The specific process of learning how to face marital conflicts squarely must be carried out in a marital relationship by the couple themselves. There is no magic involved; it is a procedure of constantly trying to discover the truth about one’s self, the spouse, and the relationship, no matter how distasteful that truth may be.

—Marriage (a textbook), 1949

HOME OF BYRON AND DOLLY MAGNUSON
406 Jefferson Avenue, Pine Rapids
Tuesday, August 8, 1950

By Tuesday morning, Dolly hated the sight of herself in the mirror. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep; her forehead had broken out. Even her hair seemed lackluster, no matter how much she brushed it.

She’d been going through the motions, these last couple of days, trying to decide what to do. Saturday night after Byron had gone out and she’d finished cleaning up the kitchen, she went to bed, locking the bedroom door so that Byron would have to sleep on the couch again. Sunday morning, they went to church without speaking to each other; Dolly also managed to avoid the women of the Ladies Aid. Back home, she referred to her notes to determine Byron’s least favorite entrée, and departed from her meal plan with a salmon puff for their Sunday dinner. After picking his way through it, he went out “fishing with Roy”;she stayed home and read The Beautiful and Damned, smoking so many cigarettes that the air in the living room turned blue and hazy. When Byron came home, he told her again that he was disappointed in her. She went to the bedroom and locked the door; he didn’t even try to pursue her. Monday had proceeded similarly, the low point being when she served him warmed-over salmon puff for supper.

She knew she was supposed to be trying to win back his affections, but she still wasn’t sure if she wanted him back at all.

She had to keep up appearances, though, at least until she decided what to do. So, on Tuesday afternoon, she put on her black sleeveless dress, along with a great deal of careful makeup, and, after smoking three cigarettes in quick succession, set out for Mrs. Fryt’s, her sewing basket on her arm. She couldn’t help but be disgusted: The weather was cheerful, the flowers in everyone’s gardens chipper. The way she felt, it should be storming, with looming gray skies, bunnies and squirrels scurrying for cover.

As she tramped up the steps to Mrs. Fryt’s, Dolly was queasy at the thought of facing the ladies. She’d been tempted to skip the meeting, but she feared her absence might only exacerbate gossip about her. If the ladies didn’t already know that something was amiss, Dolly didn’t want her behavior to betray it. But then, if Mrs. Fryt had seen her going to the Mickelson house late Friday night, or Saturday, she was already sunk.