Epitaph Read Free

they’re angry and upset.” Which meant that Al had heard most of what Johnny Behan and Josie Marcus had said to eachother since the boy arrived last night. “Honest, Josie. Al’s a good kid. And none of this is his fault. He’s just a little boy.”
    Finally, she shrugged and looked away. It was assent if not enthusiasm. He was willing to settle for that.
    â€œI have to get back to town,” he told her. “There’s a meeting at the marshal’s office. But we’ll go someplace special tonight. Would you like that? How about a show? Or dancing, maybe. What d’you say? Let’s go dancing tonight!”
    She smiled, just a little, but when he kissed her, she kissed him back.
    ALBERT WAS WAITING INSIDE, his little face pinched and pale. He must take after his mother, Josie thought, for she saw none of Johnny’s vigor in the child.
    She had hardly closed the door when the boy asked, “Are you going to be my stepmother?” Before she said anything, he told her, “I’ll ruin it.”
    It was more like a prediction than a threat. The boy sounded sad, not belligerent.
    â€œMy real mother doesn’t like me anymore,” Albert confided with the blaring voice that partly deaf people had. “She got fat when she had me, so Dad stopped liking her. She’s getting a new husband, and she says I’d just ruin things again. She sent me to live with Dad so I’ll ruin things for him instead.”
    She stared at him, her mouth open. What kind of mother would say things like that to her own child? No wonder Johnny divorced her! Who’d stay with a woman like that?
    Distracted by a sudden craving for something sweet, she opened a cupboard to see what she had on hand. “Do you like cake, Albert?” She looked over her shoulder. “Of course, you do! Everybody likes cake.”
    He nodded but warily, not sure why she was asking.
    â€œLet’s bake a cake,” she suggested. “Which do you like better: chocolate or vanilla? Or molasses, maybe, with currants? I know a good recipe for that.”
    They settled on a marble cake and had a good time together. Assembling the ingredients, tasting the batter, managing the woodstove. Later they took turns with the whisk, beating the buttercream frosting until their arms ached.
    They’d each had two big slices when Albert asked, “Can I call you Mamma?” Eyes on hers, waiting for her answer, the little boy licked a finger and pressed it onto the crumbs to carry every last morsel from his plate to his mouth.
    She wanted fame. She wanted to travel the world. She wanted adventure and excitement, not a boring, ordinary life—that’s why she’d run away from home! Then she met Johnny Behan. He was dashing and handsome, important and prosperous. A man who might be governor or even president one day. For a while she was sure she wanted to be his wife, but now . . .
    Albert was still waiting.
    â€œYou have a mother,” she reminded him.
    â€œI knew you wouldn’t like me,” he said. Stoic. Resigned.
    â€œOf course I will! I like you already.”
    She didn’t quite mean it. Albert could see that, and his lonely skepticism made her warm to him.
    â€œAll right, listen. You shouldn’t call me Mamma, but . . .” She put her mouth close to his ear so he could hear her speak quietly. “I have a secret name.”
    She reared back to see his reaction, which was wide-eyed.
    â€œYou have to promise not to tell anybody,” she said sternly. “You can only use it when we’re alone together. Promise?” He nodded. Once more she leaned in close to say a single word, then sat back with a conspiratorial smile.
    â€œSadie,” he whispered. “I get to call you Sadie.”
    They were children, the two of them, without a tiresome adult to say, “No more sweets! It’ll spoil your supper.” So they celebrated with more