“Is that all they are?” Owen asked Phyllis, as if at home they didn’t have time to exchange views, which in a way was true. “Or are they also Viet Cong, who are burying village chiefs, head-down, and trying to force a grotesque style of misgovernment on the South Vietnamese?” “Good question,” Ed admitted.

“Poor Owen,” said Stacey; her face seemed to swim in her hair as she sat on the floor at Owen’s feet, beside the glass coffee table, through which he could see one of her deeply tanned knees. “He’s such a patriot. He reminds me of the true-blue men in Texas.”

Phyllis stood, with a tumult of cloth and audible breath that brought back to Owen how sizable she was, what a catch she had been. “I need air, I guess,” she said, “and, Owen, we both need to go home and rescue the babysitter.”

“Right,” he agreed, but with no intention of moving. Life was too good here, with this hopeful new couple, in high bourgeois comfort. He wondered where the joint had gone and hoped it wasn’t burning a hole anywhere. He put the glass of weak whiskey to his lips and sucked, the glass’s rim making a cool brittle arc in his mind.