Harry thought that if Jack had any real brains he’d be furious with himself, too, for having paid so little attention to Chase that he had no idea of Chase’s dreams. Jack had plugged his own ideas of Marine glory right into Chase’s life without ever asking if it was what Chase wanted. If it wasn’t for Jack, Harry thought, Chase might not have gone into the Marines at all. He might still be alive. It was hard not to hate Jack for being so selfish, not only about Chase, but about Mary, too, when you saw how broken and sad she looked, now that she’d lost not just one but two brothers. Harry didn’t blame Mary for loving both of them; he blamed them for taking her for granted. Darn Chase, anyway, going off to war when he had a girl like that pinning her hopes on him. Darn Jack for being a blind, arrogant fool. If Harry ever had a girl like that, he’d stay with her, and that was that.

But Harry said nothing to Mary about it, or to the rest of them. He started spending all his time down at the Yacht Club or Bronson’s ice cream parlor with his friends. He took up drinking, some, and smoking, a lot.

The day before the Mickelsons were going back to Pine Rapids, Harry came home late at night—they hadn’t even left a light on for him—and went in and flopped on the couch in the front room to smoke a last cigarette by the light of the moon, knowing that even if his parents smelled the smoke they wouldn’t come out. They’d think it was Jack smoking; or even if they thought it was Harry, they wouldn’t care.

The box of Chase’s things was still there on the floor. Nobody had touched it since the day they’d opened it, almost two weeks ago.

Harry pulled the box over to himself and pawed through it. He picked up Chase’s dog tag and looked at it. It was strange knowing that somewhere in France his brother lay in a grave wearing the matching tag. Harry ran his thumb over the letters pressed in the aluminum: CHASE G. MICKELSON 1917 USMC.

“Harry?”

“Mom?” Harry was so busy trying to hide the dog tag that he forgot all about trying to hide his cigarette.

Wilma was in her robe and nightgown, and in the moonlight with her hair wispy around her face she looked old, almost tattered. “What are you doing, Harry?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I just got home.”

“What are you doing with Chasey’s things?”

“Nothing—I just—Nobody had done anything with them. I was just—”

“I don’t want you touching them. We’re going to leave them where they are.”