It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, and the small store bustled with holiday shoppers. Mary’s father, Lars, had taken the day off to help and was wrapping Cu-tee-pies in tissue paper at a table set up in the back. Mary and Curtis sat down to help him.

“Mary says you’re a painter,” Lars said to Curtis.

“He’s had a show,” Mary offered.

Lars waved a piece of tape from his fingers. “Is there money in a thing like that?” he asked Curtis.

“There can be,” Curtis said. “But not usually, no.”

Mary’s father shook his head sadly and held up a Cu-tee-pie waiting to be wrapped, a little girl in an elf costume clutching a daisy.

“Guess how much my wife makes on this thing,” Lars said. “Don’t guess, I’ll tell you. Thirty bucks retail, and fifteen of it goes right into the till.”

“Those are excellent margins,” Curtis observed.

“It’s a racket, if you ask me. Listen,” Lars said, and lowered his voice, “I’d like to help out. Let me buy one of your paintings.”

“You really don’t need to do that, Dad,” Mary protested. “You haven’t even seen them. They might not be the sort of thing you like.”

Lars shrugged amiably. “Just pick the one that you think I’d like best.”

“We saw the camper,” Mary said neutrally.

“Oh, that,” Lars said, and cleared his throat. “We got it out of the Pennysaver. Your mother has ideas about going out West. When we’ll have the time I just don’t know.”

Mary’s mother returned with Chinese food from the restaurant next door. Like her husband, Gretchen was very tall, and looked much younger than she actually was. She wore her hair in a long loose ponytail that fell down her back, and this afternoon was dressed in a denim skirt and a sweatshirt embroidered with teddy bears. Mary adored her mother with a hopeless affection, like an unrequited crush. She understood this feeling was common in middle children, as Mary was, but there was also a story. Mary’s mother had spent her first ten years of life in an orphanage in Grand Forks, North Dakota, run by the Sisters of Mercy. Though Gretchen was the first to say that it hadn’t been a bad place at all, the experience of growing up in an institution-of eating, bathing, and sleeping in large groups presided over by kindly old women who meant well but did not always remember her name-had left her with a view of childhood that was sentimental and general. She seemed to draw little distinction between Mary and her older brother and younger sister-often she mistook one for the other, and once had driven Mary to a guitar lesson that was, in fact, her brother Mark’s-and nothing could dissuade her from the opinion that her children, who had clothes to wear, food to eat, and a house to live in, were perfectly contented at all times. As she grew, Mary came to see that her mother was merely replicating the impersonal, well-intentioned affections of the nuns who had raised her. But still she longed for more; she longed to be known.

Gretchen served them noodles in brown sauce on paper plates. “So,” she began cheerfully, “am I to understand you two are no longer roommates?”

“We are roommates,” Mary said.

“A mechanical question,” Gretchen went on. “How do you date someone you live with? I’ve tried to imagine how this works.”

“I just bought one of Curtis’s paintings,” Lars said, changing the subject.

Gretchen looked up, as if the painting were there to see. “Really? Which one?”

“I don’t know yet,” Lars said, and waved his chopsticks around. “It’s a surprise.”

They ate their lunch, then opened their fortune cookies and read them aloud. Mary’s read, simply, “You will come into money,” and in the parking lot, Gretchen gave her a fifty she had taken from the register.

The bill was soft in Mary’s hand. “Doesn’t it confuse the books, just pulling money from the register like that?”

“The books, the books,” Gretchen said wearily. “I am the books.” She hugged Mary close, then Mary and Curtis together. “Be happy together, children.”

By the time they returned to Twig, darkness had fallen, and the sky over the alleyway behind the shoe store was thick with stars. Mary dressed for work in black pants and one of Curtis’s white dress shirts, and put on her heavy coat to walk the three chilly blocks to the Norway. The insides were dim and smoky, and the tables were crowded with students from the college, back from their Thanksgiving holiday and now optimistically drunk. Mary’s favorite customer was a man named Phil, a rail-thin alcoholic with a walrus moustache yellowed from smoking, who got by on small checks from the state. Phil lived in a tiny clapboard house by the grain elevator, and his only companions were his cats, whom he had named after different places in Vietnam: Saigon, Da Nang, Haiphong. Each night, Phil came in and put seven dollars on the bar, and drank till the money was gone: a total of six beers at a dollar a can-Pabst Blue Ribbon, or Grain Belt-and a dollar tip for Mary. This was very little, considering how much time he spent at the bar, but Mary didn’t mind, and if Phil was still sober he sometimes helped her clean up, telling her stories about his cats, or about the war in Southeast Asia, in which he had not fought.

Mary said hello to Phil, took an apron and serving tray from behind the bar, and went to a table of four boys who had just come in.

“Anybody here even close to twenty-one?”

Grumbling, the boys produced a variety of documents. Most had been falsified in one way or another, but the unwritten rule of the Norway was that an honest try got you one drink. Then Mary looked at the last card.

“What’s this?” said Mary. “It’s a library card.”

“The age is right there,” the boy explained.

Some dates had been typed, poorly, on the bottom of the card.

“So it is,” Mary said.

“I’ll have my usual,” the boy said. “A whiskey sour.”

Mary flipped the card onto the table. “Au revoir, mon enfant,” she said. “Begone, junior.”

The boy returned his library card to his wallet. “Fine. Give me a Coke if that’s how you’re going to be.”

“I will if you ask me nicely,” Mary said.

The boy rolled his eyes, and his friends snickered. “Mother, may I have a Coke?”

Mary paused and cocked her hip. “You may,” she said.

Later in the evening, Mary took her coffee break at the bar with Phil, who was just finishing up his fourth Blue Ribbon.

“How’s Curtis?” Phil said. It was Curtis, in fact, who had banned Phil’s cats from the bar. Whenever Phil asked this question, the bitterness of the experience was in his voice.

“Not so bad. He just sold a painting,” Mary said.

Phil shook his head and smoked. “Truthfully, I sometimes wonder if that boy’s good enough for you.”

Mary helped herself to one of his cigarettes. “It’s not like we’re getting married, Phil.”

“I’ll tell you something I heard.” Phil glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice to a gravelly whisper. “You know that college? On the hill? Kids there are so rich they’ll throw away the keys of a brand-new Mercedes. Just pitch them in the trash.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Mary said.

Phil frowned into the broad mirror above the bar. “I watched my buddies die, and for what?”

“I went there, Phil,” she said.

Phil nodded gravely. “So you know,” he said.

In January the temperature fell, as it always did, and the snow piled up in enormous mounds around the town of Twig. Distances seemed to grow longer in the cold, and at night the stars shone hard and pure, like chips of ice, as Mary made her way through the silent streets between her apartment and the Norway. At the end of the month Mary came down with something that felt like the flu; she was tired all the time, and when she wasn’t sick to her stomach, her mouth was filled with the taste of metal. Curtis and Russell took care of her, bringing her glasses of ginger ale in bed, or bowls of heated broth. Mary joked that it was nice to see the two of them getting along, though they did not seem to get, or enjoy, this joke.