He got to his feet and went into the bedroom. Whatever he was going to do, it seemed important that he get dressed. He was pulling his trousers on when he saw, lying on Effie’s side of the bed, the drawing—his drawing, in all its vulgar detail, an exact image of himself, like a reflection of his deepest shame.

Thanks for the memories, it was signed. Love, Alma.

Fourteen

He had ruined his life. As he dressed and went downstairs, turned on all the lights in the den and the dining room and the kitchen, poured himself a scotch and then put it aside, disgusted by the taste of it now, he felt as if he’d betrayed every object in the house and everything he owned, even his own clothes. They were reminders of what he’d destroyed. His argyle socks made him want to cry. He’d imagined happier times for them.

So much had happened, and it wasn’t yet eleven o’clock. He wished he had cigarettes. He stood out on the front porch, antsy to roam the town in search of Effie, in spite of her warning, but worried too that he’d miss her if he went out. The lights were on down at Clara’s. The thought that she was there—that she’d gone to Max, if only for revenge—made him panic for a moment, made him want to run down there and stop it—but then he couldn’t believe she’d actually do such a thing, he was sure he knew her that much: she’d be sickened by all of them. And she’d assume Alma was there, anyway, and would want to avoid her. Unless she wanted to tear her to pieces. (Against Effie, he thought, Alma wouldn’t stand a chance.) But in fact Alma wasn’t there, as Henry knew, because there were lights down at the Bishops’ house too.

An hour passed. He imagined Effie wandering Cape May, letting herself cry, now that she was out of his sight, or going down to the boardwalk. Yes: that must have been where she was, not crying at all, but sitting on a bench and watching the waves roll out of the dark, one after another, trying to decide whether or not to leave him.