John takes a last look at the telegram, folds it and stuffs it into his shirt pocket, then gets up to telephone Dr. Seguin. He has no trouble with the operator, but once he gets Dr. Seguin on the phone, it is all he can do to croak, “Doc. John Mickelson. Please. My wife—” No more words will come; he replaces the earpiece on the cradle, sets the phone back on its table. Then he goes, finally, into the dining room. Wilma is seated in one of the side chairs, her elbows on the table, fists pressed to her face. Her eyes are closed.

“Wilma?” John ventures; she does not move. Feeling Harry’s eyes on his back, he crosses the room to where she sits. He knows he has to take control, or they will not get through this day. He crouches next to her chair, slides one arm behind her back and the other under her knees, then stands with her cradled to his chest. Her eyes flash up at him, desolate, angry. She covers her face with her hands, lets out a low moan. He bites down on his lip before turning back to Harry.

“I’m going to take her up to bed,” John tells his son. “Doc will be coming. Send him up when he gets here. She’ll be all right, son,” he adds, passing Harry by, unable to feel where Wilma’s trembling stops and his begins.

After John lays her on the bed, Wilma will not speak to him, will not open her eyes or move. He doesn’t know what to say to her, anyway; he sits slumped in the chair in the corner. He feels like he has terrible heartburn.

Only when Dr. Seguin arrives do Wilma’s eyes open. Her first words: “I’ve done all I could do. And still He saw fit to punish me.”

“No, Wilma,” John objects, horrified.

Her eyes snap gray onto him. “How would you know?”

Dr. Seguin lays a comforting hand on her shoulder and gives John a pacific look. “Now, Mrs. Mickelson, you just rest,” the doctor says, his eyes telling John that she’ll be back to herself in no time. It’s been a tremendous shock, certainly, but she’ll be just fine in no time at all.

But, judging by the glint in her eyes, John does not believe it.