“You’re still drunk, aren’t you? You’re so cute when you’re drunk!” She reached for me. “He’s not drunk, though. He’s standing straight up. He’s ready, isn’t he?”

I admitted that he was ready.

Dria said, “That means we’re both ready.”

She was in one of her states, the rush of the thing, the anxiety, making her grabby. I was supposed to get on top of her. Those were her orders. I was supposed to open her legs and place my young readiness against hers and get the party started. And I might actually have done so; my body was ready to enact its predictable, ecstatic will—except that I heard a noise come from the closet.

“What the hell was that?” I said.

“Nothing.”

Then it came again, a muffled sneeze.

“Nothing,” Dria said again.

The closet swung open, and there was Suzanne Blacet, in a fancy sleeping gown, her hair gathered in a girlish ponytail.

I tried to roll off Dria, but she held me fast. “Maman!” she snarled. Her tone was not one of shock, or fear, but rage.

They began to speak very quickly.

“I’m sorry,” Suzanne said.

“I knew you’d find some way to announce yourself!”

“Surely you don’t think—”

“I do.”

“There were dust mites, my dear.”

“You could have used the peephole.”

“This is my home.”

“You’ve scared him,” Dria said. “You’ve scared Jacob. Now he’s going to be all freaked out. Are you freaked out, Jacob?”

“Yes,” I said. I had freed a hand and managed, at least, to cover my nakedness with the duvet.

“You see,” Dria said. Her voice was zooming toward a weepy timbre.

Suzanne took a step toward the bed. “Do you honestly think I’d want your friend to see me in this state?” Her face, scrubbed of makeup, showed a rumpled beauty.

“This is a misunderstanding,” I said. “I came to tuck your daughter in. I meant no disrespect. I can head downstairs, to my room.”

“Nonsense,” Dria said. “You’re not going anywhere. I was ready. I’m ready.” She was crying now.

“Calm down,” Suzanne said. “You are such a little actress. Jacob is not an unintelligent boy. Don’t underestimate him.”

“You’re ruining this!”