It was true that the stuffed pepper cups had met with little success, and the salmon mousse had received a “We got any hamburger, hon?” It was also true that at times he had pleaded for the familiar solace of a pork roast. But Dolly soldiered on. Even in the midst of the move from Minnesota, she kept up her system, accomplishing it by packing her cookware and utensils last—along with two place settings—in a box labeled DOLLY—VERY IMPORTANT. This box traveled just inside the rear door of the trailer, so that Dolly could unpack it immediately upon arrival in their new home. So intent was she on accomplishing Chicken Hawaiian that evening (once Byron had unhooked the trailer, she sped off in the Chrysler to find a market) that even as she’d scrubbed the kitchen from top to bottom she had scarcely registered the red poppy wallpaper gracing the walls, the black-speckled white linoleum on the floor. A week later, though, shopping at J. C. Penney’s, she had found some gauzy white curtains with red poppy appliqués to hang at the window above the sink between the cupboards. A step in the right direction, at least, but somehow the curtains didn’t make her feel any better about Pine Rapids or the bungalow, either one.

Their first morning in Pine Rapids, she and Byron had gone down to Ralston’s Furniture and bought a modern table, red Formica-topped, edged in stainless steel, for the kitchen. It came with two leaves and six metal chairs upholstered in red vinyl. It was at this table that they sat this evening over a supper of Tuna Noodle Casserole, with a molded peach salad on the side. Dolly had felt too done in after the Ladies Aid gathering to attempt anything more complex, though she had taken the time to adorn the table with a single red tulip from the side garden, placing it in a pewter bud vase that had been a wedding gift. She was pleased with the effect against the wallpaper—plus, in the flaring white dress with red trim, she, too, matched the table setting perfectly. In a moment of inspiration, she had even kept on her frilly red half apron—a friend back in her hometown of Battle Point had thrown her a well-attended Apron Collection bridal shower, so Dolly owned an impressive variety of aprons, nineteen in all, one to match nearly every one of her dresses—because she had read somewhere that “nothing says ‘happy home’ to a husband like his smiling wife, in an apron and lovely dress, bidding him come to the table, where she has a colorful, balanced, hot meal waiting.” Despite the relatively humdrum tuna casserole, and even though the heat of the oven had made her sweat straight through her girdle, Dolly still thought she was a wife Byron could be proud of.