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—•—

I knew that Julia and Henry had broken up, but I thought maybe they'd get back together, like her parents. I was hoping she'd come to the shore with Henry as a surprise. Just in case, I brought my best drawing to show her.

But Henry arrived alone. He'd shaved. You could see the slightest bit of paleness where his beard had been. Otherwise, his face was the same as always. Still, I had trouble getting used to it.

No one mentioned Julia.

I went back into my bedroom and looked at the drawing again, critically, as though her not showing up proved it wasn't good. It was like all my others—just people standing around. I'd never be able to illustrate a children's book, I decided, unless there was one about loitering.

—•—

It was warm on the beach. Indian summer. Henry told me that he'd started to write a novel.

"Maybe Julia could help," I said. "She edits children's books."

I could see how hurt he was, and I apologized. But I told him that I liked Julia, and I wanted to know why they'd broken up.

He didn't answer right away. Then he told me about the gala in Southampton. The house was enormous, he said, and right on the beach. There were at least a hundred guests—maybe two hundred—and a band had been hired for the party.

He said that Julia had probably told him to wear a dark suit, but he'd forgotten or thought it wasn't important. They'd had to borrow one for him. He imitated her father saying, "All Blaire has to do is get on the horn." Henry seemed to dislike her father especially.

Henry described the borrowed suit in detail—the sleeves were too short, and it was baggy—but everyone told him how wonderful he looked. Other men were wearing tuxedos.

Everyone was drinking a lot, he said, and he drank, too. Julia kept introducing him to people, but Henry said he couldn't remember their names, and they didn't seem to want to talk to him anyway. He'd made jokes—about why he'd transferred to so many colleges, for example—but nobody laughed. When Julia asked him to dance with her, he said that you weren't supposed to dance to jazz. But he just didn't know how.

There were a lot of people Julia hadn't seen in a long time. They all wanted to talk to her. And dance. So, off she went.

He went to the bar and stood there a while. But he was in the way of people getting their drinks. He moved to the edge of the crowd and just watched. Suddenly it seemed, he was drunk, in a suit that didn't fit, at a party where he didn't know anyone, and he was standing alone.

I knew how I felt at parties. The worst thing was to get caught standing alone; it seemed to prove that you weren't worth talking to. I realized that it must have been even harder for him, because Julia had seen.

Still, he seemed to blame it all on her. Not in words—there was nothing I could point to or ask him about it.

I could see how hard it was for him to tell me, and I tried to be gentle when I said, "But that was just a bad party."

He didn't answer. I started to say, Didn't you love her? but I remembered Julia saying, He doesn't say he loves me. Instead, I said, "I thought you really liked her."

"I did," he said. "Julia's great."

"I loved her," I said.

He nodded. Then he said, "There was too much of an age difference."

It sounded to me like "better course selection," and I gave him a look to say so, but he pretended not to see.

—•—

At dinner, he ate his corn typewriter-style and told us funny stories about New York. He'd gone out with a dancer from the Midwest. He said that when she'd first arrived in New York, the dope dealers around Washington Square had said, "Loose joints, loose joints," and she'd said, "Thank you."

After dinner, he stayed out on the porch and talked to my father about the courses he was taking and which credits would transfer from the other colleges. He said that he was going to graduate from Columbia, and my father said, "Good."

My mother and I were clearing the dishes, and she smiled when she heard that. She was caught up in our being together. It was a celebration.