“Hello, Cleo,” Max said warmly. She smiled up at him, trying to inch away from her frantic husband’s frantic grip.

“I’m here too,” said Lewis. “I realize my wife’s singular attractions, but you might speak to me, Shore.”

Eva nodded at him companionably. That was part of their bargain. If he stayed out, if she stayed out, no questions.

They were both serious people.

“Hello, Levi.”

“We were speaking of the repercussions of the Disney strike. Walt and his seven hundred dwarfs. Have you noticed, by the way, that all the mice are white?”

Max snorted. “Not entirely,” he said. It was going to be a while before they left. “I’m going to grab a bite,” he announced somewhat belligerently, and went to the kitchen.

The Lewises left at one. Eva sank into a couch. Max had been watching her, hardly listening to the conversation. A kind of pity welled up in him. He did not know where it had come from. She looked so tired; she had gained a good deal of weight, he noticed, and her breasts seemed so heavy, and sad somehow. He went over to her and flung his arms about her and buried his face in her neck, smelling her familiar odor, the odor of her thick hair, her neck. He put his leg on her lap and pulled her closer and she said, “Well, what’s come over you?” But she was pleased. He knew that.

Sometime during the night, Max awoke in a state of acute alarm. He disengaged his arm from under Eva’s shoulders and went to Thomas’s crib. For a while, he listened to the child’s soft, even breathing. Without touching him, Max leaned over the cribside and examined each small feature of his face by the weak light of a night lamp. Even if Thomas awoke, Max could hardly expect the boy to tell him that everything would be all right.

Chapter 12

Sigrid dyed her short stiff hair canary yellow and painted new, swollen lips over her own thin mouth. When Annie drove up to Ivar Street, Sigrid was standing there among packages and a suitcase, looking like a neon sign that had been left on during daylight. They loaded up the car. “Jesus!” said Sigrid from time to time about nothing particular.