A smaller invasion of Cate’s individual privacy is Graham’s open-ended presence in her apartment. Her spare room has been taken over with command-post electronics and a giant bed he had delivered soon after he arrived. It goes up and down, can be hard or soft, hot or cold. Plus, it vibrates. Other than this anomalous room, her apartment is of a piece, a set of sorts. Well, of course it would be. The play would be titled 1944. She’s fascinated by this period, which she knows mostly from a love of its movies. She loves the furnishings, the reliance on hats, the cavalier smoking, the enormous cars. She has combed junk shops for old furniture from these days gone by, reupholstered several pieces herself in dark mohair. Maroon and moss green. She painted the walls the color of a paper bag. Possibly too much bamboo. A heavy, standing ashtray is surrounded by a population of emphysemic ghosts. She enjoys standing in one room or another, surveying the total effect, also the small pieces that make it up. Her bedroom furniture is of a heavy, dark wood with lighter panels of inlay. She has an indigo chaise by the window, lampshades with fringe. Framed and hung rotogravure portraits of movie stars from the studio days.

Graham is spoiling this “curated” (she only ever uses this word to herself) environment. But he’s a good friend, not to mention he bought the apartment for her.

When she gets out of the shower, she can hear him chatting with Lucille Rae. On the screen of one laptop, Lucille Rae is peering seriously at the camera. Behind her head and shoulders are shelves crammed full of teddy bears. She appears to be sitting on the teddy bear subway at rush hour.

Graham holds up the laptop and Cate waves at it. “Hey, Lucille Rae.” Lucille Rae lives in the Black Hills in South Dakota, which she’s certain lie on top of huge hidden bunkers filled with recorded phone calls.

Having come farther into the room, Cate catches a whiff of mustiness off Graham, mustiness and herbal supplements. When did he start looking and smelling like a nut? He’s developing tics. Rotating his head to get a crick out of his neck. Picking at his fingers, tearing up the cuticles until they bleed. He doesn’t wash his hair, wears it pulled back in a greasy ponytail. When did he start sleeping in his clothes, or maybe it’s that he’s working in his pajamas? Hard to tell with the garments—there’s really no other way to describe them—he wears. Hemp and unbleached cotton, drawstring closures. He looks like someone who has an entourage of naive followers.