She put her head in the crook of her arm. “It was kind of fun, I suppose.”

They talked about it, describing the things they had seen. He asked if she’d seen Richard, Clara’s husband. She hadn’t, and when he described him she perked up and put her hand to her mouth and laughed maliciously. “Oh, Clara, Clara,” she said. “Clara Strauss—I mean Kirkbaum, or whatever the hell. She married for the money.”

“It could be love.”

“Oh, stop it.”

She remembered having a heart-to-heart with her, but she couldn’t remember a word they’d said. They’d been interrupted by a man trying to tell them a joke about a cow. “He kept saying, ‘Moo! Moo!’ but we weren’t getting it.”

Henry said he thought he saw Communists scheming. Effie said she wouldn’t doubt it with that crew. “They may be well-to-do, but that doesn’t mean they’re good people.”

“Maybe,” Henry said. “But I’d do it again.”

“God,” Effie said. “Once was enough.”

She went upstairs for a nap and came down in the early evening, dressed and made-up, her sandals dangling from her fingers. “I think I’m coming around,” she said. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m alive.” He rubbed his eyes. He’d been trying to read Boswell in the den, images from last night overtaking the words, and fallen fast asleep. She asked if he wanted to take a walk—she needed to move around a bit—and he said sure.

He put his loafers on, and they went out.

The Cadillac convertible and the Rolls-Royce were still parked down at Clara’s, and from the open windows came the sound of someone repeating an intricate line of music on the piano—skillfully, Henry thought. He didn’t know the piece, but it was lovely. It reminded him of the stone Jesus in his aunt Lily’s flower garden, the lichen growing in the folds of its robe, which made it look like an ancient ruin.

“It must be awful over there,” Effie said. “I feel for Mrs. Pavich.”