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She leaned down into the dirt and dug until there was a hole a few feet deep. She placed her feet in it.

I built this hole, she said, now what to put in it? She wandered in through the kitchen to the hall closet, opened it and saw the three sweaters she knit for Steven At War piled on the shelf by the sewing machine. There, she said, my sweaters. He won’t want these. No one wears sweaters here anyway.

She lugged all three sweaters outside and gently folded them, placing them on top of each other in the hole. She remembered knitting them, singing songs into the thread about Steven, pretending she was keeping him alive although she knew he was dead. He had to be dead. She was just more honest with herself than the other wives. With each purl and knit and knot, she felt the coldness of his stiffening legs, the draining of color from his cheeks, knew that never would she feel his forearms warm and veined around her waist, never again would his voice whisper praise into her ear.

She let the dirt dribble through her fingers over the pile of sweaters and it slid down the sides, slowly filling up the space, covering the colorful sleeves. Dead sweaters, she thought. Isn’t that funny, the way it turned out?

• • •

At the grocery store, the young man was wearing a gray button-up shirt and looked particularly handsome.

I was hoping you’d come in, he told her. I was thinking about you.

Really? His skin was so young, so new.

I get off in just a few minutes. He looked at his watch. Do you want to go on a walk or something? We’re right by the river and I could use a break before I go home.

She watched the bag-packer put the eggs haphazardly on top.

Sure, she said. Why not.

She packed the bags in her trunk again and after a beat, pulled out the bouquet of gardenias that she’d bought because they’d smelled so strongly. She waited for the young man, feeling like a bride. After a minute, he exited the store without his apron, let loose, looking younger.

This way, he said, come this way. Nice flowers.

She felt embarrassed and asked him to hold them for her, which he did, blooms down. They walked side by side and she was aware of his breathing, easy and confident, and aware of his lips. Lips, she thought. I really really miss lips.

The river leapt over stones, gurgling as rivers do. Its voice lowered and deepened as they walked and the young man told her about his life, about how this was his summer job away from college and one day he wanted to own an art supply store. Interesting, she told him, that will be an interesting store to own. You will buy many different colors of paint.

Yeah, he said. I like paint.

The river was speeding up. It made a rushing noise, rocks breaking up the water into foam.

I want to throw myself in, she thought. I want to crack up on those rocks.

She looked at the young man.

Can you swim? she asked.

Oh, yeah, he said. I’m a great swimmer.

Would you rescue me, she said, if I went in? Because I’m not a good swimmer.

Went in that? He pointed to the river just in case there was a choice he didn’t know about. It’s cold in that, he said, and fast. Not a good idea to go in there if you can’t swim.

But, like I said, she said, would you save me?

He seemed confused. This was not what he expected from her. I guess I’d try, he said, you know, if it was really dangerous. He took a step back. She walked to him.

I’m glad, she said.

He stepped down to a lower plain so he was suddenly her height and she went into his face and kissed those lips, reminded herself. They were so soft. She kissed him for a moment, and then she had to move away; they were too soft, the softness was murdering her.

Hey, said the young man, nice.

Mary sat down on the ground and felt like she could not possibly survive with something that soft in the world with her. The two of them could not exist together. No. The young man sat down, he wanted to kiss her again but she said, I have to go now. Did I tell you I was married?

No, he said, I didn’t know you were married.