Six times Chaz had watched the crime on the VCR in his bedroom, his needs escalating from beer to the hard stuff. It was a miracle he'd made it all the way to Rose's house without wrapping the Hummer around a utility pole.

The booze was therapeutic but what Chaz really needed, to sweep the mortal clutter from his mind, was sex. It had been what, two weeks? The last really good time had been on the ship with Joey, in the shower of their stateroom. Since then Chaz had been chronically out of rhythm, off his game, stuck in third gear. Ever since he was sixteen he had relied on a heavy schedule of lovemaking, accompanied or alone, to keep himself centered. Without it, he lost his edge. His brain fogged, his reflexes faltered, his hormones congealed, his testicles ached, his prostate began to calcify…

He poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Rose. All things considered, he felt fairly positive about the evening. He'd been able to slip out of his house unmolested after Tool departed on an errand, probably to score more dope. The goon would never find him here.

"Tell me about your job," said Rose, laying out the dinner plates.

"Not much to tell. It's pretty technical, actually."

"Joey said you work on the Everglades project, testing the water for some sort of pollution."

"Basically, yeah," Chaz said. "But it's chemical elements we're checking for, not sewage-type contaminants. Nothing you could smell or even see with the naked eye." He couldn't stop admiring Rose's lovely hands as she spooned out the pasta.

She said, "That's so cool. I'm sure you must've read River of Grass about a hundred times."

"You bet."

"Mrs. Douglas is one of my all-time feminist heroes. An amazing woman," she declared. "Talk about a firecracker!"

"One of a kind," agreed Dr. Charles Perrone, who hadn't read a book from cover to cover in a decade. He was plenty drunk enough to wing it, though.

"How about Silent Spring?" Rose asked.

"Let me think."

"You know-Rachel Carson?"

"Sure," Chaz said. "Wasn't she married to Johnny?"

Rose laughed. "Joey aways said you were funny."

"She did, huh?" Chaz refilled their wineglasses. Either the blue pill was starting to work or Rose's left foot was in his lap.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked, trying to sound as if it mattered.

"Been a couple of months," Rose said.

"Ah."

"Things start to build up inside. So many pent-up feelings and urges."

Chaz said, "I know what you mean."

"Sometimes a person just needs to cut loose."

"An emotional release."

"Yes, exactly," Rose said. "To get rid of all the stress and tension. Personally, yoga's never done it for me."

"Me, neither." Chaz thinking: What a refreshing outlook this woman has!

"Could you do me a favor? The Parmesan," Rose said, pointing. "It's in the tall cabinet next to the refrigerator."

"Sure." Chaz got up cautiously, holding his napkin over his lap in order to hide the ascendant bulge. He did not wish to surprise his hostess until the moment was ripe.

His back was turned when she crumbled the small round tablet into his wineglass.

"Life is so unfair," she observed. "Why Joey, of all people?"

Chaz returned to the table and passed the shaker of grated cheese. Then he took another slug of merlot.

"Know what's weird?" Rose said. "The whole Madame Bovary thing. Joey never mentioned to any of us that she was reading it. The girls in the club, I mean. Why do you suppose not? We talk about everything we read."

"I can only guess." An errant noodle hung from the corner of Chaz's mouth. He slurped it expertly and continued. "Maybe because that particular book was too personal. Like I said in church, there might've been something heavy going on-depression, whatever-and Joey didn't want me or any of her friends to know."

"Chaz, tell me honestly. Do you think she killed herself?"

"No! I can't… I d-don't know," he said, affecting an agitated stammer. "I don't want to b-believe that. Like I said, this was a very happy girl most of the time."

Rose emphatically agreed. "She was. She truly was. That was a terrible question for me to ask-I'm so sorry, Chaz. Of course she didn't kill herself. Not Joey."

The subject was dropped, and they chatted pleasantly while they dined-music, movies, sports. It turned out that Rose was considering golf lessons.

She said, "I like any exercise where you don't hardly perspire. What's the matter, hon?"

Chaz grabbed the edge of the table. "I don't feel so good."

The room had started pitching and rolling like a carnival ride.

There seemed to be two Roses, each staring quizzically. In stereo they said, "You want to lie down? You should lie down."

"Good idea."

She led Chaz to her bedroom, sat him on the bed and tugged off his shoes.

"Here. Do as I say." She patted a stack of fluffy pillows. Chaz stretched out and closed his eyes. Christ, he thought, I haven't been this smashed in years.

"Be back in a minute," he heard Rose say before she turned out the lights.

Chaz smiled as he fumbled to unbuckle his pants. He beheld a delicious vision of Rose kicking off her jeans, peeling out of her tube top and sliding under the covers beside him. With some effort he scooted over to make more space in the bed.

Problem was, he really did not feel so great.

After a while he became aware of a motorized humming noise. Most likely it was the ceiling fan, but Chaz, cracking his eyelids, couldn't see much in the darkness. Amplified by an excess of alcohol, the fan's humming put Chaz in mind of a helicopter rotor, whirling perilously close to his bare head. He felt a cold prickle of dread and burrowed like a dung beetle under Rose's pillows. In his padded refuge he couldn't hear the jangle of her car keys, or the back door closing behind her.

After Rose drove away, Mick Stranahan turned to Joey.

"Ready?"

"It's now or never."

"Remember the rules."

"No punching. No kicking. No sharp instruments. What else?" Joey said.

"No tears."

"Are you kidding?" she said, and together they entered the house. Joey paused outside the bedroom to dab Chanel behind her ears.

Stranahan whispered, "I'll be right here if you need me."

She went inside, quietly closing the door behind her. There was a slight rustling in the dark, then a muffled voice from the bedcovers: "Rose?"

Joey sat on the corner of the bed.

"Rosie, honey. Come here," Chaz said.

Joey lay down rigidly beside her husband. He nosed his way out of the pillows and blindly beached his head on her right shoulder.

"You smell terrific. That perfume you're wearing, it's my favorite."

"Hmmm," Joey said. Chaz reeked of alcohol and garlic. She felt something blunt and familiar nudging her thigh, and thought: This is what they mean by the term dickbrain.

Chaz said, "I might be drunk."

Stoned, too, mused Joey. Rose had slipped ten milligrams of diazepam into his wine.

Chaz groped somewhat imprecisely for her breasts, and she brushed his hand away.

"Stop it," she whispered.

"Your heart's going so fast. What does that mean, Rose?"

If you only knew.

He pressed himself harder against her.

"No."

"Please. I miss her so much," Chaz said.

Joey's eyes gradually adjusted to the dimness of the room. Chaz was lethargic and half-asleep, but she remained on guard.

"Please, Rose. Help me make the pain go away," he said. "Just for tonight."

Without warning Joey started to sob. She couldn't believe it. Sobbing like a baby!

Chaz seemed invigorated by her breakdown, which he no doubt perceived as vulnerability.

"Come on, Rose," he implored, reaching down to tug off his pants, "it'll be healthy for both of us."