My high school chemistry teacher, Rose Lynch, had wild flaming red hair, wore low-cut tops, and often bent over toward the class—something I appreciated even though she was deep into middle age. She’d been divorced several times, which was not so common then. One day a seedy looking guy, the type you’d see at the dog track, appeared in the hall outside the classroom. He sported three days’ growth and a threadbare jacket with no tie. After five minutes Mrs. Lynch granted him an audience. If he was one of her ex-husbands, I thought she could have done better.