Hazzley’s memory was stirred by the image. She smiled at Lew and made a mental note to check “dauber/dabber” later, at the end of the day. For now, she had tomatoes to marinate, basil to pick, a quiche in the oven.

It was only when their guests came through the front door that Hazzley realized how shocking Lew’s appearance must be to others. She turned and saw what they were seeing as they greeted him. She could read the reaction on their faces. And if she could, so could Lew.

The heartbreak was that all of his effort showed. The ironed shirt. The looseness of it failing to disguise his gaunt frame. The unusual brightness in the eyes. Even his hair looked as if some outside agent had patted it down, forced a part with a wet comb.

He had scrubbed himself up for company and he looked the part.

Everyone sat in the family room, and Lew did his best to uphold conversation; he responded politely to queries about his health. Persiflage, Hazzley told herself while tasting balsamic in the kitchen. Light raillery, banter. He was holding court in the armchair that had always been his: the blue upholstered chair in which he read the evening papers and reread the stories of Conan Doyle. It was where he sat to listen to the radio, drink wine and whisky and ice-cold limoncello and any other alcoholic drink he could lay his hands on. That was his corner domain. She thought of champagne; she thought of Meiner in bed, his heavy leg slung over hers. Herregud! She felt a flush of warmth through her body. We did what we did.

She called everyone to the table.

Lew poured wine for himself during the meal. At first, Hazzley was shocked, and then not. Why wouldn’t he drink? He drank every day and would not be capable of abstaining because of the presence of friends. She considered this from his point of view. He did the drinking; she had unintentionally assumed the chore of lugging the empty bottles to the basement because he no longer did so. They never spoke about this. Lew knew that he was at risk of suffering withdrawal. Hazzley looked around at their friends and said to herself, Try living with an alcoholic. This is what it’s like. Something else takes hold and we move forward as if there’s no other path on this journey.

Lew had been in withdrawal before: sweating, hands shaking, jittery, nauseated, anxious. The first episode had been so frightening to witness that she had backed away, gone out to the street, walked for a while, arrived at the gym, got herself onto a treadmill and stared at captions on a soundless TV. During an on-screen message promoting safety, Hazzley watched as a heavy-looking box fell from a shelf. The caption across the bottom read “Clatter, thud.” Yes, Hazzley said to herself. Those are the sounds of being unsafe: clatter, thud. She jacked up the speed of the treadmill so that she could expend more energy. She increased the incline to 2 percent. When she was ready to leave the gym, she returned home and found Lew asleep on the floor of the bedroom, an empty glass close by on the rug. She wondered how he had managed to get up the stairs. She covered him with two blankets, and he woke up in the same spot in the morning, dressed in the clothes of the day before.