She went inside and meandered through the rooms of the house, running her fingers over its varied surfaces. The textured upholstery of the sofas, fraying on the arms; the cool marble of the fireplaces; the wood of the banister, worn smooth by her family’s hands over the last fifty years; the almost imperceptible waves of the stained-glass window on the landing; the porcelain of the bathroom sink; the plush rug on the floor of her bedroom; the baubles on her white bedspread. She pressed her hands to the bedroom radiator, to warm them. She did not look at her reflection in her vanity mirror when she took down Chase’s yellowed caricature of the family, folded it, and put it in the pocket of her jeans.

She moved on, exploring her children’s old rooms, the maid’s quarters, and up to the third floor apartment that had once belonged to John’s father, Knute. Though they had moved his things out years ago to make it a play area for the children, Wilma thought she could still smell his cigars and the strong soap he had favored. She didn’t blame him for what had happened. She sent him a little apology for what she was about to do.

When she finally went back downstairs, she grabbed off a hook near the back door a heavy wool jacket that had belonged to Chase. She had found it in the third-floor storage room perhaps a decade ago. She imagined it still smelled like him—baseball glove leather and pencil lead and eraser dust and adolescence—and she’d taken to wearing it, just every so often.

She stepped into the kitchen, grabbed a book of matches out of the drawer, and dropped them into the pocket of the coat.

Outside, the air was gray and crisp; winter was coming. Or was it already here? She knelt stiffly in the dying grass next to the back porch, and tried to remember back to the beginning of time. Not the beginning of time itself, she told herself, crumpling a handful of yellowed leaves up from the grass. Just, where I began. She felt a kicking in her stomach, something pressing against her insides. As though he might be born again.

But it was death that was in the air.

Her mouth felt like silver in the cold. The leaves smelled of chalk and earth and decay.

To everything there is a season. A time to die.

She dropped the leaves and put her hands in the pockets of Chase’s old coat. Her left hand closed on the book of matches, and she withdrew it, examined it. On its back was an advertisement for Musky Lake Resort, Buzz Granton’s place.

Clenching her teeth, she dropped the matches back in her pocket and began gathering up leaves with both her frigid hands.

Chapter 72

Good meals, attractively served, go a long way toward keeping the family together.

—The New American Cook Book, 1941