He hated to be away from the others—from Alma—but the immediate future was bright, and in the meantime, with Effie dead to the world, he had the whole world to himself, and the thought tickled his stomach until, at last, something turned over inside of him, and he hurried inside, into the downstairs lavatory, where a week and a half of constipation came to an end.

The relief was exquisite. He felt light enough to fly. He bounded up to the second-floor bathroom like a gazelle and, in the twilight gloom of the stall, took a shower, whistling “Higher Ground” while he scrubbed himself. He tiptoed into the attic room for fresh clothes and found Effie exactly as she had been before.

“I’m going for a walk, baby,” he said sweetly, but she didn’t respond. He kissed her cheek again.

Fed, cleansed, healthy, young, and handsome, Henry strolled down New Hampshire Avenue, and at Philadelphia turned toward the beach. Small gray-bottom clouds raced across the sky, and the noon sunlight was always changing. He was a wanderer. Homeless—for the time being. Like Alma. He might run into her. Maybe Max and Clara had left, and she’d lingered at the beach—and then what? Nothing. Anything. He was at the top of a hill, where he could see his past, present, and all of his futures, and every future was real, because he had not chosen any one. He would have to choose at some point, he knew, but for now they were all arrayed before him, so present he almost felt he could touch them.

The beach was empty. He was wearing his trousers and loafers and didn’t want to get them sandy or wet, so he sat for a while on a bench on the promenade, until he felt self-conscious sitting there by himself. He started for the grocer’s, thinking of cigarettes, then decided it was too far for that purpose, thought of Effie in bed, worried that he’d abandoned her, and headed back to the cottage.

She had turned over on her back but there was still no waking her. Her mouth hung open, her breathing was wet and ugly. She would need to eat. At five, he told himself, he would force her to sit up and take something.

The afternoon began to drag. Every so often he tried the lights. Alma had been right: no one would notice until the spring.