Em wasn’t the only serious fiction writer I knew who hadn’t read Moby-Dick, but she was the only one I knew who once imagined it was a pornographic novel—a dick novel, as my mom had just called it. Em blamed Nora for this misunderstanding, but we all remembered Nora’s hyphen theory fondly. Mr. Barlow and I had trouble understanding what Em was acting out for us—a certain moment Em was waiting for, when she intended to read Moby-Dick. It was necessary for Em to tip over the coffee table in order for us to understand she was waiting for an upheaval of some kind.

It was harder to get what Em was telling us about the unfolding Paul Goode scandal. Elliot and I got the part of the pantomime about Clara Swift—namely, how her longstanding decision not to give interviews served her well in this instance. The gossip columnists knew Clara Swift was off-limits. But the snowshoer and I didn’t get what Em was saying about Paul Goode himself; it wasn’t about his writing or his acting—that much we understood. Em seemed to be saying we might like him, if we knew him, but the little English teacher and I couldn’t get what we might like about my father, or exactly what we would like him for. Em just gave up and went to bed.

It was already late, but Elliot and I stayed up a little longer. When we couldn’t get what Em was pantomiming, we felt like we’d let her down. We were also exasperated with her; although it felt like we were betraying her, we wished Em would talk to us. Her terrible parents were dead. Hadn’t she stopped speaking because of them? When Em lost Nora, she lost more than a partner; she lost her only collaborator. The snowshoer and I felt guilty for thinking about Em this way, but we wished we knew what could make her speak.

In the predawn light, I could see Em better than I usually did when she made her nighttime bedroom visits. Em looked stressed out, but I knew she wouldn’t talk to me, and it was too early in the morning for an impromptu pantomime. She gave me a hug, but she didn’t go back to sleep; she moved on. I thought I heard her doing something in the kitchen; then I heard her come back upstairs. She was probably visiting the snowshoer. In the morning, I watched them drive away; seeing them leave, I imagined my bohemian life was leaving with them.