Trying to ignore them, I examined the room. Without being entirely crowded or untidy, it was full of a great many things: books on shelves and in piles, pictures in painted frames, candlesticks, pottery, an overgrown ficus, a chandelier made of pink crystals. There was a big sofa, brown velvet with a carved wood frame, sagging at one end. Some other, newer upholstered chairs and one of those lumpy leather ottomans that serve as coffee tables. A sheaf of typed papers was spread out there, and just as I noticed them, and bent closer, one of the hens came along and whisked them away, like I was about to blow my nose on them.

Aaron and Viridian came back then, minus Oscar. Viridian looked tired, but she was smiling, as if there was some humor to be found in the evening, and I guess there was. Aaron, too, looked as if his bad mood was gone. He inclined his head toward her so he could hear whatever it was Viridian was saying, some version of thank you, I imagine, and then she turned her head so that the smile included me.

It was a transporting thing, that smile, as it had probably been all her long life, and I felt its power to fix you where you stood (or sat, or fell); it lifted her beyond age, in a way that the other women present, with their more effortful looks, were not lifted. These women came toward her now, fretful and hovering, offering teacups, concern, questions, and although I still did not like them, I began to understand how they and others might want her attention and approval, wish to be a part of whatever she did, wherever she was. But I did not know if that had to do with love, or possession, or poetry, or all three.

Viridian spoke above them now, saying, Yes of course, and, In just a moment. She walked Aaron and me out the front door and we stood on the steps and she laughed and shook her head and we laughed, too. Beyond the yellow light from the house and the yard lamps, the woods were deep and dense, busy with all the animal life we couldn’t see, things prowling, grazing, burrowing. She said, “I hope nobody else got hurt.”

“I think he was the only casualty,” Aaron said.

“He shouldn’t drink. He’s been told. At least he doesn’t drive anymore.”

At least he’s good at getting other people to drive him, I thought but didn’t say. I said, “I hope he’ll be all right.” I was mostly being polite.

“He’ll be embarrassed in the morning. And feeling sorry for himself. This time tomorrow, I expect he’ll be bragging about it. He’s very proud of his bad boy credentials. He’s so smitten with the notion of the misbehaving genius.”