But now it’s a glorious June day and John Mickelson with his sleeves rolled up is full of optimism, full of an extravagant sense of the justness of his life and business in wartime America. Not only are things going well at the bank, but he has also had the foresight to diversify his other interests. He is out of the lumber business entirely—he had never liked it—and now owns a creamery, a cheese factory, and a resort some fifteen miles north of town, all managed by men so capable that John rarely troubles even to visit them. These things are the future of Pine Rapids, now that the white pines are long gone; true, the three establishments together don’t employ near the number of men that the mill did, but a man has to do what’s best for himself and his own. John has also invested heavily in the stock market, and watches with awe as his money increases with no effort whatsoever on his part.

Wilma, too, has been a stellar wife these last months, since the bitterness of the pickle disaster has ebbed. It’s true that if John had been asked on that terrible day whether he would ever again feel tenderness toward his wife, he would have answered with an unqualified no. But now, nearly a year later, the episode has receded in his mind. Sometimes he even imagines it must have been a nightmare. Wilma now is pleasant, droll, warm toward him and the children. Still diligent about the garden and her war work, but lacking the frenetic air of obsession that possessed her the first few months of the boys’ absence. Worried about her children overseas as any mother would be, but pleasant about it, admirable, brave. Meek now, too, toward her husband: roast when he wants it, and pleasures in the bedroom, too. He is king of his home once more, and so great are his wife’s ministrations that he feels himself (and his boys, too) invincible. If he thinks of the “curse” at all, it is only to chide himself for ever giving it any measure of credence.