No thought, not even a glimmer of a thought, precedes what Conte says, as the words tumble out of him with a will of their own: “There’s something wrong with me.” Gesturing with cell, “I’m sorry—Don needs me now—I’m very sorry.” “I need you more.” “I’ll come by after I”—gesturing with cell—“I have to deal with this.” “Why?” “I’ll come by later. Count on it.” He does not respond. Looks away. “You can count on me, Eliot.” No response. Looking away. Concealing her doubt, hand on his shoulder, “Look at me. We’ll get through it. You’ll change.” Looking away, “I’ve never changed.” “You’ll see. Look at me. Please.” (He doesn’t.) On the way home from Toma’s, he stops at Hannaford’s Market and buys two six-packs of Excalibur, a nonalcoholic beer with the taste of poor-quality actual beer—tastes like piss, the saying goes—the label of which, in small print, lists among its ingredients a tiny percentage of alcohol. In the car out loud, with scorn, “I’m not having a drink,”
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