As another red floret bloomed and faded, a cloud scooted past the moon, and a breeze rustled the leaves and Dolly’s hair. Her headache gone entirely now, she breathed as deeply as she could and leaned back against the house, raising her chin toward another bright burst. The handle of the screen door prodded her back. She turned toward it, and considered it. She glanced down the hill and across the street to Mrs. Fryt’s house; no light was on. To the other side was nothing but a row of fir trees and, past that, an open field.

She pulled on the handle. The screen door swung open without a peep. She grasped the glass knob of the storm door, and her stomach gave a little flip when the knob turned without resistance. If it isn’t locked, then I’m not really “breaking in,” she told herself, and she pushed hard on the door.

It was with greater trepidation that, some time later, Dolly quietly opened the door to her own dark bungalow. The fireworks must have ended ages ago; Dolly had forgotten to pay attention. She’d been entranced by the shadow-filled rooms of the Mickelson house: the specters of covered furniture, the gentle murmur of the breeze that came in through a broken dining room window. She’d even found dusty photographs on the mantel, though in the dimness she hadn’t been able to discern the shadowy faces.

“Doll?”

As Dolly’s eyes adjusted, she saw Byron rising from the living room chair.

“Doll, where the hell have you been?” He came toward her.

“Oh, Byron, I’m sorry. I—I couldn’t sleep, and I went out for a walk. I just—lost track of time.”

“I was worried to death about you, Doll,” he said. “And tonight of all nights, when there’s all these drunks out running around, for you to go out by yourself! You’ve got to think, sometimes, Doll. Jesus Christ.” He sighed deeply, then took her into his arms. He smelled of anxiety and beer. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” she said, her voice muffled in his chest.

“Now come to bed,” he commanded, and she followed him.

Chapter 7

THE MICKELSON HOUSE
502 W. First Street, Pine Rapids
July 4, 1897

After the baby—a boy—arrived, the unseemliness of Wilma’s body was unbearable.