He lit a cigarette. Over the water, visible above the trees, the sun was lowering toward evening, an orb of blinding golden light. He thought of Bertinelli, who was probably dead; of Buck Young, who certainly was; of the Marine with both legs blown off who’d given JJ the cigarette after the corpsmen had dropped him on the beach at Iwo. He wondered if that guy had made it. He thought of his uncle Chase, whose wartime medals and portrait had stared at JJ his whole childhood, asking, Will you be a hero like me? Will you be worthy of your name? Whose death still lurked at the back of JJ’s father’s eyes, and in the twitch of his grandmother’s upper lip. It lingered, too, in the family’s present palpable absences. His grandfather, whose grief-born lust had riven the family and, perhaps, hastened his own death; the half uncle, who had disappeared as quickly as he’d materialized; even JJ’s own sister, who evidently hadn’t been able to reconcile all her heart’s accounts, at least not yet. He thought of Dolly again, and hoped she would keep the house until the rest of them could get their acts together.

JJ’s leg ached. His heart ached. His head, too. But he was alive; love, hope, forgiveness—all were still possible, he supposed. As possible as the freckles on his mother’s nose, the sun sparkling on the water, or the warm skin of a pretty girl: all things that, at one time, had seemed the stuff of dreams. All the things that he had to think he had been fighting for.

He blew out smoke and grinned.

His grandmother smiled. “Doesn’t it feel like home here, JJ?” she said, sighing a little, reaching over to pat his knee. “Isn’t it nice?”

Chapter 89

THE MICKELSON COTTAGES
Water Street, Stone Harbor, Wisconsin
Tuesday, August 8, 1950

Later that evening, Harry found himself alone on the front porch of his mother’s cottage. The sun had sunk below the horizon an hour ago, but he’d had a devil of a time getting the kids to settle down; Anne was still in their room, reading to them, having chased Harry out, saying he got them too excited. His mother had gone to bed, too, and Jack, Mary, and JJ had gone home to the other cottage, the one that had belonged to Mary’s parents years ago.

The night air was pleasant, and Harry hoped Anne would soon join him. He felt like only half of himself when she wasn’t beside him. The kids, too, for that matter. He loved those nights back home in Superior when there were thunderstorms—those were the only times Anne allowed the children to pile on the big bed with them, everyone’s legs and arms tangling together, the tangible connection of warm skin on skin like proof of finally belonging, and no fooling this time.