After the cucumbers had cured for the appropriate amount of time, Wilma canned eighteen pint jars of sweet gherkins, the steam filling the kitchen (to hear Harry tell it; John was at work) thick enough to choke a person. The following week, she was on to dill pickles, dismissing the cook for the day so that she might have full use of the kitchen. Over a cold supper on the night the pickles were finished, Jinny reported that Wilma had let her help pack the cucumbers (which had been soaked overnight in brine, again with strict instructions to the family to keep out) into the hot jars lined up on the kitchen counter. Wilma had poured the boiling mixture of liquid and spices into all the jars; Jinny had followed, putting on the lids. Then Wilma had lowered the jars into boiling water, while Jinny was the official clock-watcher, telling her when it had been twenty minutes exactly. “You shoulda seen Mom, Dad,” Jinny announced. “It was like she’d done it a million times before.” A sharp gleam of pride shone in Wilma’s eyes.

The next evening, watching Wilma at supper while Harry gave a play-by-play account of the afternoon’s baseball game, John reflected that he was glad to see her finally coming into her own as a woman, accomplishing concrete things. Though her ethereal nature had always magnetized him, he realized now how maddening it had been. It was nice to think that she had finally joined him in the real world. She was a better mother to their children, and was contributing more to the household. She never played the piano anymore. If only she would grant him the pleasures of their bed, he decided, he would be entirely satisfied with her.

After supper, Wilma announced that the two dozen quart jars of dill pickles had cooled sufficiently and that she would be lining them up in the pantry. John offered to help. “You’ve been working so hard, Wilma, just let me do this one thing,” he told her, following her into the kitchen. He hoped that she might reciprocate the gesture with favors in the bedroom.

“You really don’t have to help, John,” she told him. “The maid can help me when she comes down to do the dishes. Why don’t you go sit and read the paper?”

The kids had scattered off, banging out the door as soon as they were excused from the table. It was a warm summer evening, and a gentle breeze that smelled of hemlock and slightly of manure wafted through the screens, mixing with the scents of dill and vinegar that lingered in the kitchen. “It’s all right, Wilma, I’m glad to help,” John boomed, feeling it true, lifting one of the jars with both hands. Her handiwork: He would be careful.