“Nor,” Raj said, “why don’t you go on home. I’ll come by later.”

Nora didn’t move for a moment. She was waiting for Ruth to say something, but Ruth refused even to look at her until she was heading away, and then only to throw an internal rock, stoking her fury with the sight of Nora’s clumping slew-footed walk, that body made for babies and hard work, her erect little ponytail imbuing her with all the oblivious dignity of a shitting plow horse—yes, that was the perfect description of her grace: like the least offensive kind of shitting. Her mother’s voice rose shrill in her, and right now she couldn’t muster the strength or inclination to resist it.

Raj sat in the rocking chair beside her. Ruth felt as if she could breathe in but not out, each inhalation adding more pressure to her chest.

“What on earth are you doing?” she said. He wasn’t looking at her, and his anxious profile broke her heart—her sweet, handsome, brilliant boy.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you really want to marry her?”

He shook his head.

“Is that why you’re getting married next week?”

Reaching down, he again rubbed Fifty-Three’s ear as if it were a talisman. “Well, I have been meaning to broach the subject.”

“When were you planning to tell her?”

“I’ve been trying to tell her.”

“Then why does she think you want to marry her?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve been enthusiastic. I mean even when I said, ‘I’ll marry you,’ I did say it almost like it was a question: ‘I’ll marry you?’”

“This is not a joke.”

He sighed. “I was even having fantasies that her dad would maim me so I could get out of it. She’s a nice person. And she’s brave. I mean, I’m hardly the most eligible bachelor, am I.”

Taking hold of Raj’s shoulder, Ruth shook him. “Are you crazy? Are you completely crazy?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m feeling kind of sad.”

“Sad?”

“It doesn’t matter. I mean, what does it matter who you marry?”

All at once she realized that, despite how mature he seemed, he was still a child—deeply, desperately young. “Why are you saying that?”

He shrugged again.

“Annie.” It suddenly occurred to her. “Are you sad about Annie?”

After a moment, he said, “I’m the best man. That’s ironic, isn’t it—I mean that at weddings the best man is the one who isn’t getting married.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“That’s a joke,” he said. “I don’t mean I’m better than Lew.”

“You are better.”

“No, I’m not. You don’t know Lew. I would never have survived what he’s gone through. Even if he went round murdering people, he’d be better than me.”

“That’s a stupid thing to say.”

“No, it isn’t. He’s brave—”

“Why do you keep harping on about how brave everyone is?”