On his way Harry convinces himself that he is looking for a bathroom, and he tells himself that if anyone sees him he or she will surely infer that he is simply in search of a bathroom. He’s looking for a bathroom, and this, then, is the reason for his presence on the second floor of the Hillarys’ home. Harry tries to make a face that could conceivably be worn by a person headed in search of a bathroom. It’s a face of innocence, a quiet and modest, small face. The effort required for the formulation of this face gives Harry a modicum of confidence, even if he has no idea why he does not, at the moment, feel particularly innocent. It’s as if there’s something he wants to find.

The stairway leads to a hall, also carpeted in white, with white walls. Harry goes down this hall. Here, photos of the Hillary family are in evidence. Marta, topless in the ocean (presumably the beginning of the relationship), waves joyfully. There’s a garish Polaroid of a grinning, plastered Don. He’s in a tie and shirtsleeves at a Christmas party bearing toddler Lizzie. A later iteration of Lizzie Hillary, age eleven or so, in a Bulls cap, slouches beside a tractor. Marta and Don on horseback. Marta reading at a podium with what looks like a presidential seal affixed to it. A black-and-white shot of Don as a ravishing teen in dungarees with movie-star smile, squatting in the Y of a birch tree.

There are no pictures from the earlier marriage.

Harry recalls his narrative about a search for the bathroom and begins trying doors. He gets a linen closet with a sweet, soapy odor. He tries another, which is locked. He tries another door.

This door is locked, too.

Harry feels an eerie, unwonted boldness. He doesn’t really know where he is. And here, in this quiet, dim hallway, in this big, clean, expensive house, no one knows him. Nobody knows him in this whole town, except for Loudermilk, and, maybe, in some sense, the girl Lizzie. Lizzie, at least, has seen him—which is possibly more than Harry can say for Loudermilk. Harry wants to laugh. He feels suddenly so alert, awake; the air is spiced by cooking.

Harry stalks the white carpet of the second-floor hall admiring Marta Hillary’s framing and arrangement of her own memories. He laughs, lightly, dryly. Who is it who does these things so carelessly—even with a sense of entitlement? It’s “Troy.” Not Loudermilk, but Troy. Troy does this. T. A. Loudermilk, even. And it is for this reason that it is Troy, aka T. A. Loudermilk, who comes to a door that sits just slightly ajar, and Troy who lingers, listening to the voice on the other side.

Troy lingers near the door. There’s no Harry.