THE MICKELSON HOUSE
502 W. First Street, Pine Rapids
Thursday, August 3, 1950

He had tricked her, he supposed.

The story was nothing to him, but he could drag it out, he could embellish, he could pretend. He was, among other things, an actor, after all.

He relished the way she would lean forward a little, bright-eyed, anticipating him when he paused; he judged her reactions by the curve of her mouth. Surprise: The lower lip falls. Worry: Both lips thin, and draw back. Disappointment: The left side puckers. Confusion: almost a kiss. It was gratifying—exhilarating, even—to have such an attentive audience. It was as though she really cared.

It had been some hours since he had, with the promise of the tale, hoodwinked her into coming out onto the porch with him, settling in for the afternoon. No talk of work needing to be done now. Mostly, she sat facing him, leaning back against the porch railing, her arms wrapped around one drawn-up knee, the other leg crossed under her. Every so often, she would lean forward and rest her chin on her knee. He liked her long eyelashes, and the way her dark hair curled over her ears. He liked the shadow that showed down the front of her shirt when she leaned toward him, the curves of her hips and legs as she moved this way or that, all of which kept him pleasantly aroused; better than a whiskey buzz.

He thought, If I can just keep this story going forever.

Because—in addition to the pleasure of Dolly’s company—now that he had begun to tell his family’s story, he felt an interesting peace in this exercise of reordering the past. Making sense of it. It was a relief, really. To consider so carefully so many things that he had been avoiding thinking of, or writing off as unimportant. We don’t live in Pine Rapids anymore. The end.

He felt compelled, now, to spin the story out to its rightful end, and that she was listening actually made the task seem worthwhile. Never mind that his butt was getting sore from sitting on the porch steps, his legs stretched out before him down the stairs. Never mind that the edges of the day were softening, even the Bear Trap’s babble languid and hushed. He wasn’t hungry. He could stay here forever, watching the curve of her mouth. Forever.

She cocked her head, and reached for the pack of cigarettes he’d set between them. “So Nick and Harry are down in the dining room, your dad and grandpa are in the office arguing, and Wilma and Mary and Anne are cleaning the kitchen and the hallway, and you’re upstairs with Elissa. And Ty comes to the door?”

“That’s right.”

A cigarette was between her lips. He reached over and lit it for her, his wrist brushing hers.