She raised the subject of his drinking once, and he resisted angrily. Resisted the suggestion that he had a problem, and that drink was killing him. And then, suddenly, because she, too, flared up in anger, his resistance collapsed. His arguments fell apart and he agreed. Humbly. Mumbled that, yes, he had a problem. She was so taken by surprise, she could go no further. She asked him to seek help and he said he would, but took no action. In the weeks and months that followed, she told herself it was his problem to resolve. But he wasn’t strong enough, did not have the will; she knew that then and she knew it now. The self talks the self into taking action—or not. The self is capable of tricking the self. Lew died an alcoholic, his liver damaged over a period of years. An earlier death than he should have had.

She had loved him, deeply. But in countless ways, she was glad to be free of him because of the drinking. Free of his inability to cope with his own life. She did her best to ward off thoughts about sharing the blame. Why should she take the blame? As a result, no blame was ever laid. He drank, he drank too much, he died. She was lonely and aware of the possibility that her life might not get any better than it was now. She had Sal; she had Cass and a few other friends. She had as much work as she wanted, but . . . perhaps there would always be a but. Cass had known that Lew drank, but she had no idea how much, especially as his drinking took place at home. As for the bottles, they remained hidden. Boxed. Out of sight.

A few nights earlier, Hazzley had leafed through pages of her old journal and noticed an entry from that period of her life. A time when she had not felt worthwhile. To herself or to anyone. Oh, human frailties, she had written. How they penetrate the head and heart and soul. What she understood now but was not able to consider at the time was that Lew, too, had not felt worthwhile.

But this group. Was there something in the air when they finally adjourned? Called out their goodbyes? Every one of them said, on parting, “See you next Tuesday.”

HAZZLEY JOINED CASS at the front counter. Business had picked up, and they had only a few moments together. Cass was wearing a calf-length skirt, a multicoloured gypsy sort of top. Around her neck, miniatures of dual theatre masks hung from a cord of dark leather: tragedy, comedy. She had never completely broken ties with the theatre she’d once owned in town. She twisted the cord between her fingers as she spoke.

“The quiet one,” she said to Hazzley. “The tall one with ginger hair. Tinted. More butterscotch than ginger. She’s been here more than a few times—likes to read for hours. She has a glint in her eye, even though she presents a serious front.”