Shuey wanted in. He wanted in badly. But Henny didn’t. They had five children to feed, she reminded him
Henny Portman pretended to be busy when her husband came in. If she looked too eager, he wouldn’t share — and from the way he’d walked up the driveway, as if he were carrying an invisible package, she could tell that he had something on his mind.
She positioned herself facing the sink, her back to him.
“Hey, what’s doing, Hen?” He sounded relaxed. He was puttering around the fridge, and she heard the thunk of the pickle jar being removed.
She turned off the faucet and came to sit down with him.
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