On the few occasions when Effie told a story, the room quieted—the fire popped, the trees outside the windows sighed—and Max and Clara listened carefully. She told the story about their fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Hughes, and the bottle of Elmer’s glue, and when she got to the part where the cap popped open, Max clapped his hands together, fell back in his chair, and laughed in an exaggerated way that bothered Henry—as if Max felt the need to bestow his approval. The story wasn’t that funny. But most of the time Effie was just an audience, as Henry was, an audience Max clearly relished, which Effie satisfied by sitting on the edge of the couch cushion, smiling, her cheeks flushed bright red.

Henry himself had little to say. The few times he was asked a question, or when Effie asked him to fill in some little detail of a story, he replied with a curt bashfulness that pleased his own ears. Without quite realizing it, he was conjuring his uncle Red, the old Southern Railway engineer who in retirement sat permanently perched on his armchair with a slightly ironic grin on his face while the ladies chattered. He seemed to amuse Clara and Max. He could say something as simple as “Yep,” or, “Hell, I don’t know, Effie,” and both of them would laugh. But it pleased him; it wasn’t like they were making fun of him. He would be a man of few words.

Once they’d finished the platter and Henry had lost count of the number of whiskey sodas he’d had, Clara, in a lull, said, “It feels so late, doesn’t it? Is it late?”

Effie slapped her thighs. “We should go.”

“No,” Clara said. “That’s not what I meant. Stay as long as you like. Stay all night if you want to.”

“Yes, please,” Max put in.

“Our house is just across the way,” Effie said.

“I know where your house is, darling. I just meant, stay as long as you like. Come and go, even—I’m serious. For as long as you’re here. Think of it as one house. Your wing, our wing. We never lock the doors.”

The idea made Henry happy. He said, “Our windows are always open, I can tell you that. She can’t sleep without the windows open,” and Effie shoved him playfully.

“Oh, good,” Clara said. “We’ll slip in and surprise you sometime.”

“All of these houses are ours for the taking,” Max declared. “These past few nights, I haven’t seen a single light in any of them—except for yours. Haven’t you noticed? No one’s here, and no one will be until May.”

Clara laughed. “Don’t instigate.” She put her hand on Max’s forearm and, leaving it there, said to Effie, “He’s been talking about breaking and entering all weekend. You’d better watch out for your belongings.”