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cocktail party that night. The theme was La Mort d'Été; for some reason, all the parties had themes that year, as if conviviality were no longer its own reward.
    “I won't be able to make it,” she said. “You should go.”
    “Got a previous engagement?” Russell suggested.
    “Don't be an idiot, okay? It's been a bitch of a day already.”
    “What should I wear,” Russell asked.
    “Wear a tie. They won't recognize you.”
    “Remind me what you look like, so I'll recognize you when you get home tonight.”
    “I'll be the girl with dark circles under her eyes.”
    After a moment, Russell said. “How's old Dow Jones?”
    “The market's up four points.”
    “I mean the stiff with the starched boxer shorts.”
    “Duane is very busy, like the rest of us.”
    “I don't hear you denying my surmise about his undershorts.”
    “Would you like me to check?”
    “No, that's okay.”
    “I'll see you when I get home. And no smoking.”
    Russell planned to make a quick appearance, but after two hours the party was just hitting optimal cruise altitude. The invitation had said Cocktails six to eight , but food and booze were plentiful and everyone was canceling dinner reservations. Rick Cohen had some blow that he let Russell in on. By ten, Russell had bummed three cigarettes. He felt guilty about the first. The second came after he visited the bathroom with Rick, and obviously that didn't count. Smoking the third, he decided that he was glad Corrine wasn't with him: He could be weak without spoiling her resolution.
    Nancy Tanner arrived wearing one of her strapless dresses. She was flashy in a way that reminded him of stewardesses—a stylized, overly wrought femininity that he associated with the service sector. Her obviousness made him feel virtuous. If Nancy were a film, she'd be Superman II . Corrine was, say, Hiroshima Mon Amour .
    Nancy spotted Russell and winked, then caught up with him at the bar. “Behaving yourself?” she asked.
    “Trying.”
    “Haven't seen you since … you remember.”
    For a moment he thought she meant the dream. “How's your step father?” he said.
    “My stepfather?” She looked baffled for a moment. “Oh, he's fine. He's better. Where's Corrine?” she asked, much as one asks after a tagalong sibling who has finally been given the slip. He felt that if he didn't challenge her tone, he'd be implicated in a developing conspiracy.
    “Working,” he said.
    “All work and no play …” She arched her eyebrows and then escaped before he could register his indignation. That was going a little too far. He got a drink and plunged back into the crowd.
    “We were just wondering what happened to Dino Signorelli,” Rick said when Russell joined his circle.
    “Last I heard, he was selling seeds in South Dakota.”
    “Spilling seed, you mean,” Tom Dalton said.
    “That guy could fake a guard like nobody's business.”
    “He could bend an elbow, too,” Russell observed.
    Russell was listening to Skip Blackman's girlfriend—who had never looked so good—talk about her incredibly boring job when Nancy touched his shoulder.
    “Got a cigarette?”
    Russell was about to say he'd quit, but he deftly turned the reflex into a negative monosyllable.
    “Let's find some,” she said, her sparkling eyes seeming to make this simple notion witty and daring.
    She took his hand and he followed her, feeling crisp and purposeful in his movements, negotiating the tight throng of bodies and the carpeted floor like an expert skier rounding the poles of a hazardous slalom course.
    “I think I've got some in my coat,” she said, leading him into one of the bedrooms. She closed the door behind them. He reached for her and drew her face to his, his feeling of precision and control dissolving, the ski slope giving way to a free fall through the clouds.
    Shortly before midnight, Russell reeled toward home. His legs were wobbly, but this was a transparent defensive strategy, a white lie on the part of the