“I’m …” She hates housewife, and while homemaker is more accurate, the word itself is like an Easter egg tinted gray from having been dipped into the pastel voice of nearly every woman she knows. “I don’t have a job at the moment.”

He’s already nodding. “I understand. The economy’s in the toilet. All those tax refund checks went out right before the World Trade Center, and then, boom, the country’s on its ass. I mean, when the dust settled, they had all these misdirected ‘revenge’ plans in place, and all these speeches prepared about here’s what we’re going to do to defend democracy—but no plan for helping ordinary people. And who’s standing up and asking the question, Why did 9/11 happen? I mean, who said anything at all about why?”

The president did; Karen saw him do it on television. He asked the question, and then answered it by saying terrorists hated freedom. Jerry Falwell asked it, and said the homosexuals and abortionists had brought the attack on the rest of the country. The pastor of her church asked it loudly, over and over, and then said Satan himself had steered the planes because the Twin Towers symbolized a “righteous, prosperous people.” But she doubts this is what Todd is after.

“Noam Chomsky,” he whispers. “Gore Vidal. Susan Sontag—and, man, she took a beating for it. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Average Joe have their flags out and their sights set on their next SUV, and they don’t really care why it happened. I don’t mean to include you in that. What I mean is, I don’t know what you—or your husband—drive. Have you mentioned a husband?”

The boy has a technique, she’ll give him that much. He’s pushing his crotch against his backpack. She says, “I haven’t.”

“You know”—he glances up at the chandelier as if it might be bugged, then leans into her until she can smell the beer on his breath—“I’m staying here. I have a room.”

“Do you?”

“We probably wouldn’t risk … bothering anybody … if we talked up there.”

She realizes now that Mr. Jessup was the last vestige of propriety in her afternoon. Simply by closing his eyes, he has gone from being a charming, silver-tongued host to a drugged watchdog. “I don’t know,” she says, reaching for her empty glass. “I haven’t made up my mind about staying.”

Todd smiles. He leans in closer. “You’re lying.”