Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

She accepted — and immediately sensed weakness in Jim. When Frank cut in, she knew she was right. Frank was the strong personality in the team. They danced twice more; he wouldn’t give her up, even when Jim returned. She was so beautiful in those days.

The three wound up at the punch bowl, arguing, then drinking. The sorority punch was properly spiked; Frank and Jim grew thick-tongued.

Finally, there came the inevitable question and Frank’s’ answer: “The situation calls for us to run — like hell. You start out.” She spent the rest of the evening with Frank. As most returned veterans, he was more mature than the campus boys; the type she wanted, he would be a good husband.

Pat called the moves; for two years, she was with both men. It seemed as though the duo had become a trio. Jim was dangled enough to arouse Frank’s competitive instinct. And then, one evening just before graduation, Pat sensed a crisis.

When they arrived in San Francisco, less than an hour from campus, Pat noticed fitfulness in her escorts. Frank was impatient; Jim, tense. She suggested Ernie’s for dinner, and both growled; didn’t she know by now that the budget was restricted?

Jim intervened, cut off a potential argument, deftly pushed them to one of the North Beach spaghetti joints — the kind infamous for poor, if plentiful, food. Their somber mood continued during the meal until, with startling suddenness, Frank abruptly proposed to Pat.

This, then, was what had caused their edginess: Frank had transmitted his excitement to Jim, who must have known instinctively what was coming. Jim had reacted, and Pat picked up the mood from both of them.

It was her decision: Frank or Jim? No decision, really. Poor second-best Jim! She’d known he loved her, and she said so. But it was to be Frank. Jim had colored, smiled sadly, and said, “I guess, sergeant, this is one situation where I run but you can’t.”

There followed the usual maudlin scenes. Pat wondered briefly why men acted in such fashion; they were silly. Jim had the role of Good Sport and Good Friend; he played it beautifully the rest of the evening, actually for the following 11 years.

It was only a few months ago that she asked Frank for a divorce. The marriage had gone bad. For one thing, he was ungrateful. He’d been set up in business with some of her father’s money, yet lately he’d stubbornly refused to do what she wanted. Frank argued with her constantly. When Pat bought the house as a surprise for him, he was displeased that he hadn’t been consulted.

And why should Frank want children so much? He suggested them several times, even though she replied that children would ruin their fun, and could come later. Another thing: why didn’t Frank arrange to be home the once or twice she’d have dinner guests? Obviously, he had no use for her friends and was humiliatingly blunt about it.

He’d even begun to work late, much too late, at the office.

Frank, Pat discovered, had become completely intractable. It was shocking that he wouldn’t give her the divorce; instead he suggested they try to work out their differences. She knew it was hopeless.

The next day, she lunched with Jim. He could always be counted on; it was surprising that even with his weak personality, he had become successful in advertising.

She was sure Jim still loved her; he was sympathetic about her marital problems — sympathetic and properly upset, but with a calculating look. They began to see each other with increasing frequency. Fairly soon, they were entangled — the usual entanglement of a disappointed suitor — and she suggested what had to be done. It was almost as though she were hypnotized, and she hated herself while planning this hunting trip.

Hunting trip? Pat was suddenly back in the present. Surely both men were on the hilltop by now, and she had to look as though she were waiting for deer. “Happy birthday...”

Jim Thomason left first, trudging toward the red sun. He glanced once, quickly, over his shoulder, but the others were already out of sight.

I hope she kissed him, he thought, she should have. Born, married, died — 11 years. A rotten world, a rotten life... and I have to take it. I’m a monster, or is human life really that important? Frank, why didn’t you give her the divorce? You always were better at tactics than I; unfortunately, I was always a better shot.

Jim paused to check the 30.06. The bolt action was smooth; Remingtons were made with integrity. He loaded the magazine, but kept the chamber empty. Then, cautiously silent, he continued through the brush. It was like France, except then Frank was on his side.

France, Frank, the football team — the night we met Pat. I remember how we arrived, stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a post-adolescent bravado that covered basic shyness. My first sight of Pat: she was beautiful from across the room.

How did I beat Frank to her? He was much faster than I at the quick size-up. My feelings as I approached Pat: this was The Girl, I thought over and over.