“That sounds like Uncle.” Ellen stopped scouring the bronze-trimmed icebox, wiped her hands.
“All the time he’d had it in his head. I’ve never written a check, I don’t know how. Let him do that. But there’s my name with that bank.”
“My.”
“He told me your husband died, Ellen.”
“I’ve got to look at Simon.” She was going upstairs. The covers were thrown back, the boy’s face reddened. When he opened his eyes, they stared at her bloodshot.
“Penn didn’t want that ball,” he breathed.
She was rushing down the long echoing staircase. “Call Uncle’s doctor, Vi. Simon’s really sick.”
She went back. The voice met her, wheedling, “I didn’t wet the quilt, Da.”
“Don’t talk, Simon.”
“I saw that burying-beetle. He made a grave for the speckled thrush. He dug all about the body till it settled in the earth.”
She laid a wet cloth on his forehead. Her hand was pushed away strongly. Now God, shall I give up my first-born for my transgression? The doctor arrived. The watch began. For nearly three days the fever would possess Simon’s body. Garland came and went but Ellen didn’t notice him, that he was changed, his hair whitened, his figure grown portly, his mustache shaved so his face had lost its sharpness. His blue eyes looked out shrived. Ellen saw only Simon. She sat in the cane-bottom chair and watched. Simon was laying his hand on his breast, “Now there’s that pain. I won’t tell Mama.” His voice rose, “Granddaddy clobbered old Jess.”
Ellen asked the doctor, “How come he grabs at his chest? I’ve seen him do that before but he said it didn’t hurt.”
“He might be afraid of something, Mrs. Gaddy, that he’s not aware of. Some anxiety. It’s possible.”
Late in the night, Ellen was sitting alone in the glare of the small overhanging bulb. The doctor had said that only time would reveal the extent of the child’s malady and his strength to combat it. Gusts were rattling the house eaves, rain drummed insistent on the glass behind the stained brown shade. Her eyes sought patterns in the striped wallpaper. “Gaddy brat. Bastard Gaddy.” Simon was crying in the way of the young, without effort, his tears wetting the pillow.
Violet came in, her brown hair hanging to the waist of her dressing-gown and bound with a clasp. “I had a brother,” she said, “was sick like that as a child. He came through. The doctor thinks Simon’s getting better. He told me when he went out.”
“Don’t cry. Why does he cry, Aunt Violet?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’s thinking thoughts we can’t know of.”
“Reckon you’re right,” Ellen sighed.
“I know one way to stop it, but you might think it improper.”
“What, Aunt Violet?”
“I doubt the quality ever heard of it. It’s a way people did where I was brought up. Even with babies. We lived in the slums, all in one room. Mom would stroke my brother’s privates. She was forced to hush him so Dad could get his sleep. And it quieted him right off.”
“Well, I don’t know. I’ll just use the wet cloth.”
“How is he?” Garland’s rasp sounded from the door. “Just closed up the restaurant. Busy tonight. It’s after midnight.”
Ellen didn’t turn. “He’s better, it seems.”
“He is, Chicken. The first time he’s resting good. I’ll go make your tea. You want some too, Ellen?”
“Sure she does, Vi.”
She pattered away down the hall. “Won’t be long.”
Garland was coming in by the bed. “Poor fellow. He’s a fine kid, puss.”
“I know it.” Tears began to flow down her tired face. “You-all been so good. Taking us in, Uncle.”
“Chrissake, hon. It’s Anton, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Was he mistreating the kid?”
“No.”
“Hell, then he was lording it over you?”
“Not that, I don’t mind that.” She was whispering, weeping. “Seemed he didn’t care for Simon’s good.”
“Hell, that’s An. Wish there was some way to make him see the light.”
“Only to have him do his bidding.”
“What makes that bastard that way? I’m fed up with him. I’m done.”
“To make Simon a part of him like his own son would be.” Ellen was looking up. She saw that Garland was old. He had always seemed young, vigorous. “When I got your letter, Uncle. Saying we could come here. It was like a way opened up.”
“Your letter to me was pretty plain. I thought I knew what the trouble was. I suspected Anton then.” His small angry eyes cooled. “You know how tickled Vi is with you both?”
“I like her.”
“We’ve been married a long time. Since about thirty-two, I think.”
“Like I wrote,” she looked at Simon who breathed evenly in sleep, “I want to get a job right away, though.”
“How old is he anyway?”
“Nine, now.”
“Frankie told me she thought your husband had died.”
“Yes.” The wind rushed, pushing rain sharply against the pane.
“Frankie said what a nice kid Simon was. She’ll be glad to see him, too. We’ll have her over.”
