Ben was embracing her, holding her up.

“I don’t like where they put that bed, it’s too close to the TV,” she said, and they talked about it, and Ben unlocked the casters and moved it along the wall so she could see out the window if she was propped on the pillows. They moved the recliner so that Mr. Nickelsen could sit more beside his wife, like before, to keep him from staring at her, she said. Ben carried some of the displaced furniture into the other rooms and the place looked less cluttered.

“You changed these sheets,” she said, sliding onto the bed, breathing heavily, suddenly tired. “I’m surprised you could find anything clean to put on it. Good gracious. Look at everything.”

She was pleased that the house was cleaner, and told Ronny she did not like mess and she was embarrassed that he had to see the house dirty as it was. She got sick again pretty soon after that, and Ben tended her. This time she seemed less reluctant to ask for help and called for the pan when she first felt the nausea start. Ben was ready beside her when she needed someone to hold the pan and her hair, to wipe her mouth and ease her to the pillow. Exhausted when it was done. Ronny carried the pan away and left Ben to stay with her. He sat calmly at the bedside, hand on her thin shoulder. As far as Ronny could tell, Ben was all right, no sign of more turmoil than a person would expect.

Wife and Husband

THE LATE AFTERNOON SETTLED INTO A heavy kind of peace, the house empty except for Ronny and his tidying, the drift of voices from the backyard, Mrs. Nickelsen laughing in bell tones, a deeper undercurrent of Ben, sun breaking through the clouds, birdcalls. They had gone outside again to sit. She was fussing because the yard needed mowing, and Ben said he would take care of it tomorrow. Ronny relaxed, strain subsiding; strangers made him nervous, especially strangers like Ben’s parents, whom he wanted to know better and yet feared to face. He focused on the tasks he was doing, the scrubbing of a pot in which someone had burned soup, the folding of dry towels and the search for the linen closet to which they should be carried.

Mr. Nickelsen opened the back door, puffing out breath as if he had exerted himself greatly, carrying brown bags of groceries from the car. He waved off Ronny’s offer to help and told him to keep doing whatever it was he was doing—so he went back to putting laundry away. Mr. Nickelsen made one more trip to his truck and returned with a bouquet of flowers. “I need to set these in some water,” he said, and poked through cabinets until he found a vase.

“Those are pretty. You got those at the grocery store?”

“Oh, yeah. They sell near about everything down there these days. She likes these flowerdy things, you know. So I thought I would bring her some.” He was blushing, a bit embarrassed, but still pleased by his gesture.