Byron was sitting in his favorite chair in the living room, reading the newspaper, bathed in pleasant yellow lamplight, just as though nothing had happened. At the sight of him, it all came rushing up. She covered her mouth and raced for the bathroom, as he called after her, “Doll, what’s wrong? Where have you been? What’s the matter?”

She slammed the door behind her and dropped to her knees in front of the toilet, miserably sick, until it was all gone and she was left more sobbing than heaving.

Byron knocked on the door and asked if she was all right, but she couldn’t bring herself to answer him. He asked again. She pressed her fingers over her closed eyes. The smell in the bathroom was horrible, the taste in her mouth worse. She swore she would never drink whiskey again. She felt like a different person now from the one who’d admired herself in the mirror earlier in the evening. She felt like the worst creature alive.

It was a long while later when she finally wobbled out. Byron was sitting in the darkened hallway, leaning his back against the wall. He scrambled to his feet, but she lunged for the bedroom, locking the door behind her, deaf to his knocking, his supplications. Finally, he went away, which was satisfying, but also made her cry.

She lay awake a long time, clutching the sheet in her fists, staring up at the ceiling, missing the heat of Byron’s body next to her, and flinching with rage at every noise she heard outside the bedroom door. She heard clanks in the kitchen, and realized he was picking up the shards of the plates she had broken. Then there was the sound of water running; amazingly, of scrubbing. Later, she heard him open the linen closet, then snap a sheet open, making up the couch. It was all she could do to keep from screaming. Finally, the noises ceased—he must have fallen asleep.

Sometime later, she, too, surrendered to a fitful sleep. She dreamed of JJ touching her face, of Byron turning his back on her, of sitting alone on the landing in the Mickelson house, choking on her tears.

Chapter 83

Try to figure out why he needs the other woman…. Don’t be difficult, no matter how provoked you are. Be more cheerful and attractive than usual.

—“The Other Woman Is Often the Creation of the Wife,”
Look, August 2, 1949

HOME OF BYRON AND DOLLY MAGNUSON
406 Jefferson Avenue, Pine Rapids
Saturday, August 5, 1950