Yet, despite that she hadn’t wanted it, and despite that she feared its birth as she feared her own death, this baby in her belly stretched and kicked as though it would swim its way up inside her heart and thus eclipse the totality of her love. He was working his magic on her the way that Jack had, but much earlier, before she had even seen his face. She worried that her heart could not stretch far enough to contain both boys. She worried that, one way or another, they would be the death of her.

With a deep sigh at the final chord of the Grave, Wilma launched into the Allegro di molto e con brio section of the sonata. Suddenly, Jack pounded his fists on the keys between her hands.

“Jack!” she squawked, stopping the piece. “Jack, no!”

“Jack play now!” he insisted, and struck the keys again. Then he looked dismayed: Why didn’t it sound as nice as when his mother played?

“Jack!” Wilma cried, grabbing his hands. “Gentle! Gentle!”

“Jack play!” he yelled, struggling to free his hands from hers.

“Not until you’re gentle!” she cried. She had always told him he could play when he was older; evidently, he had decided that this was the day. How would she stop him? When Jack made up his mind, there was just no arguing with him.

“Hello!” came a voice from the front hallway. Wilma’s stomach lurched; it was Gust’s voice. She heard the front door closing behind him, and then he was standing in the parlor door frame, his hat in his hands, his cheeks pink from the cold, snow melting from his boots. He had brought the clean smell of the winter air in with him.

“Gust,” she said, as Jack held up his arms and called out, “Uncle Gus!” struggling to get down from her lap. She let him go, relieved that the battle was to be deferred, flustered by Gust’s sudden appearance. She hadn’t seen him in ages.

Gust crouched down as Jack toddled toward him at top speed. “Are you giving your mother trouble, Jack Mickelson?”

“No,” Jack insisted, holding his arms out to his uncle. Gust picked him up and lifted him to the ceiling; Jack squealed with glee.

“You’d best not be, Jack, or your uncle Gust will get you,” Gust said, as he swung Jack down, set him gently on the floor, and tickled his sides. Jack shrieked and wiggled, unable to free himself of his uncle’s big hands, loving every bit of the attention.

“Oh, Gust,” Wilma said. “You get him so excited.”

Gust pinned Jack to the floor, letting the boy catch his breath. “Jack, why don’t you run and find Cook,” he said. “Have her get you a snack. Uncle Gust has to talk with your mother.”