Esther Donnaly was not an actress, had never been in a play or auditioned for one, or been a fan of movies or a follower of actresses, like many American women her age, which was thirty-seven. So when she turned to her husband, Mitchell Donnaly, when he put his briefcase on the side counter in their Saint Cloud kitchen after a day in Saint Paul sorting probate all day, and she said, “Well, hello to you. How’d you get in here?” he knew not to say anything smart. She was not a woman who played games. She was, in fact, the manager of a medical complex and she was known as organized and smart.
“I came in through the garage.” He was exhausted, bloodless as always after the office. He put in long hours and made little progress. He was spending most of his time with two sisters who hated each other and who were contesting their father’s estate. There was never any progress. The floor of his large office was stacked with files; it was a glacier.
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