Edith’s Diary Read Free

Bloomingdale’s.
    And now, Edith thought, today, this evening, was the last evening and night the Howland family would spend on Grove Street. They were moving tomorrow morning to Brunswick Corner, Pennsylvania, into a two-story house surrounded by a lawn with two willows in front and a couple of elms and apple trees on the back lawn.
That
was worth an entry in her diary, Edith thought, and she realized she hadn’t even noted the day when she and Brett and Cliffie had found the Brunswick Corner house. They’d been looking for some time, maybe six months. Brett was in favor of the move, with Cliffie ten years old now. A country environment would be a blessed thing for a child, something he deserved, space to ride a bicycle, a chance to see what America really was, or at least where the same families had been for more generations than most families had been in New York. Or was that true? Edith thought for a few seconds and decided that it wasn’t necessarily true.
    ‘Cliffie?’ Edith called. ‘Have you got those drawers emptied yet?’ A long wait as usual before he answered.
    ‘Yes.’
    His tone was feeble. Edith knew he hadn’t emptied the chest of drawers, though he had said he wanted to do it himself, so she went into his room – whose door was open – and with a cheerful air began to do it for him. Cliffie was upset about the move, Edith knew, though he’d seen the house and loved it and in a way was looking forward.
    ‘Can’t get much done if you sit reading comic books,’ Edith said.
    She knew from his wide, dreamy eyes that he wasn’t even reading, simply trying to lose himself in the fantasy world of talking animals, spacemen, or whatever it was.
    ‘There’s no hurry, is there?’ Cliffie asked, hitching himself back on his bed. He wore Levis and a T-shirt which had University of California printed on it.
    ‘No, darling, but we may as well do as much as we can today, because there’ll be odds and ends tomorrow morning, and the moving men are coming at eight, you know.’
    Cliffie didn’t answer, didn’t move, and Edith went on loading a crate with Cliffie’s sweaters, folding them carelessly, dropping them. Then his pajamas, then shirts.
    ‘You ought to be
happy
,
Cliffie. Aren’t you happy, going to live in a real house – with land – all your own?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Didn’t any of your friends say —’ Edith tried to shake out a crumpled shirt from a bottom drawer and found that it was hopelessly stuck. With glue, apparently. Plainly it was tan-colored glue, couldn’t be anything else. ‘What happened to this?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Cliffie stuck his hands in the front pockets of his Levis and walked from the room, head hanging.
    Edith straightened and smiled. ‘It’s not so serious, Cliffie. Let’s be cheerful! We’re going to the Chinese restaurant tonight!’
    It was a good white shirt, however, and otherwise clean. Had Cliffie done it deliberately? What took out glue? Hot water? Edith dropped it into the crate-in-progress, and went on with her work.
    ‘Cliffie? Is Mildew all right?’ Her voice sounded sharp in the rugless apartment.
    ‘Yes,’ said Cliffie in the same toneless way.
    Edith had last seen the cat sitting on the radiator cover in the living room, gazing out the window as if taking a last look at her three-story view of Grove Street. To make sure, Edith went into the living room, and saw Mildew on the floor by the sofa, her paws tucked in. Not a usual place for Mildew.
    ‘Mildew,’ Edith said softly, ‘you’re going to a much nicer house!’ She touched the top of Mildew’s head. The cat purred, half-asleep.
    Mildew was a little over a year old. Edith and Brett had acquired her from the local grocery store, which hadn’t been able to find a home for her. They’d named her Mildred, but Cliffie had arrived at Mildew, which they called her more often than Mildred. She reminded Edith of the cats in Hogarth’s paintings with her white breast and feet,