He was empty with shock. His face throbbed where she’d struck it. Finally he buckled his belt. He took his handkerchief—the nice blue silk one, which he’d bought especially for the suit—from his front pocket and knelt down where they’d been, to try to clean it up. It was hopeless. There’d be a spot. But there was nothing he could do. He stuffed the wet handkerchief in his trousers pocket, put his shoes on, blew the candle out, and stood in the dark, listening to the party down the hall. It had tamed down, but there was still a murmur of voices. The floorboards over his head creaked. He thought he heard a woman moaning. He had to get out—but not through the den. The study was at a corner of the house, facing the street, and through one of the windows he saw a space between the shrubs. He unlocked the window, lifted it open, stepped outside, closed it behind him, and escaped.

All was dark and quiet back at the cottage. He lit the kerosene lamp and brought it into the downstairs lavatory, where there was a shower stall they never used. But the water worked, and he made it hot. He pulled his suit off, left it crumpled on the floor, and stepped into the stall. Alma’s scent was all over him. A desiccated cake lay in the soap tray, and he scrubbed himself with it. When he was finished he dried himself off, slowly, with the hand towel. He inspected his face in the mirror. It was bright red, and warm to the touch, but it didn’t seem to be swelling. He slipped his boxers on, blew out the lamp, and carrying his suit in a bundle, felt his way upstairs to the attic room.

The windows were open, as usual. It smelled clean and fresh. He could see the mound of Effie’s body under the covers. Quietly he deposited the ball of clothing in his suitcase and closed it, put on his pajamas, and slipped under the covers beside his wife. She whimpered, turned away from him, was still again. The wind whipped into the room and he stared up into the dark. He didn’t have the heart to pray.

He couldn’t believe he’d done what he’d done. And so he replayed it, moment by moment, as if in search of the proof, until in spite of himself he was erect again.

Nine

Never again. That was the refrain in his head all morning, while he straightened the den and mopped the kitchen floor: he would never be unfaithful to his wife again. It had been a horrible mistake, and that was all.

They were supposed to move over to Clara’s tomorrow. It didn’t seem possible now.