The mailbox was a fat, new, shiny affair, and on both sides, in bold black letters, it said: the wisemen.

They did not go to dinner that night, despite the imploring swing of Cousin Lou's jowls. They waited for the moving van, then began to unpack the boxes. Annie and Miranda had the two bedrooms on the ground floor, their mother the large attic room upstairs.

"My childhood furniture," Annie said, sitting on the mahogany sleigh bed Betty had gotten her at an auction when she was twelve. "It's much nicer than my own furniture." Still, over the years, Annie had acquired one or two pieces she was fond of. Would the visiting French professor and his wife leave cigarette burns on the arms of her chairs? Already, she could not wait to get back to her apartment.

Miranda, in contrast, was quite giddy. "I feel like we're in a dollhouse," she said. "And we're the dolls."

Annie shuddered.

"It's an adventure," Miranda said.

"An adventure in claustrophobia."

"You'll see."

Miranda often said You'll see. Annie found it oddly comforting, as if Miranda knew what was coming, knew that everything would be all right, knew how to make it be all right.

"Do you think Mom seems a little shell-shocked?" Annie asked.

"We're our own dolls," Miranda said, as if she had not heard Annie. "In our own dollhouse."

Upstairs, Betty was staring out the attic window. She could hear Miranda and Annie talking downstairs. The sound was soft and indistinct, but familiar, like a memory. So much seemed like a memory these days. This blue sky with its banks of white clouds was a memory. And this town: leaning against an old black Buick at the station, waiting for Joseph's train, the girls chattering just as they were doing now, that same sky arched high above them; the train chugging into sight, giving its great slow sigh as it braked. Then, out of its door stepped another memory: her husband. Her husband, Joseph.