But this time it was his wife, Mary Ann, who determined that the older children needed something extra special this Christmas, because the pathetic presents were going to be on the low-down this year, such as a story while looking up at the sky and finding that star of wonder, star of beauty bright. Intuition was now the new law of the land for this growing family, and your mother picked up on how to be the most charming, most bright, when the family most needed it.

And how was I to know that the daughter I named after Mother was to have the same figure, style, and attachment, and also, the same type of servile fear, if mostly contained, of how the jug was more of a vase than a common pitcher, depending on the company. And who might determine if or how the table settings were accurately measured. The placement of the containers, trays, and silverware in the cabinets, or the elaborate woodwork of the trim on the cupboards…and how exhausting it was for those who said it didn't matter.

After the sign of the cross, the prisoner calmed down. He unlaced his shoes and handed them to the priest, who put them in his satchel. Then the priest gave the man a swig from a flask.

Ellen taught him how to read and write in quick punches, how to say enough to not waste people’s time, as if preparing for battle.

The trick, they thought, was to keep the victim's spirits up. For example, to name a new baby after the sick one. Or, to deliver plenty of sunlight. To open windows on both walls. To make the room drafty. To remind the patient of the outdoors and the benefits of nature. To avoid dark until it was indeed time to rest or treat the migraine.

Privately, in the hallway, helping Finch with his coat and his books, Mary Ann suggested that maybe Finch had gone too far. Hank might have nightmares. He was starting to carve sailing vessels into the woodwork, drawing under the tables and chairs. He was stealing her stationery. The craft assignments alone, she reported, were draining her ink wells.

Pulling back the curtains, lifting her rear end, Mary Ann watched as Mr. Fowler greeted Mrs. Metcalfe and she returned to her breast, “What turn of events now?”

A few words were spoken by their Episcopalian minister to never lose sight that God’s plan is not for you to see, and to want less.

Although he wanted to tap on the boy's shoulder, whispering that they were all better off without her, he bit his lip. He picked up the baby, who promptly soiled him, and one by one added the rest of that household to his wagon, rehearsing what he was going to say for the women at the parsonage.

He was so attached to accounting and cleaning the equipment, in fact, that it concerned his mother, who asked her husband Henry to straighten the boy out to enjoy life, to stop with the grist inspections, or at least pretend to be more animated during the performances when he was around her friends.

He waved his hand as if now she was the bug going through the house. She knew the look. She lowered her chin. She picked at the dried flowers on the bedside table.

Gen. Marshall and Col. Bull were debating honey, its proper ventilation. Then, without taking a breath, they switched to the business of sheep, keeping feed scraps dry and the joy and regiment of salt.

He confessed, using that language, that he needed to prove a concept so that he could generate his own good news. When she smiled and nodded, business-like, he knew he could go on. He skipped out of the church as if moved by good news, more confident in Bath, New York, than ever.

I thought of Julien's pride in that surname, the decisions he made that forced him to drop it, his interest in playing in the theatres of Lafayette, Indiana, and the pride in all of us to want to move things and force color into us, upon us, around us. And drinking it into us.

Mary Ann knew how to act motherly and keep him close but knew not how to be. When she looked at the ceiling for an angel, Mrs. Metcalf came to the door, falling in.

He entered the Presbyterian Church with his mother, who was pure ice until Henry could improve the fire. As the reverend spoke, Henry fixated on the simple white walls, thinking about was his age.

Henry did not want the distractions of courting now and so he utilized 11-year-old Mary Ann Pratt to provide cover from the claws of her older cousins, some with bucked teeth and ruddy complexions.

This delay, Henry understood, would keep him from seeing what traffic was coming.

His father, the former sheriff, state senator, tavern owner, and now prosperous landowner, slumped to one side and slept, cradling his head on the inside of his elbow. Henry noticed how skinny his father’s legs were and covered them with the blanket next to them, which had remnants of grass and apple cores from their lunch. He picked the fragments off.

Coloring the lake blue must have been the final stroke of the artist’s brush, he thought, as he fell asleep, in a wash of paint sinking in.