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winter, she was christened June Marie House. If Henry’s mother had any opinions about her granddaughter’s name, she did not voice them. Two years later, Henry and Sonja had a son, whom they named John in honor of Henry’s father. If this pleased Henry’s mother, she did not say so. However, by this time she no longer consumed alcohol, and many people noticed what a poor memory she had for what she had said and done during her drinking years.

8
    Harriet Weaver feared that if she didn’t draw a breath of cool air soon she would faint. She pushed herself up from the overstuffed chair and crossed the room. She was alone, so she didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to open the window.
    She lifted, she pressed, she thumped with the heels of her hands, but the window wouldn’t budge. Whoever had last painted the room had made no effort to keep paint from sealing the window shut. She returned to her chair, but instead of sitting back, she perched on the front edge and hung her head to the level of her waist.
    October had been unusually warm, but last night temperatures had dropped into the twenties, so perhaps when John Feeney, Attorney at Law, came into his office that morning he had turned the heat as high as it would go. But hadn’t any other client complained? Hadn’t Mr. Feeney or his receptionist noticed the heat? For that matter, where were they? Over an hour ago, the secretary escorted Harriet in here, a room with a small wooden table and two places to sit, this chunk of mauvy brown velour currently soaking up her sweat and a straight-backed chair that could have come from the same kitchen as the table. A reproduction of a threemasted schooner hung on the wall, but that was the room’s only decoration. On the table was a six-week-old copy of
Life
that Harriet had already perused. The only window looked out on nothing but the blank brick wall of a building across the alley, so Harriet did not even have a view of Sturgeon Bay’s main street to help her pass the time.
    Could they have forgotten her? Every time she put her ear to the door she heard nothing from the other side. She wasn’t sure what prevented her from opening the door. It might have been the fear that she would try the knob, find it locked, and then know she was truly trapped.
    Perhaps she was undergoing a procedure to which John Feeney subjected all clients who came to him seeking a way out of their marriage.
You say you want a divorce? Well, you sit in this room and sweat over what
that might mean.
Or was Harriet left alone so she could gather herself and think about how she might present her case? Then, when the time came, she could speak calmly and rationally to Mr. Feeney and not take up any of his time with her weeping.
    Yet when Harriet tried to imagine talking to anyone about her wish to divorce Ned, she inevitably found herself trying to answer, in her mind, the questions her mother would put to her.
    You say you still love the man, then why—
    It’s his philandering, Mother. For years I could ignore it, but somewhere I lost that power, and I don’t believe I can regain it. Besides, the girls are grown now. Their parents’ divorce might upset them, but their lives will remain intact.
    These affairs . . . they’re doubtless only matters of the flesh. Now, where
men are concerned—
    Please. Don’t lecture me on who or what men are. On this subject, I’m afraid I have more knowledge and experience than you.
    You know, don’t you, that you’d be walking away from fame, from greatness? From having your name in the art history books.
    Only as a footnote, Mother. And that has always impressed you more than me.
    Then you think you could be happy with an
ordinary
man?
    Don’t say that with such scorn, Mother. But I don’t deceive myself; I know I couldn’t be happy with any other man but Ned.
    Then why—
    Because I once was necessary to him, and now I’m not. Now I’m habit.
    At this point, Harriet could imagine her mother’s