Joanie put her lips together, then drew them apart. She was looking right through him. “He’s fine,” she said vaguely and held a hand up in front of her face as if she could see the image of their son playing across it. There was a burst of laughter from the patio, the barking of a dog. This was a party, a celebration, and he had to remind himself of that. Joanie was tripping and he wasn’t, or not anymore, and he would take care of her if anything happened, that went without saying, but he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to trip again on the dregs of the chapel trip, to soar right back up there, soar even higher on the LSD Joanie was on as if he were lighting one cigarette off another.

But no, he told himself. He had work to do, a degree to flag. And Corey was here, seeing whatever there was to see. No, he had to straighten out, take charge. Somebody had to do it.

On the way home in the car, the windows black and the headlights as rigid as if they were fastened like boards on a catwalk running all the way to the apartment, Corey, in the backseat, kept up a nonstop disquisition on every subject that came into his head—Those were the best hamburgers I ever had; Can you believe Jackie doesn’t like baseball, doesn’t even root for a team?; They’ve got more comic books than any kids I’ve ever seen, and not just Superman and Donald Duck but Classics Illustrated and Mad Magazine and everything else because there’s this used comics store on, I think, Brattle Street, and everything’s a nickel—but Joanie was unresponsive. She was having a bad time. Not as bad as Julius, maybe, or not as violent, but bad just the same, her teeth gritted and her eyes wild, and she kept uttering little cries and whimpers. Corey talked around her—she never said Uh-huh or That’s nice but just stared out the window—and Fitz tried to assuage him with elaborate (and heartily false) responses until finally he just put the radio on and tuned it to the baseball game.

Later, after Joanie had gone in to lie down, he asked Corey if he was hungry, but Corey said he wasn’t.

“Do you want a story, then?” They were on to The Invisible Man now and Corey couldn’t seem to get enough of it, pestering him each night for just one more chapter. Corey liked to envision himself having his way with the world, and who could blame him? Wasn’t that the story’s appeal? You want to watch women undress? Go right ahead. You want to slap your enemies with impunity? Get rich? Steal? Eat anything you want?