“The mystery woman returns,” said Brad from the couch. He gave a little wave. The room was hot and dimly lit and full of smoke. She did not see Peter. She felt her cheeks tightening and tingling in the warmth, as if her face were being pulled carefully into place over her skull. Ned Toomey, seated at the piano with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and his eyes narrowed in the upstreaming smoke, was playing “Sloop John B.” Beside him, looking intensely at the music and holding in one outstretched hand an empty glass, stood Richie Jelenik, singing in a deep, mournful voice. On the other side Ken Jackson stood with one foot on the piano bench, playing the guitar and leaning close to the music as he looked back and forth quickly from the notes to his left hand. The two couches were full, people walked about, on the floor in a lamplit corner Roger and Bill Newmeyer were building a high tower with small colored blocks. “They said you were in a tree,” said Nancy Russell, and Catherine noticed that Nancy Russell’s eyebrows were not the same length. A bowl of Potato Frills appeared. A hand held out a paper cup of ginger ale. Catherine, glancing at a window, saw with surprise her surprised face. Through herself she saw brilliant yellowish snow and a yellow-lit lantern on a black pole. Ned Toomey and Ken Jackson came to the end of “Sloop John B,” and Richie Jelenik put his glass down on the piano. They began to play “Goodnight Irene.” Catherine moved across the room toward Brad. “I’m back,” she said, and sat down next to him as he shoved over. “Isn’t it awfully smoky in here?”

“It goes with the décor. We can have a tree brought in for you, if you’d like that. We could set it up by the piano.”

“I had a wonderful time in my tree, thanks. All it needed was a heater. Where’s Bev?”

“Upstairs, enjoying the absence of smoke, music, and teenage fun.”

“I guess Peter fled up there too.”

“I don’t know. He was here when we came in, moping in that corner. I thought he went out again. What did you say to him, cruel woman? Oh, they’re good at this one.”

Ned Toomey had broken off “Goodnight Irene” and had passed without pause into a series of climbing, suspenseful phrases with his right hand. There were shouts of applause. The phrases climaxed in harsh rock-and-roll chords, and Richie Jelenik sang deeply, soulfully, soaringly:

“Ah

Found

Mah

Thri-hill”

“Louder!” cried Brad. “Sing it, Richie babe!”

“Own bluebayry hih-ill”

“Go, Ned!”

“Own bluebayry hih-ill”