He nodded and she moaned sickly. He tried to touch her, but she put her arm out straight to keep him off, and she turned back and moaned again. He followed her into the living room where she grabbed the back of the plush easy chair he remembered from the old days. The lace doilies were still on the arms, the place was still too hot, the air too dry. She held the back of the chair and rocked, still moaning. She was six or seven months pregnant, and her legs looked too frail to carry her belly. He thought he could span her ankles with his hand. Her hair was thick, black, and cut short; he could see the point of bone at the back of her neck.

Jacob Levy came in from the dining room holding a steaming casserole in his hands, which were covered with oven mitts.

“The kugel!” Levy cried. He saw Hawkins, not Adam. He saw Hawkins’s rumpled tux, and his daughter-in-­law bending in anguish over the chair. It was eight-thirty; Adam should have been home at seven, and he was never late. Levy turned very slowly back to the dining room. He carried the hot dish carefully to the table and put it on the mat, then stood there without moving, his back to Hawkins. His head was bowed over the steam that still came up from the casserole and Hawkins realized that Levy’s hair was entirely white under his yarmulke. The first time he’d seen Levy it was still black.