But at least I’m not attracted to JJ Mickelson, she told herself. How could I be, when Byron is so much more handsome, and whole, and well-fed? Thank goodness! I’ll get over this! I’ll get pregnant soon, and that will calm me down.

After noon, she walked over to the Mickelson house, again bearing a plate of leftovers for JJ: creamed chipped beef on mashed potatoes, with glazed carrots and cold cucumber salad on the side. (Byron’s tepid comment: “Nice job, Doll.”)

She had to knock four times before JJ finally answered the door. When he did, his eyes were bleary, and, like yesterday, he was still on his crutches, one leg of his pajamas pinned up, despite its being so late in the day. He looked terrible.

“I thought you’d be up by now!” she said.

He looked at her long enough to make her nervous. “Well,” he said. “If it isn’t my little housekeeper.”

“I brought you some lunch,” she said.

“Thanks,” he said. “You can come in.” He turned, and began crutching his way down the hallway. She shut the door behind her and followed, trying not to breathe too much; he was trailing that terrible traveling-salesman-suitcase smell.

When she reached the living room behind him, she stopped in her tracks. The ashtray was overflowing again; next to it, an almost-empty bottle lay on its side. Next to that was the plate she’d brought him yesterday, scraped clean. The sheets were twisted on the sofa, and JJ’s prosthesis was resting at an awkward angle near the radio on the opposite side of the room. There was broken glass on the floor again.

He turned to her with a sheepish smile. “Didn’t want you to get bored.”

She found room on the coffee table for the plate of food, then walked over to the window, opened it wide, and turned back toward him, surveying the mess. “I thought you said you weren’t going to do this again.”

He ran his hand over his hair. “Look, Dolly, I’m sorry. Just—do whatever my dad said to. I’ll stay out of your hair. Forget I’m even here.”

But when he looked up, his eyes seemed to say that was the last thing he wanted.

Or was she only imagining things? Still, she felt strangely powerful, strangely keyed up.

She worried what she might do with such a strange feeling, and decided she’d better put the brakes on whatever was in the air between them. “I’d better do the kitchen today, after I get this cleaned up,” she said. “I never got a chance to finish the other day, when you came.”

“All right.”

“It’s very important, this house,” she said, reminding herself, too. “Sure, Dolly,” he said. He flopped onto the sofa again, looking as spent as if he’d just run a marathon, and reached for his cigarettes.