She folded the sheets that had been covering the furniture, which he had thrown on the floor yesterday. She wiped down the marble fireplace, dusted the baseboards and the windowsills and the carved backs of the chairs. When she got to the sofa, he obliged her by leaning out of her way so that she could dust behind him; when she leaned near him, her nose picked up the traveling-salesman-suitcase smell of him: spilled whiskey, used tobacco, the stale air of loneliness and unwashed shirts. She wrinkled her nose and quickly moved away, feeling his eyes on her.

But she found the work satisfying, his attention strangely gratifying. Not to mention, the Mickelson house showed such appreciation! The change in its mood was palpable as it began to gleam—unlike the staid bungalow, always so indifferent to her constant efforts. She yearned for a vacuum for the living room rug. She began to think: If I can catch JJ in the right mood—if it seems like he really isn’t going to stay—I’ll ask him if they might sell. She wouldn’t feel right kidnapping the house if it was wanted; adoption, though, was another matter.

She was running an oiled rag across the strip of wood that divided the upper half of the walls from the lower when she noticed JJ crutching his way toward the parlor, his pants slung over his shoulder. “Can you bring me my leg?” he called back to her.

The minute he came out of the parlor, dressed and walking on two legs, he pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the front porch overlooking the highway and the Bear Trap River.

She followed him, keeping her body inside while her head poked out the door. “Aren’t you worried someone might see you?” she whispered. “I thought you wanted to be left alone.”

He took a cigarette from a pack at his biceps, got his lighter out of his pocket, shielded the cigarette as he lit it. He clumped over a few steps, and leaned his back against the house.

She eased out onto the porch, cushioning the door as it closed behind her. The last thing she wanted was for Mrs. Fryt to see her. “The neighbors will start talking,” she warned him. “Mrs. Fryt already told me this morning she thought she saw a light in the house last night.”

“She’s still alive?” he said.

“Oh, yes, very much.”

“How about that,” he said, tapping ash from his cigarette onto the porch. “Well, then, everyone will know soon enough, won’t they? About me being home.” He laughed. “That old lady used to think she knew everything that went on over here.”

“Well, she did know an awful lot,” Dolly said. “She’s been telling me all about it. And she’s been keeping her eye on the house to see when one of you would come back.”