They would search for a ring together, and it would be a beautiful ring. How many thousands of dollars would the groom’s father pay. Gordon would be impressed. Gordon would be jealous. Juliana felt a shudder pass through her, contempt for the weak son who could not stand up to his father. In that instant Gordon Kechel disappeared: disintegrated.

If I marry the son, Juliana thought, this will be the understanding between us.

A wild sort of gaiety came over her. A gaiety of desperation, profound loss.

She felt powerless before him. The authority of the older man. It was privilege he exerted, this authority. She, the son’s fiancée, was part of his privilege.

His hands clutched at her hands, she could not push him away.

He was walking her somewhere. As you’d help a child walk. But Juliana did not need help. She was not drunk. Her breath came quick, in anticipation. Apprehension. She’d kicked off her shoes. She was shorter than the man, this was good. He would not be threatened by her, he would not be tempted to hurt her. He could lean over her, commanding her. She instructed herself—I can slip away from him at any time. This is just a game. This is not serious.

They were at the enormous bed. Juliana was curious now, what would happen. She was not drunk but was feeling giddy-gay, drunken. Her heart raged in contempt of the weak, younger man who might have been observing the scene with horror. Too late now, too late to turn back. No choice but to loosen her clothes before the impatient, fumbling man could tear them.

Kechel had been drinking, she recognized him as a drinker. He would be her father-in-law, they would be drinkers together. Except she would keep her secret from him, if she could. For as long as she could.

In his vanity Kechel turned from Juliana, removing his clothes, or most of his clothes, self-conscious of his body, the body of a man of late middle age. Juliana caught a glimpse of a fatty-muscled chest, a broad chest covered in gray hairs, pale, flaccid skin, loose flesh at the waist.

She felt a thrill of superiority. She was young, the man was not young. Though Juliana did not much value young, she understood that the older man did.

Her own body was smooth, slender, as supple as a dancer’s body. Her breasts, her waist, the curve of her thighs—graceful, desirable. There was something mocking in the young female body, its negligent beauty. Kechel was the witness. Kechel was strongly attracted to her, yet Juliana could sense his resentment of her. Flesh quivered at his belly and at his groin. The fat slug of his groin was slow to thicken with blood. Kechel urged her toward the bed and onto the bed, and Juliana did not resist. A kind of paralysis had overcome her, a kind of anesthesia. Her body was something she merely inhabited; she could not defend it from harm.