IT WASN’T LONG AFTER LONNIE’S BIRTHDAY THAT CARLOW started to come over during the day while James was at work. Before he arrived, Lonnie spent a long time bathing, emerging from the tub dewy, smelling of musky amber cologne and toothpaste. The bathroom was foggy when she opened the door, plumes of condensation rising into the hall. She usually threw on a dress for him, something simple—short, shapeless cotton with delicate patterns—but somehow the curves of her body, the slenderness of her waist, emerged through the thin fabric in glimpses as she moved.

She ran to let him in. She grasped the end of the banister, swinging her body off the stairs and toward the basement door (he never came in through the foyer), childlike in her movements, just as I’d pictured her switching off the forbidden TV and running out of her father’s room. I thought, if William and I hadn’t been there (and at one time, we weren’t), they would’ve collapsed in front of the hall tree, falling on each other, the door still half-open, making love instantly, loudly, on the floor there.

As it was, she always said, “You remember Carlow,” as if he were so forgettable.

“Of course, hi.”

“Elle”—everyone had started to call me that—“always a pleasure.”

We didn’t hug or shake hands or exchange Lonnie’s usual European cheek kisses when we met in hallways like that. He just smiled at me and then, as we passed each other, he gave me a quick pinch on the elbow. What did that pinch mean? It was like a wink. It was a sort of extension of his innocent, amused smirk.

She would say, “I have a book to give him” or “I need to show him a book” or “he’s helping me edit my book.” And I would say, “Okay,” and accept that little pinch on the elbow as they went upstairs.

I tiptoed around the house when they were in the office. I was trying to impress on them some sort of distortion of sound—even though she knew her own house, she knew the squeaky wood floors, the thin walls. I wanted them to think, if they couldn’t hear me, I wouldn’t be able to hear them. I wanted to let them know they could be a little louder if they wanted. When William was awake I took him to the far reaches of the house—the breakfast nook or the terrace, so he wouldn’t be heard. When he was asleep I tried to get as close to that office door as I could.

On the other side of the door: footsteps, laughter, silence, furniture moving sometimes, but nothing very obvious, just the scraping of a chair’s legs across the floor, the thud of a body sitting on the couch. Sometimes the smell of weed.