Effie cracked a window open, and the rain—its scent, its damp, its chill—was suddenly present in the room. She blew the candle out and they got in under the quilt. “Oh, this bed is exquisite,” she said. “I think I might have outgrown that little box spring over there.” It was nice, he agreed, and he pulled her to him and kissed the back of her neck, held her breast through the silk pajamas, coming alive, but in a few moments he could hear her little snores. She was fast asleep. She hadn’t even said her prayers.

He lay wide-awake, watching the panes of the bay window separate themselves from the dark. It excited him to lie in this house overnight, Clara and Max at the opposite end of the hallway, Alma even closer, in the room that opened onto the balcony. He would never be able to sleep. What he needed, he thought, was another drink.

He rose as quietly as he could, the floorboards creaking under his feet, found the Princeton sweatshirt on the floor, and crept out of the room, feeling his way down the hallway to the stairs and down into the den.

The coals glowed in the fireplace. He put another log on, found what he thought was his glass on the coffee table, poured himself some whiskey this time—it would take the chill away—and sat on the sofa. No one else stirred in the house. He had the whole place to himself. Softly, aloud, he said, “What a week,” and the sound of his own voice comforted him. “What an amazing week.”

The whiskey opened and relaxed him. The night and the days ahead felt warm with promise. He thought of how he and Effie had walked naked under the moon, and, glancing around the den, assuring himself that no one was there, he pulled the sweatshirt off and pushed the loose trunks down to his knees. He wanted to be out in the open. As nature intended, Clara had said. Lightly he caressed himself, until his penis stood rigid, angling up to the balcony behind him, the skin drawn taut and shiny in the firelight.