The same fascination with herself that had caused Myhrra to get married, was the same that caused her to get divorced. That is, she saw the doorknob turn and she decided to get married; she was sure Mike would come back to her and she got divorced. They fought over everything, even the coat hangers in the front hall. But this was not done for the reason it seemed to be done, but for the exact opposite reason. The more she took coat hangers, the more Mike kicked her in the bum; the more she scratched his Legion dart trophies, and buried them where he’d never find them again, the more she actually did not want to get divorced at all. They fought They hauled Byron by the arms, standing out on the street while people looked on, and Byron screeched that they were hauling his limbs off. The more they fought, the more it seemed that they wanted nothing to do with each other. And yet they needed each other as much for the divorce as they did for the marriage.

Now Byron was bringing his friends home and saying he hated her in front of them. He walked about with a dark expression on his face. Though he was only young he scared her and she would always give in to him. He would always make a comment at her expense to make his friends laugh. Then they would go into the bedroom together. He would say: “Hi Mom, how’s tits?” Or something like that.

She worried that those friends measured him by how many rude comments he could make to his mother, who was loving to him and had never done him anything wrong.

Myhrra was seeing the priest now as often as possible. With this new crisis in her life, with this feeling of being alone, she needed a priest to talk to. Father Garret, Allain’s brother’s youngest, a tall, unnaturally thin man, was the priest who counselled her at this time. Using a measure of his sociology classes from university, and his own desire to be looked upon as understanding, along with his abundant dislike of the type of men on the river, especially men like his uncle and Joe Walsh, he gave Myhrra a sympathetic ear. After each visit, Myhrra had the feeling of being pure and good – simply because she had talked to the priest, who of course believed in the “new” church – which she considered much more open. Myhrra liked the fact that people saw her coming and going from the priesthouse or talking to “Father” in the yard.

But still, Mike was remarrying and no one could change that. The priest finally told her this one night when she went to see him.

Everything Father Garret said after that remark took on a different meaning. Instead of liking her, he did not. Instead of being sympathetic, he was jealous of her. Instead of being sensitive, he was filled with that terrible piety. Suddenly she remembered him sitting on a bait box as a boy, out on the wharf. She remembered she was seventeen at the time, and they were playing “Rock around the Clock” and “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.” He had just come from church with his mother, and his feet were covered in dust, and they were gossiping while the sun hit his eyes. Men walked about him, working, their clothes dirty and their faces strong in the wind. He looked over at Myhrra. He was a tall gangly boy. There was some hay on his left shoe.

All of this she saw again in a second, as she stood in his office off the main hallway, and she now felt that they had lied to each other right from the start. That is, she had over-emphasized all of her problems, and he had tried to show a sympathy which he could not really give.

Myhrra left the priesthouse. She walked out into the cold. She lit a cigarette and then another. She smelled burnt paper and railway ties, and she remembered all of the years she was going to go away on one of those trains. Suddenly she cried, and for some reason began to curse Rita.

“Best friend,” she said. “Best friend – what friend do I have?” And at this moment she ran toward home in the wind.

Myhrra got Byron ready to go to the wedding. She got him a new white shirt, and found his suit was so small for him he wouldn’t be able to wear it And though she had made comments about Mike and how he was supposed to give her money for child support, it was she herself who went downtown and paid for Byron’s new suit. Then she had to get him new shoes.

She wanted Byron to look his best. The night before the wedding, Myhrra had all his clothes laid out. She had taken his new shoes out of the box, and put them at the foot of the bed, and had laid his pants over the chair.

It was a clear night. The air smelled flat and cold. In the trailer, there were little drafts the source of which she hadn’t been able to find, no matter how often she’d gone about touching the walls.

The next morning when Byron got up he said his egg wasn’t cooked right. A little of the yolk was running and he wouldn’t eat it This idea of being pampered whenever he had to do something gave Byron the edge on his mother.

“I don’t feel like eating the egg,” he said.

“Well, you have to eat it.”

“Well, I’m not going to eat it.”

Myhrra, who was drinking a coffee, and looking out at the cold, flat, and somehow at that moment spiteful-looking field, told him that he’d better eat it. The smell of the egg, the flat sky, the barren field – all of this depressed her.

He upset the egg and stomped out of the room.

Myhrra didn’t bother with him. She got ready and went out to the car and started it.

But when she came back in Byron had his old clothes on and was feeding his guppies.

“I have to drive you up to the church, Byron – you have to be there in a half-hour.”

“Not going.”

“You are so going.”

“Not.”

“Are so – you’re an usher for christsake.”

Myhrra, who hadn’t wanted the wedding to happen, and hadn’t wanted Byron to go to it, now found herself struggling to get him ready.

Finally she told him he wasn’t going to the wedding – and once she told him he wasn’t going, he got ready, and ran out the door towards the car, while she followed him with his cuff links and a brush in her right hand, taking swipes at his hair.

When they got into the car Byron held his arms up for her to put the cuff links on, and as she doubled his cuffs and yanked his sleeves down he looked at her.

“You haven’t fixed my hair – you just made it all messed up,” Byron said to her.

How could he say what he did to her, she who loved him more than anyone else – who had given birth to him?