They watched Clara and the band play. Clara was no joke on the piano. She was doing “The Entertainer,” never looking at her hands, improvising little fills, turning half around to make eye contact with the trumpet player, who was playing a clarinet now. Soon the rest of the band had joined in—trombones, a kazoo, a chorus doing an a cappella bass line, and the drummer struck rhythmic accents on a ukulele. All the doors and windows were open, and breezes stole inside, disturbing the candles. Max and one of the cadets, Freddie, followed Maggie and Brenda outside, and the darkness swallowed them up. Henry finished the whiskey in his glass and poured some more. Now the trumpet player had wedged himself beside Clara at the piano, and together they played a rousing “It’s a Long, Long Way to Tipperary,” Clara laughing so hard she had trouble making the notes. The others followed along as best as they could. One of the old men, clearly very drunk, his shirt unbuttoned—a veteran of the Great War, maybe—stood and sang with feeling, swinging his fist in front of him.

The whiskey was going down easily. Henry thought of poor Effie across the street, in the dark, dead to the world and missing everything, and he felt for her. But he was happy to be on his own. He leaned back on his hands beside Alma, lightly swaying into her. Their fingers touched. She stole sips from his glass.

One of the other band members took over at the piano and played a ragtime tune. A small group by the staircase started dancing, including Clara and the trumpet player, who was running his hand up and down her side. Scandalous! Henry thought. Max was nowhere to be seen. Henry threw the rest of his drink back, got to his feet, and pulled Alma up with him, and they joined the group. Carl remained by the coffee table, looking darkly up at them.

The trumpet player was kissing the swells of Clara’s breasts and caressing her behind, and Henry was shocked at the boldness of it, the shamelessness of it. Shocked, and excited too, because through the fog in his head he felt that nothing would be forbidden here. “Dear Henry!” she cried, tilting her head back. “Is Effie here?”

“She had to go to bed. She wasn’t feeling well.”

“My poor peach.”

He was holding Alma’s hand. “I would’ve stayed with her, but she made me come over.” This was, in fact, true.

Clara reached out and put her hand on his chest. “I’m glad you did.”