I locked my wife in the pantry under the stairs

doors,” he says one night. “It begins when everyone learns whose feelings must be managed first.”

I think of Emily at the dinner table.

Mom’s tears.

My hand on the key.

“Yes,” I say.

The trial is long.

The town watches because the town had eaten Margaret’s casseroles, accepted her sympathy cards, praised her strength as a widow, and let her become sacred continue reading …