The Mamas and the Papas came on with “Monday, Monday.” I thought: Good, the music will shut them up.

Frank refilled wineglasses and sat down again. Sylvia shifted her weight onto one hip, the one closest to Frank, and leaned on an arm, which touched his leg. I pretended to stare at the rug, but I had an adequate view of Sylvia. Suddenly, I thought of that girl, years ago, who had got out of Frank’s car with the bag of groceries. Sylvia resembled her in that she was equally plain, almost homely. But Sylvia was not meek and retiring. Far from it. As I looked at her and at Bernie Golden, who still had that crooked smile, I wished I had Gloria next to me, someone who would see the same things I was seeing.

“All right, gang, ready for the zinger?” she said, holding up a joint the size of a small cigar.

Everyone said, “Oh, wow,” “Far out” and “Too much.”

When it got to me, I passed it up. I was thinking of what Frank had said about tossing them out.

“Hey!” Sylvia clapped her hands and began singing “Chicago, Chi-cago.” The others joined in.

“Man, we’re really gonna open their eyes,” said Tim, who was not about to open his.

“Whose eyes?” I said.

“The hawks and the pigs,” said the boy next to Tim. “Those capitalist killers and political money grubbers.”

I turned to Frank. “The Democratic convention, honey,” he said. “It’s going to be one hell of a demonstration.”

“What about it?”

“Well, we’re all going in a kind of caravan—”

“You’re going?”

Lightly, he put his hand on the back of my neck and nodded.

“When was all this decided?”

“Let’s not go into it now,” he whispered.

Part of me wanted to get up and out of the room immediately, but another part didn’t want any of them, especially Sylvia, to see my anger. I closed my eyes, pretended to be absorbed in the music, and waited until the record ended before making my exit upstairs. My whole body felt weighted as I climbed the steps. I looked in on Regina, then went to our room, where I tried to stay awake so I could talk to Frank. It was no use. The combination of grass and wine and standing up made me want to sleep forever. And I wanted to shake the picture I had of Sylvia holding a bag of groceries.

I woke up to the sound of giggling, muffled and sporadic. It took me a few seconds to realize that it was coming from downstairs and a minute more to recognize two voices, Regina’s and a woman’s. Frank was lying next to me, his arm slung over his eyes and his mouth wide open, snoring. I got up and into my robe. My head was throbbing, my eyes felt puffed and raw. I wanted to get downstairs quickly, but my body wouldn’t keep up with my mind.

In the living room, I found Sylvia on her elbows and knees, bent forward and shaking her head so furiously that her hair ballooned into a huge globe of fuzz. Regina, giggling, sat with her arms extended and almost lost in Sylvia’s hair.