A chill had set in. Through a part in the trees that bordered the yard Henry saw billows of fog drifting past the streetlight. The patio was clearing. The gumbo was gone. Richard remained, chatting with a couple of the older men. From time to time Mrs. Pavich would stomp out and silently gather a stack of empty dishes. The boxer—Max—had replaced the woman next to Effie. He was still in his trunks, but he’d put on an Oxford shirt and at first Henry didn’t recognize him. He was saying something to her, and she was chuckling, shaking her head, until he paused and said, “Three times!” and she burst into laughter, snorted, put her hand to her mouth, and twisted to hide her face against Henry’s chest. She must have been drowned; Henry had never made her laugh like that.

“What’s the good word, Hank?” Max said over Effie’s back.

“The good word?” The question confused him. It sounded like something a Bible salesman would say.

“Oh, Henry,” Effie said, sitting up and recovering herself. “Heaven help me, I’m not in my right mind.”

“Another drink would set your mind right,” Max said.

“I don’t think so,” Henry said. He wasn’t sure he cared for this Max very much.

“You,” Effie said, pointing at Max, letting the word hang there a moment. “You do not have my best interests at heart.”

Max laughed. “What do you say we dance instead? You dance, Hank?”

“Oh, does he,” Effie said, and she turned and smiled at him. “He was the best damn dancer at the Spring Fling. Wasn’t I proud, baby?”

“The Spring Fling,” Max said, grinning, and Henry felt a flush of embarrassment. What was the Spring Fling to these people?

“Look at him,” Effie said, “he’s so modest.”

“Come on, Hank.” Max pushed his chair back and stood up. “Why don’t you show us the stuff?”

Henry demurred—he didn’t see anyone dancing inside—but Effie was getting to her feet too, taking the hand Max offered, and he didn’t have a choice. He followed them inside. He took Effie’s hand and slowed his pace so she would let go of Max.

The large airy room they’d been sitting in earlier was close and smoky and loud now, and the music was jumping, infectious—a heavy drumbeat, saxophone and piano—and over by the record player a crowd of people was dancing, doing some kind of improvised bop, shaking and twisting and flailing their arms. Scott was in the crowd, and there was Clara too, shaking her hips in the middle of a cluster of Coast Guard cadets. What were they doing here? Had they heard the music from their cutters and leapt ashore?

“God, Louis Prima,” Max said, raising his voice over the music. “How I hate this sock-hop shit. I should have brought my Bird records.”