When Jack was nine, he had once caught Wilma seated at the piano in post-sonata reverie, and he’d said, “What’s wrong, Mom?” She had resolved then not to play unless the parlor door was closed, shutting out the family, so they could not see that she was not what she had always pretended. She did not want them to perceive that mutinous part of her that yearned for escape. She did not want them to see that her love for them had been holding her hostage in this town, this house, for more than twenty years.

How dare those boys leave her now?

There was another knock at the door. “Mom?” It was Chase.

“Come in,” she said, turning eagerly.

Chase slid open the door and stood in its frame, his hands shoved in his pockets. His handsome, narrow face hadn’t changed a bit since he was about eight years old; he’d just kept growing taller and thinner, straight as a white pine.

“Is everything all right, Mom? Brita just about ran me over out there, and she was crying.”

Wilma turned her back to him, straightening her music. “She’s terribly upset about you boys leaving.”

“Oh,” he said. He sighed. “Are you coming in to dinner, Mom?”

When she looked at him again, her heart lurched, and she said, “You won’t go, will you, Chasey? You’re only telling Jack that to make him happy, and then you’ll tell him at the last minute that you won’t go?”

His blue eyes clouded over. “I’ve got to go, Mom,” he said. Then he grinned. “Heck, someone’s got to look out for Jack, and see he doesn’t get himself into trouble.”

She frowned, and cursed herself for not being more savvy. She might have been able to manipulate him, if she had controlled her outburst!

“We’ll be fine, Mom, don’t worry,” Chase said. “Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to let all the other boys do all the work, and us sit back and watch.” Still with his hands in his pockets, he gestured with his elbow for her to come on. “Dinner’s getting cold, Mom,” he said, and turned away.

Wilma shook her head again. Please, she prayed.

It struck her that God might not recognize her.

Please, she began again, trying to sound like herself. Not my boys.

She got to her feet. She would work on Jack. If Jack didn’t go, then surely Chase wouldn’t, either.

Steady, steady, she told herself. She walked to the parlor door, bracing herself on the doorjamb a moment before crossing the threshold and heading for the dining room.

Chapter 11

Surprise your husband with an occasional token of affection, whether it be an unexpected kiss or a little gift from the ten cent store or newsstand.

—“Making Marriage Work,”
Ladies’ Home Journal, January 1950

THE MICKELSON HOUSE
502 W. First Street, Pine Rapids
Wednesday, July 12, 1950