3 8 T H E M I S S O U R I R E V I E W / S P R I N G 2 0 1 0 The wife was driving on the night they hit Mr. Ronald. “My fi rst drive since getting married,” she said. “First this, fi rst that,” said her husband. He looked at her, sitting high in the seat: her hair looked fl imsy and blond in the late sun. It was ten-thirty and still light. ese were the days for marrying—the long days, and the summer. It hadn’t rained. “You’ve got to be thankful for the weather,”