Edith’s Diary Read Free Page B

of life was in movement, in action itself.
    If she had any problem, it was Cliffie, she admitted. He wasn’t doing well in school. He didn’t try, he had no initiative. He liked best to sit in front of the television set, not even paying much attention to it, just daydreaming and nibbling at his fingernails. Worse and maybe more significant than the school failure was that he didn’t or wouldn’t or couldn’t make any friends among kids his own age. He didn’t passionately like anything or any person.
    Edith’s futile and familiar thought path was interrupted by a muscular effort – heaving up a stack of magazines, some of them curling at the corners with age.
New Republics
,
Commentarys
.
She realized with a pang of guilt that her last article had been printed three years ago in 1952, a lance hurled against McCarthy.
    The doorbell rang.
    Edith pushed the door-buzzer blithely, not knowing or caring who it was. She went out on the landing and looked down the stairwell. ‘Marion?’ Edith called, thinking she recognized a coat sleeve.
    ‘Me no less!’ said Marion. ‘How y’doin’, kid?’
    ‘Coming along, thanks!’
    Marion emerged, onto the landing. ‘Brought you a pie,’ she said, smiling, a little out of breath.
    ‘A pie! Aren’t you a darling! Come in and see our progress!’
    Marion Zylstra lived on Perry Street. Her husband Ed was a radio engineer. She was just a bit older than Edith, thirty-six. Marion refused to let Edith cut the lemon meringue or make any tea or coffee for her, because she was sure Edith couldn’t afford the time, but Marion did sit down on the edge of the sofa.
    ‘We’re going to miss you,’ Marion said. ‘Where’s Brett?’
    ‘Oh, Brett’s looking for a gadget for his Black and Decker. He’ll be here any minute.’ Edith had lit a cigarette, but she didn’t sit, only leaned against the heavy oval table in the living room, the table on which they dined when they had guests. ‘Don’t forget we’re just two hours by bus from Manhattan. We want you to see the place as soon as you can. A real guestroom. Imagine!’
    Marion laughed. ‘Plutocrats. I envy you. Ed’s so stuck with his job in New York. Every family ought to have a certain amount of time in a country atmosphere,
I
think.’
    Marion had no children. She was a registered nurse, worked irregular hours, and earned good money. Edith and Brett had taken a mortgage on their Pennsylvania house, they were anything but rich, but Marion knew that.
    ‘I’m free for a little while now, Edie, if there’s anything I can do. Ed’s working midnight to eight, so he’s sleeping now.’
    ‘You’re an angel but – Brett and I can manage the rest. Brett says most people wouldn’t do nearly as much as we’ve done already, they’d leave it to the moving men, you know? Even the fragile things. But I like to do as much as I can. – Want to come to dinner with us tonight, Marion? We’re going to the Chinese joint on Fourth.’
    ‘Oh —’ Marion begged out. She had to write to her mother, and there was a possibility that a patient might telephone if another nurse couldn’t go on tonight.
    Just then a key was fitted into the lock, and Brett came in, slender, alert, smiling. He wore an old tweed jacket, a turtle-neck sweater, baggy gray flannels. He had short-cut, straight black hair, and gave a boyish impression until one noticed crow’s feet in the dryish skin under his eyes. His glasses had round black rims.
    ‘Well, Marion! Greetings!’
    ‘Hello, Brett! Just stuck my nose in to bring you a pie and wish you well.’
    ‘A pie,’ said Brett, advancing toward Edith, kissing her cheek as he usually did on coming home. He turned back to Marion. ‘That’s very Samaritan of you. Why aren’t you both diving in? Into the pie, I mean.’
    ‘Marion hasn’t the time,’ Edith said.
    Marion stood up.
    ‘You and Ed better find the time to visit us,’ Brett said.
    Marion promised that they would, and Edith assured her that