“I’m so tired, Uncle.” She looked at him, vacant. “I can’t think so good. Does Frankie live near here?”
“Just you take it easy.” He put his hand at Simon’s forehead. “Feels cool to me.” The humming of Violet who was mounting the stairs came, and then dishes were rattling in an adjoining room. “Let’s go have some hot tea and ginger-bread. Do you good, sweet.”
“I’d better stay here.”
“You can come back. In a little while.” He jerked the chain dangling from the overhead light. He drew her from the darkened room.
Ellen slept late into the morning like one drugged. Simon dozed. The fever had disappeared, with it went the constriction in his chest. When he roused, Violet tiptoed up to amuse him, making shadow-pictures on the wall with her thin hands. “I used to do this for my brother.”
Garland came home, stood in the doorway. “There’s nobody like my Vi, Simon.”
“Do the little goat now,” the boy whispered.
Ellen went down to the kitchen in the evening. Violet was in a rocker by the tin-topped table. The radio was blaring.
The music goes round and round O-o-o-o-o-o And it comes out here
The woman snapped it off. “Hi. How is he, Ellen?”
“Fine. I promised him a kitten. Reckon we could find one?”
“I’ll tell Chicken. He’ll get you one somewhere. Have a cup?” They sat in the kitchen room that was littered as in the days of Mrs. Quimby’s reign. Years of neglect and Violet’s efforts had done little to improve it. The chipped sink was touched up, the cupboards were painted cream color, and a square of red-and-white linoleum was on the wood floor. The fireplace was still unused, the opening blocked. “If times get better, we’ll fix the house up, Ellen. Get an electric icebox and a new stove and sink.”
Ellen drank the tea. “Violet, did Uncle look for a job for me yet?”
“He’s watching the want ads. We’d like you to stay here as long as you can. Have you ever worked out?”
“No.”
“I have. Since I was eleven. One place they had a special French toilet in their bathroom. When they finished their business on the regular one, they switched to it. It washed them off with a spray. Now it was outlandish.”
“Those French are tormented clean folks. My great grandsir was one.”
“You don’t say.”
The front door slammed. “Where are you, Vi?”
She bayed, “Here, Chicken.”
Garland was pushing the swinging door. “Home is the sailor, home from the sea. And the hunter from the hill.” He kissed Violet’s cheek. “I’ll have some of that tea.”
“Ellen wants you to find Simon a kitten. He likes pets.”
“I’ll ask Charlie. He’s got cats. Charlie’s my dishwasher. Say, we’re going to have company in a couple of hours. Frankie’s coming.”
“I just remembered supper,” Violet cried. “Nerts, I’ll never get it together.”
“Yes, we will,” Ellen gathered the teacups. “How’s Frankie’s piano-playing now, Uncle?”
“Oh, hon,” Garland was laughing, “when did you see her last?”
At six-thirty, Frankie arrived, Genevieve Wheeler, stout and amiable, just behind her. “How’s the farm, Ellen?”
“It’s fine, Miss Wheeler.”
“Take my coat, Gen, will you?” Frankie’s red hair was long and she wore a pearl comb in it. Her fine features had filled out and she had lost her frailness, was somewhat plump.
“All righty. I’ll go put these chocolate eclairs in the frig.” Genevieve was striding vigorously into the hall.
“Oh sure, Ellie. We’ve been visiting Uncle and Vi ever since Pa tossed me out. We live on the east side.” Frankie’s eyes appraised Ellen. “You’re different. Older, I guess.” She had her hand on Ellen’s arm, was kissing her cheek.
Ellen drew away. “And I am older, so what’s that if I look it?” She spoke sharply from the wound.
“Did Pa make you go? We didn’t believe Uncle when he said you were in the city. And Simon, too.”
“I told Pa I was leaving.”
“Are you raising Simon Catholic?”
“Well, Pa took him to church, but I don’t go. I got weary of the prayers and such.”
“Pa know that?”
“I talked to Father Tompert once and he said I was right. So Pa gave in.”
“I always got a kick out of the way you defied him, Ellie. I never dared. How is he?”
“The same.” It tasted bitter. “It’s us that have got to change.”
“I’m glad you left. But how are you going to get along? Are you staying here?”
“No, I want to find a place on a farm, Frankie. So I can work and Simon can help with the stock.”
Genevieve was in the doorway, hearty-voiced, “I know a farmer might be able to take you, Ellen.”
“Where, Gen?” Frankie was asking.
“Down in the state somewhere. Wasilewski’s the name. One of their cousins works in my office. He was reading a letter yesterday about his aunt getting old and wanting to hire a girl. Sounded nice.”