Fred shifted slightly at his place across the table, but didn’t otherwise respond. He wasn’t really meant to. Lena would have been taken aback, almost offended, if her husband presumed to add his two cents to this subject. A Brale man – and by this point, 1952, the family’s BC branch was Brale through and through, could scarcely believe in those early Regina decades, would vigorously deny birth in some dark European land – a Brale man was looked upon to perform certain functions within marriage without venturing into, say, its psychological spheres. He could hold a job and handle money, sire yet not necessarily raise children, carve the roast and shovel the sidewalk, maybe attempt a joke after a drink or two. A woman’s realm was equally prescribed. Wasn’t just such clear division of territory the key to a successful marriage? Whatever could be said about the family, matrimony-wise, no one could throw a single divorce in its face.

Oh, there was the time that Lil had up and offed to the Herit-age Hotel in the next town without Stan and without a word of warning. Calling long-distance from the Nelson post office, she told Lena that she could view the lake from her hotel window, pretty as a picture and blue as blue. She’d bring postcards back for everyone. (As if they hadn’t all been to Nelson for lakeside picnics more times than they could count. As if Lil were in exotic India instead of just fifty miles away.) No, it wasn’t a sudden journey; no, she hadn’t suffered another of her spells. She felt fine. Together with Stan she’d planned this trip well in advance, as a kind of second honeymoon, except with one thing and an-other she’d forgotten to bring him along. But she couldn’t keep rattling on, this call was costing, and she had a supper date with a travelling widow she’d met in the Heritage lobby not half an hour ago. Menus and candlelight and linen napkins awaited. Since she found herself here in the Queen City, alone or not, she might as well stay a night or two, she guessed.

Lil returned home a week later full of tourist tales and boosting Nelson like its first native daughter. It isn’t called the Queen City for nothing, she reminded Lena half a dozen times, and re-ferred repeatedly to an enchanting performance of Charley’s Aunt put on in the Capitol Theatre by a touring theatrical company out of Seattle. She seemed surprised that her sister was miffed by such remarks. Why the fuss? Hadn’t she called every afternoon she was away? Hadn’t she thanked Lena for feeding Stan?

Of course Lena had her brother-in-law over to the house on each of those seven evenings. She couldn’t let the man starve. His wife’s absence didn’t seem to cause Stan any great concern, nor interfere with his appetite. He did express mild surprise to hear of any second honeymoon. But he was always Mr. Affable. On the whole, it looked like he could have taken or left his brief vacation from marriage.

"That time Stan and I separated," Lil reminisced ever after, like some worldly California woman. "It did us a mountain of good. I’d advise the same for every couple."

Well, that was Lil all over, right up to the end. (It was still hard to believe both she and Stan were gone. And now Frank.) Nothing less – and plenty more, plenty worse – might have been expected of her.

Annie was another kettle of fish entirely.

She’s the sensible one, they always said.

(The sisters might as well have been branded. Responsible Fan. Touchy Lena. Cut-up Lil. Sensible Annie. Branded like cows, a harsh, unfamiliar voice rasped inside Lena.)

There was likely a good reason for any of Annie’s actions, a clear cause you could put your finger on and comprehend. Maybe Frank’s death in early spring, one too many in too brief a span of time, had set her off course. Always the quietest sister, she did grow more silent during the season that followed her husband’s funeral. Not brooding, exactly. Nor melancholy. Her loss hadn’t come as any kind of shock; Frank’s passing proved no surprise to anyone. He lingered far longer than he had hope of, considering his condition. (It was the bottle, but no need to mention that.) In a way, they all finished their mourning before Frank was in the grave – though afterward Annie wore her black and faithfully visited his plot, next to Stan’s and Lil’s, up on the Rossland Road. Fred drove the two sisters there on Sundays. (Though Frank’s old Ford remained in the alley behind the house, presumably in running order, Annie didn’t drive. None of the sisters ever had; it wasn’t a skill they would think to acquire.) The cemetery was pretty at that time of year, before the heat burned the hills brown, with a long narrow view down the valley, a glimpse of two turns of the river below. Annie would replace the previous week’s pansies with fresh ones cut from her early garden. Frank had liked those purple blossoms best, she said – though Lena couldn’t picture him favouring any kind of flower; he wasn’t that kind of man. Annie sugared the water in the grave’s little metal cup so the stems would keep. A faraway look in her eyes, she licked her sweetened fingers.