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layscattered across the floor. A white bishop, stranded beneath the window, rocked gently over the floorboards, caught in a breeze. As she closed the door behind her, her father did not look up.
    “Papa, are you okay?”
    At the sound of her voice, the kitchen door swung open and Pearl entered with an apron hanging limply from her neck. Behind her, the kitchen was dark, and she looked at Juliet’s father, shaking her head.
    “Delaying won’t help anything, Philippe.”
    Her father patted at his pockets until from the side of his trousers he extracted a folded beige piece of paper.
    “That says nothing, Philippe.”
    Pearl led Juliet to the sofa and drew in an enormous breath. “This afternoon we received a telegram from the War Department informing us that Tuck . . . has gone missing in action.”
    “Missing,” repeated Juliet. Her mouth felt suddenly dry. She had heard about such cases, had tried, at times, to prepare herself for such an eventuality, but now her thoughts were scampering, trying to make sense of this word that seemed to say everything and nothing. “So this means he’s a prisoner ?” she asked.
    Pearl cast her eyes at Juliet’s father, who gazed at his empty chessboard. “They can’t say what happened,” said Pearl. “The telegram means they simply have no idea.”
    “Prisoner is a decent guess,” her father said.
    Pearl glanced all around the room, as though somewhere in the corner or behind the sofa she might find assistance. Finally, she cleared her throat. “It is important that we not give up hope, but also that we begin to accept the possibility that we might not see Tuck again.”
    “They said missing . They tell you when they’re killed. It’s called KIA. I hear these things in school. I’m not living on the moon.”
    “I understand,” Pearl conceded.
    “So he’s still alive, but missing.”
    “Alive indeed,” her father said emptily, and Juliet saw that a tear had welled in his eye.
    “Let me see that.” Juliet grabbed the paper and studied the words. It was a Western Union telegram, with a few sentences typed in purple. Tuck had been missing in Italy since November 11. “If other information or further details are received,” it ended, “you will be promptly notified.”
    “I know this is frightening,” Pearl said. “I know you think I am being cruel, you think I am being heartless. You want me to tell you that everything will be okay. You think that is love, that is kindness. So that you can grasp at little shreds of hope for years, always listening for the doorbell, always feeling your heart pound as you approach the mailbox, thinking, maybe today, then fighting back tears as you go to sleep each night because you still know nothing. . . . Child, I am telling you a very ugly truth to save you from unending despair. Let us slowly begin to shed our tears, to grieve your brother.” At this, Pearl set her hand on Juliet’s arm but Juliet pulled away.
    “Don’t go digging my brother’s grave just because you lost your husband.”
    There was a moment of silence. Then Pearl stood, smoothing her apron. “You’re right, I am sure he is fine,” she said, with such determined flatness that it scared Juliet more than anything else.
    “I’ll be in my room,” Juliet said quietly, heading slowly up the staircase. All feeling, all life seemed to be draining out of her. In the hallway, she opened her brother’s door. The room was dark and shrunken. She heeled off her shoes and padded across the carpet where a year and a half earlier she had sprawled on her stomach watching Tuck remove a picture of her from a glass frame, set it between two folded shirts, and place it carefully at the top of his duffel.
    “We’ll still be inseparable,” he’d said with a grin.
    Juliet now climbed into his bed and lay very still.

    Juliet remained at home for several days, seated at her desk, rereading Tuck’s letters. The paper gave her comfort—he’d touched those