean-out-the-fridge fare, with a congenial group of graduating seniors. Gail and Jean were giving up their northside apartment, and with a little help they put together spaghetti and salad and garlic bread for those of us who were still around.

I knew them, but not as well as my old friend did. Susan had gone through the experimental two-year Abbot program with Gail, and she and Jean knew one another from high school. I had the kind of chattery acquaintance that comes of sharing an occasional Benzedrine-stoked all-nighter before language finals, or a spontaneous day (I could remember two with Gail) of shopping and weird eating.

I wasn’t particularly eager to party with them, but I had nothing else to do that Thursday night, and I was curious about Mrs. Carter. She reportedly had a profound effect on Gail. Susan told me Mrs. Carter became something of a mentor when Gail took her comparative literature course, and in everyone’s opinion Gail, normally strong-willed, was too much under the influence of her charismatic professor.

“Influence to do what?” I remember asking Susan when I first heard the story. We were walking across campus on crunchy leaves, so it had to be that last autumn. Susan would have been wearing pressed trousers – she always did – and her black hair would shine to her shoulders.

“Oh, nothing corrupt,” she answered. “It’s just that Gail is always quoting her and following her advice and – I don’t know – almost managed by her.” She looked away from me, for traffic, as we crossed the street on the west side of campus. “It’s eerie to watch Gail act as some sort of acolyte. It’s not in her nature.”

That sounded true. Gail was very intelligent, of strong opinions, quick to judge and slow to embarrass. She was the kind of person who marched to her own tempo, out of step with most others but not jarring. Her father was a noted Jewish neurosurgeon in Tulsa; the family had to be resilient to flourish there, and she and her brothers had to be organized and effective to be heard in that family. Gail was quick, expressive, and learned languages easily. She was plump and her roommate Jean was anorexic; we knew she had to be pretty durable to deal with that. (Jean at her nadir dined on a thinly-sliced quarter cucumber garnished with three fresh peas, and felt full. Her knees were the biggest part of her legs. She had to be carried to finals.) And I knew Gail was capable of orchestrating a four-hour non-stop walking binge. By careful sequencing of salt, sweet, and fat, she had shown me twice how to spend a whole afternoon walking from treat to treat, talking around ice cream and french fries, jelly beans and Triscuits.

I remember looking at Susan that day and marveling at her description of Gail in thrall. She walked with her usual fast but disconnected gait, like she was severed at the neck and her head had no idea of her body. Susan can’t ride a bike. She can’t dance. She’s the most cerebral person I’ve ever met. She’s a dark-haired Swede, raised Lutheran but inclusively religious. I think she would have been a nun except she was born into the wrong tradition. She has always honored tradition.

I used to think Susan should be blonde. Gail brunette. Jean fat. But life didn’t play the way I thought. None of us could ever have guessed it would be Susan who had the most kids, or that Gail would birth triplets. All of us were completely astounded when beautiful Jean, cured and fleshed at last, announced that she was gay.