We got a lot of sympathy from the town and so much food that Mother bought a freezer, which she told Sears to deliver to Grandma’s because the wiring in our house was old and a freezer would blow a fuse. We had enough freezable casseroles to last for a year, but occasionally Mother would fix macaroni and cheese for Jarrell or make a meal from Chef-Boyardee. She quit going to church, which Grandma said was only temporary, but sent us every Sunday, before she went back to bed. During the week, she volunteered to teach new routines to the high school majorettes and joined the Junior Women’s Club, planting flowers and shrubs in front of the library, the town hall and the covered bridge, which had been condemned for traffic but was being preserved as an historic monument. Grandma Lizzie kept us while Mother was out, and came over twice a day, morning and evening. For a while, Mother had trouble getting out of bed.

            Months passed and soon my dad had been dead a year. Mother still grieved, but she’d stopped crying at night. The boys didn’t remember Dad, and as for me, I was forgetting him, too, especially as his picture wasn’t being plastered on the front page of newspapers anymore. But something was wrong with Mother. She’d never been the talker Grandma was, but now she scarcely spoke.  There were other things. One day she was sluggish and swollen eyed, the next day she was quick and nervous, jumping at every sound. A new wind had swept through our screen door, causing Mother to spill out the words, “I’m bored.”