Chapter 87

None of us can put into words why we fly. It is something different for each of us. I can’t say exactly why I fly but I know why as I’ve never known anything in my life.

—“At the Twilight’s Last Gleaming,” by WASP Cornelia Fort, published in Woman’s Home Companion, July 1943

THE MICKELSON HOUSE
502 W. First Street, Pine Rapids
Tuesday, August 8, 1950

Though Dolly avoided looking at her watch, she was conscious of the lowering light outside. This would be the first evening in the entire history of her marriage that she had not prepared supper for Byron. Well, not counting the once or twice that he had taken her out for a fish fry—but for her not to even show up for supper? Unthinkable! Despite that she was contemplating leaving him, she was so nervous about committing her first wholly deliberate act of rebellion that, before she had even realized she was gnawing on her nails, she had completely ruined what was left of her manicure.

She replaced the framed snapshot of Nick and Elissa on the mantel, thinking, But if Byron’s sorry like John was—if he promises to give that woman up—then what should I do?

She examined the wedding portrait of John and Wilma again; it certainly appeared that Wilma had been a reluctant bride. Dolly couldn’t help but think of the Byron she’d fallen in love with, the one at the Battle Point town beach with water sparkling on his eyelashes when he grinned. She thought about JJ, too. Why had she been so drawn to him, despite his destructive habits, despite her love for Byron? Was it because JJ didn’t hide from her?

Was it because he had told her the truth?

Why was it so difficult for her to tell the truth, even to herself? Why could she not face up to her own inadequacies?

Maybe there was a reason for Byron’s infidelity. Maybe she really had been deficient in some way, some way that she was too blind and headstrong to recognize. Should she at least give him a chance to try to explain?

Should she try to explain herself to him?

Unfortunately, the thought of it again made her feel like throwing up. She went downstairs to the parlor and sat at the piano, uncovering the keys, pressing them down one by one so gently that they barely made a sound.

Then, a knock at the front door startled her. Her heart thumped into overdrive. She jumped to her feet and looked at her watch. 6:35. Who on earth could be knocking at the Mickelsons’ door, she wondered, but of course, she knew.

Despite herself, she was happy to see him, but the feeling was brief, as he pushed his way past her. “Where is he?”

“What do you mean?”