Love Read Free Page B

property, including the ground under this house.”
    Vida shook her head. “I saw him the day he died. Hale at breakfast; dead at lunch.”
    “He had a lot to answer for, Vida.”
    “Somebody answered for him: ‘No lunch.’ ”
    “You forgive that old reprobate anything.”
    “He paid us good money, Sandler, and taught us, too. Things I never would have known about if I’d kept on living over a swamp in a stilt house. You know what my mother’s hands looked like. Because of Bill Cosey, none of us had to keep doing that kind of work.”
    “It wasn’t that bad. I miss it sometimes.”
    “Miss what? Slop jars? Snakes?”
    “The trees.”
    “Oh, shoot.” Vida tossed her spoon into the sherbet glass hard enough to get the clink she wanted.
    “Remember the summer storms?” Sandler ignored her. “The air just before—”
    “Get up, Romen.” Vida tapped the boy’s shoulder. “Help me with the dishes.”
    “I ain’t finished, Gran.”
    “Yes you are. Up.”
    Romen, forcing air through his lips, pushed back his chair and unfolded himself. He tried to exchange looks with his grandfather, but the old man’s eyes were inward.
    “Never seen moonlight like that anywhere else.” Sandler’s voice was low. “Make you want to—” He collected himself. “I’m not saying I would move back.”
    “I sure hope not.” Vida scraped the plates loudly. “You’d need gills.”
    “Mrs. Cosey said it was a paradise.” Romen reached for a cube of pineapple with his fingers.
    Vida slapped his hand. “It was a plantation. And Bill Cosey took us off of it.”
    “The ones he wanted.” Sandler spoke to his shoulder.
    “I heard that. What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing, Vida. Like you said, the man was a saint.”
    “There’s no arguing with you.”
    Romen dribbled liquid soap into hot water. His hands felt good sloshing in it, though it stung the bruises on his knuckles. His side hurt more while he stood at the sink, but he felt better listening to his grandparents fussing about the olden days. Less afraid.
       
    The girl did not miss the house, and the man with the Ice-Off was not wrong: the house was graceful, imposing, and its peaked third-story roof did suggest a church. The steps to the porch, slanted and shiny with ice, encouraged caution, for there was no railing. But the girl clicked along the walk and up the steps without hesitation. Seeing no bell, she started to knock, hesitating when she noticed a shaft of light below, to the right of the porch. She went back down the sloping steps, followed the curve marked by half-buried slate, and descended a flight of iron stairs lit by a window. Beyond the window, a door. No wind buffeted her there. The area had the look of what was called a garden apartment by some—by others, a basement one. Pausing at the pane, she saw a seated woman. On the table before her were a colander, newspapers, and a mixing bowl. The girl tapped on the window and smiled when the woman looked up. She rose slowly but once on her feet moved rapidly to the door.
    “What is it?” The door opened just wide enough to expose one gray eye.
    “I came about the job,” said the girl. A marine odor hovered in the crack.
    “Then you’re lost,” said the woman and slammed the door.
    The girl banged on it, shouting, “It says One Monarch Street! This is number one!”
    There was no answer, so she went back to the window and pecked the glass with the nails of her left hand while her right pressed the newsprint toward the light.
    The woman came back to the window, her eyes flat with annoyance as they stared at the girl, then moved from the young face and its pleading smile to the piece of paper. She squinted at it, looked again at the face, then back at the piece of paper. She motioned toward the door and disappeared from the window, but not before a shard of panic glinted in her eyes, then died.
    When the girl was inside, the woman offered neither seat nor greeting. She took the