DONNIE TURNER

Donnie stared at Evelyn’s back, her muscles stiff and unyielding through her sweater. They ate an early dinner. Then Evelyn simmered his favorite chicken stew with mushrooms and carrots and dill for the next day. Probably because she was planning to do something awful at the memorial park dedication the next morning. Evelyn had a habit of being really thoughtful and sweet before acting in a way she knew he would hate. He thought of it as an inoculation of niceness, like giving a vaccine to prevent his anger or disappointment at her actions to come.

Despite the stew, he just couldn’t help himself. “You’re not going to that thing tomorrow, are you?”

Evelyn didn’t turn around. “I don’t know. Haven’t decided.”

“Please don’t, honey. It’ll just make you miserable.”

“I’m already miserable.”

“Don’t you remember the last time you attended a program about the state hospital, when that artist blared Bach from the ruins of Old Main? It sent you to bed for a week.”

“That was twenty years ago.”

“You think this’ll be different?” Donnie hugged her stiff back, the muscles rigid and unbending. “How can I help?”

“You can’t.” She wriggled out of his arms. “I’m going to take a walk.”

“Now?” He pointed to the clock on the microwave. “It’s almost nine.”

She touched his cheek. “Maybe I can walk off this bad mood.”

Donnie stood in the doorway, shivering in the chill night breeze. He watched Evelyn pick up a small envelope, trying to hide it from him, and shove it into her jacket pocket. He had a bad feeling about that envelope, whatever it was. He had a very bad feeling about tonight and tomorrow morning and all of it. And having his wife walking through their dark neighborhood with a who-knew-what skulking around only increased his dread.