FROID, MONTANA, 1983 HER NAME WAS Mrs. Gustafson, and she lived next door. Behind her back, folks called her the War Bride, but she didn’t look like a bride to me. First of all, she never wore white. And she was old. Way older than my parents. Everyone knows a bride needs a groom, but her husband was long dead. Though she spoke two languages fluently, for the most part, she didn’t talk to anyone. She’d lived here since 1945, but would always be considered the woman who came from somewhere else.
