“Gus,” I say, and I give him a thumbs-up. Then I make my way toward the door, and for just a moment, when I cross the ring between the inner and outer orbits of the bar, I feel one wet shoe slide toward the other in a way that borders on slapstick.

The sky is dark by the time I get home. I leave my loafers in the garage and walk straight to the dining room, where I pull the Cutty Sark from the sideboard. I take down one of our nice glasses from the china cabinet and pour out a half inch. Just a sip, standing there in the dining room, looking at all this beige carpet, all this tasteful furniture, all this space.

“Goddamn it,” I say out loud.

My cell phone is in the kitchen, in its charger, topped off because I haven’t touched it in weeks. I scoop it up and drop it into my pocket, along with a pen, then carry the bottle and the glass out to the backyard.

At the end of the yard, near the canal, is a pair of lawn recliners: rusted and weather-beaten from having been left outside for the past six months. I sink down into one of them and set the bottle on the grass next to me.

After I’ve finished my drink, I take the phone out of my pocket. For a long time, suspended halfway between sitting and lying flat, I do nothing but stare up at the sky packed with stars. I’m not bad with constellations, but tonight I can’t make out a single one. Not the dippers. Not Orion. It’s like they’ve all been stirred up when no one was looking. Finally, I squint at the phone and dial my old number.

“Hello?”

“Teresa,” I say, “it’s me. Roy.”

Silence. The last time I did this—called her out of the blue—was at least five years ago. Leona and I had just had a fight about something, I can’t even remember what, and I dialed Teresa without knowing what I’d say. The call didn’t go well. This time, though, I have something to tell her.

“How are you, Roy?” she finally asks.

“I’m okay. I just … I wanted to let you know …” How hard can this be?

“Wanted to let me know what?”

“Leona died.”

Silence again. “Oh,” she says. “Roy, I’m so sorry. I really am. What happened?”

“Leona was—” Suddenly I have no air in my lungs. I take in a deep breath, and tell her about the cancer. I keep the details to a minimum, mostly for my sake. “She fought it,” I tell her. “We both fought it. But there’s only so much …”

“Oh, Roy,” Teresa says again. “I’m really so sorry. When is the funeral?”