Alcohol had been the enemy the first time she’d ever touched it, when she was sixteen and Micky Latham took her to Lake Norman at night and got her drunk on apricot brandy. She vaguely remembered lying in the grass, watching stars reconfigure and blur as he breathed hard and clumsily worked on her blouse as if buttons had just been invented. He was nineteen and worked in Bud’s Garage, and his hands were calloused and felt like claws on breasts that had never been touched before this intoxicated moment.

That was the night sweet Muriel lost her virginity, and it had nothing to do with Micky Latham, and everything to do with the bottle in its ABC store brown paper bag. When she drank, her brain lifted as if it might sing. She was happy, brave, playful, and witty. She was driving her father’s Cadillac the afternoon Officer Drew Brazil pulled her over for speeding. Muriel was seventeen and the most beautiful, worldly woman he’d ever met. If he thought he smelled alcohol on her breath that afternoon, he was too mesmerized to put it in perspective. He was rather glorious in his uniform, and the ticket never got written. Instead, they went to Big Daddy’s fish camp after he got off duty. They married that Thanksgiving when she had missed her period two months in a row.

Muriel Brazil’s son reappeared with grilled cheese on wheat bread, cooked just right and cut diagonally, the way she liked it. He’d put a dollop of ketchup on the side so she could dip, and he brought her water that she had no intention of drinking. He looked so much like his father it was more than she could bear.

“I know how much you hate water, Mom,” he said, setting the plate and napkin in her lap. “But you got to drink it, okay? Sure you don’t want salad?”

She shook her head and wished she could thank him. She was impatient because he was blocking her view of the TV.

“I’ll be in my room,” he said.

He dry-fired until his finger bled. He was remarkably steady because years of tennis had strengthened the muscles of his hands and forearms. His grip was crushing. The next morning he woke up excited. The sun was shining, and West had promised to take him to the range again late afternoon to work with him further. It was Monday, and he had the day off. He didn’t know what he would do between now and then, or how he would make hours pass. Brazil could not endure free time and usually gave it away to some project.

The grass was heavy with dew when he slipped out of the house at half past seven. Carrying tennis rackets and a hopper of balls, he walked first to the track, where he ran six miles and did push-ups, sit-ups, and crunches, to get his fix of endorphin. By now, the grass was warm and dry, and he lay in it long enough for his blood to stop pounding. He listened to the buzzing of insects in clover and smelled bittersweet green vegetation and wild onions. His gym shorts and tank top were saturated as he trotted downhill to the outdoor tennis courts.