“You haven’t heard this one, I know you haven’t,” he said to Clara at one point, and launched into a story about an old prep-school teacher of his, whom he and his friend Oliver had run into in New York, and the long night that followed, which had ended in a whorehouse in Little Italy. It was a shockingly vulgar story, involving the teacher’s “cock” and a dessert called “tres leches,” but something about Max’s charm made it not entirely distasteful, and soon the four of them were doubling over with laughter, holding their stomachs—especially Effie, who seemed to have lost control of herself, until everyone began to laugh anew, now at her. Even Alma looked over her shoulder, amused.

“I’m sorry,” Effie cried, wiping the tears from her face. “I’m sorry, y’all. That is just so awful. That is the most awful story I have ever heard.”

They refreshed their drinks. In the harsh light of the downstairs bathroom Henry saw his face in the oval mirror over the toilet. His eyes were dilated; he was smiling broadly. He looked strange to himself, and was glad to return to the relative dimness of the living room, their little circle by the fire.

Occasionally Clara made the mistake of trying to tell a story of her own in Max’s way, about her old girlfriends in Philadelphia, or her failure to impress Richard’s business partners, and the laughter would be forced, but then Max always came to her rescue, making a joke of it that was his own triumph but that also saved Clara’s story. She was her best with a bon mot, her quick asides to Henry and Effie, or else when she was passionately, self-consciously earnest—when she described a book she’d read or a movie she admired or music she’d heard for the first time. “My God, Iris Murdoch makes me mad with joy. She’s just so—potent!” She was a writer herself, she admitted. She’d published a few stories in little magazines (“You’re joking,” Effie said flatly), and she was at work on a play. She wouldn’t discuss what it was about, not even a hint, and she wasn’t being coy: when Effie pressed, Clara cried “No!” and laughed almost hysterically, shooting a glance at Max, and got up to fix herself another drink.