The tears ebbed; she caught her breath, blew her nose on the tissue Martha brought. She looked at their daughter and thought to cry again, but she’d chosen her path in life, with Harry and Martha, and there was no room for self-pity here. Not now. There was too much to do.

She sniffed, regaining control, smiling weakly. “I have to call Mr. Simmons.”

She dialed the black phone and counted the rings. Mr. Simmons answered.

“Fern Mannes, Mr. Simmons. Harry has died.”

She listened.

“That will be fine. Thank you.” She hung up and turned around. Martha was gone.

Fern walked into the bedroom, and found Martha sitting on the edge of the bed, just as she had moments ago. She was touching his face, his eyes, his nose, his lips. Fern just watched, leaning against the doorway. Is this the first time she’s ever touched him? This little girl who now had gray in her hair and wrinkles on her face? The tears pushed again, but she held them back.

“He’s quiet,” Martha said.

“Yes.”

Fern rode into town with Mr. Simmons and his aide, with Harry in the back and a metal box of papers on her lap. The black car paused at the curb outside the bank, and Fern got out, said a few words to Mr. Simmons. Then he drove off and she went inside. An hour and a half later, she came out and walked across the street to Dave McRae’s store, then to the post office, and the dress shop, and each store in turn. The more places she went, the faster she began to walk, the more intense was her mission. As she walked out of the last shop in Morgan, she was exhausted. She stood on the curb, perspiring, breathing heavily with the exertion of the emotional work she’d been doing.

She stood there for a moment, leaning against a street-lamp, looking down the street with its parking meters and cars, with the neon signs and fancy mannequins in the windows, and remembered how it was that one hot and dusty day forty-nine years ago when she walked through this street as Harry’s bride. She could feel the heat, smell the dust as it caked inside her clothes, in her throat. She was small then, thin, and carried two heavy black bags, and she was so in love with her man. What had happened to that love? Nothing, really, love was love.

Fern turned down the street and began the trek home. Her feet ached. A car pulled up next to her and Dave McRae looked out at her. “Give you a lift, Fern?”

“No thanks, Dave. I need to walk a little more.”

“Pretty hot day.”

“I’m all right.”

“Okay. Take it easy.” He drove off, leaving Fern standing there, sweltering in the heat, drowning in her memories.