They started back down the sidewalk, in no hurry. Effie wandered into the middle of the street, and Henry followed, but the street was dirt and gravel and broken seashells, and they retreated after a few yards. Just before they reached Aunt Lizzie’s, the moon came out again from behind the clouds and caught them in a bright segment of the sidewalk. Effie had gone a pace ahead. She seemed to give off her own light. Henry reached forward and grabbed her hips and pulled her back against him. He didn’t want the night to end. Neither did she. She took his hand and pulled him onto the next-door neighbor’s lawn, and they dropped their empty glasses and got to their knees. The grass was dewy and cold, but they wouldn’t have to lie in it: he told her to bend over, gently nudging her down, and she complied, and after a little searching, a little adjusting—they’d never done it this way before—he found her.

For a few perfect, suspended minutes Henry was the master of himself. It was the whiskey and gin, it was the quick release on the back porch, it was the strangeness of the evening and the watchful presences all around them. He imagined a ceiling inside of her and aimed for that and thought he could feel himself striking it. The day rose before him: the scent of Dial soap, the taut and shuddering sails, the bank of clouds, the warmth of the fire, Alma’s long, slender legs—and now Effie’s buttocks spread open at his waist. The best days of his life were upon him. Live wires ran under his skin from every extremity, converging at his groin, and he tried to keep the center warm but not to overheat it. He held her hips to steady himself. But then the scales tipped subtly and Effie wasn’t under his control anymore—she was up on her elbows now, pushing back against him, more quickly than he wanted. She had discovered something, an edge of something, and now she was trying to get at it. Henry stopped moving and let her do the work. Their bodies clapped. Her flesh shuddered. He saw the dark cleft between them, where they met in a ring of friction, and the sight brought him to the verge—so he closed his eyes, and imagined her father scowling at him, and then his own mother, and he was so concentrated on the struggle that he didn’t realize he was coming until the crest had passed and the wave was already receding—shallow and disappointing. But he would make himself hold on a little longer. Effie had really found something; for the first time she let out a little cry: “Oh.” She sat up higher, to bring her weight down on it, eyeing him over her shoulder, as if to warn him not to give in now—so he leaned back on his hands, pressing his pelvis up so he wouldn’t slip out, and held on until, finally, to his relief, she gave up with a sigh, pulled away from him, and fell over onto the wet grass.