She watched as he crossed the room and flopped down into an armchair. He poured himself a drink, set the decanter on the table next to him, and loosened his necktie further.

He took a sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair. He began massaging the thigh of his bad leg. “Did my dad tell you I was coming?”

“Um, no,” Dolly said, then quickly added, “I mean, he mentioned you might be, but I didn’t know—”

“That’s all right. I was just wondering.” JJ sighed, and took another sip of his drink. “Can you do me two favors?”

“All right.”

“Would you not tell anyone I’m here? They’ll just come bothering me. And the second thing is, right now, I’d like to be alone for a while. Could you call it a day?”

Dolly put her hands on her hips. It was true that she had no apparent right to be in the house. Maybe what she’d been doing was nuts. Yet it was just like Mrs. Fryt had said: Somehow, Dolly could sense disaster hovering. She couldn’t help but think of the curse. She was suddenly afraid JJ would be the house’s—and the family’s—final catastrophe.

She had to believe there’d been some reason she’d felt so drawn to the house. Maybe God wanted her to save it—maybe for her own sake, maybe for the sake of the Mickelson family. She would wait and see about that; the important thing for now was to make sure that JJ didn’t make matters worse. “But there’s so much to be done,” she told him. “How do you think this house feels, left alone for so long?”

He considered her for a moment. “You’re right,” he said with a smirk, reaching over to pick up the decanter. “I’ll bet the house needs a drink, too.” He pulled the stop, and began tipping the decanter over the arm of the chair.

She lunged, yelling, “No!” She caught his wrist in one hand and the decanter in the other; after a moment of struggle, he relaxed, laughing. She was crouched in front of him, close enough to smell the cigarettes and booze on his breath, and to see the depths of his shadowed blue eyes, the prickly hairs of his emerging beard, the dryness of his lips, the conflicting whorls of his hair.

“It was a joke,” he said.

She gathered the decanter to her, leaning back on her haunches. She was trembling. “It wasn’t funny.” She got to her feet, stumbling a little as she backed away from him. She thought maybe God had overestimated her, pitting her against this man.

Chapter 34

Superior, Wisconsin
Tuesday, November 6, 1945