Seated at the piano in the parlor, Wilma held little Jack in her lap, wondering if the baby she was expecting would like music as much as Jack did. After Jack’s birth and that dreadful Independence Day when she had fainted in the street, her loneliness for her piano had become so unbearable that, on the fifth of July that year, she had dragged herself to the parlor and begun plunking out scales and minuets. Her hands immediately felt like themselves again; clarity was restored to her mind. Getting out of bed each morning, getting dressed, completing her unavoidable duties, and then, finally, going to the parlor, became a habit; she forgot how difficult such things had been.

In the beginning, it was the maid Terese who had insisted on bringing Jack into the parlor each time Wilma played, laying him on a quilt on the floor while Wilma lost herself in the music that her hands knew. He was a surprisingly appreciative audience, cooing and babbling happily, almost as though he was singing along, until, without fail, he would suddenly squall. She would rise from the piano, walk to the door, and pull the call bell string to summon Terese. “He’s hungry, Mrs. Mickelson,” Terese would almost always say when she appeared, picking up the baby and handing him to Wilma. “And I can’t help him with that.”

One day, when Jack began to fuss, Wilma made up her mind to handle him all by herself. She rose from the piano and approached him tentatively. She knelt beside him and picked him up. The density of his little body always astonished her. She felt his bottom. Dry, thank goodness. (She wasn’t quite ready to handle that on her own; even in the night, Terese was always the one to change him.) Hungry, then. “Are you hungry, Jack?” she whispered. She had not addressed him directly since before he was born. She tried a smile. He stopped fussing; their eyes met. It was the first time she had really looked at him, and she was surprised by the wisdom and the fortitude in his blue eyes. Then, his face screwed up as if he would cry. “All right, all right,” she told him, pressing him to her and stroking his soft hair the way she had seen Terese do. She stood and walked to the sofa with him, and undid her bodice so he could nurse. For the first time, she actually didn’t mind him tugging at her. She watched him closely: How satisfied he looked, with his eyes squeezed shut. How utterly satisfied! And because of her! She choked back tears, feeling herself succumb to the willful pressure of his tiny fist, his strong mouth, weaving his life irrevocably with hers.