man remained unaware of the hiss and smell of burnt grounds. The girl who looked on felt a sudden despair at the changelessness of the man and her situation in this household. Almost as if he'd forgotten her, he now conspired with the coffeepot, leaning the heels of his hands upon the edge of the stove, mumbling the litany Herb Anderson repeated with increasing fervor as the years crept up on him. “Yessir . . . a long time, and I deserve it, by God.”
“I'm going. I have to catch my bus.”
He came out of his reverie, looked over his shoulder with a sour expression. “Yeah, go. But just be ready to put the screws to old Forrester again tonight. Five thousand ain't a piss in a hurricane to a rich son-of-a-bitch like him.”
When she was gone, Herb leaned over the sink and took up whispering to himself. He often whispered to himself. He told Herb that the world was out to get Herb, and Herb deserved better, by God, and Herb was gonna get it! And no uppity little slut was gonna ace him out of his rightful due! She had her mother's whorish blood, that one did. Didn't he always say so? And didn't she prove him right at last, getting knocked up that way? Just goes to show, things come out even in the end. Yessir. Catherine owed him—Ada owed him—hell, the whole damn country owed him, if it come down to that.
He poured himself another coffee royal to stop the shakes.
Goddam shakes, he thought, they're Ada's fault too! But after his third drink he was as still as a frog eyeing a fly. He held out his hand to verify the fact. Feeling better, he chuckled to think how clever he was, making sure old man Forrester wouldn't want any Andersons tied to his highfalutin' bloodlines! By the end of the week Forrester'd pay, and pay good to see no wedding took place between his high-class son and no knocked-up Catherine Anderson from the wrong side of the tracks.
It took Herb until nearly noon to get his fill of coffee royals and amble from the house in search of his imminent ship.
From the corner grocery store Catherine watched her father leave, hurriedly called her cousin, Bobbi Schumaker, then returned to the house to pack. Like Catherine, Bobbi was in her first year at the University of Minnesota, but she loved living with her family. Her home, so different from Catherine's, had been a haven for Catherine during her growing-up years, for the two girls had been best friends and allies since infancy. They kept no secrets from each other.
Bumping along an hour later in Bobbi's little yellow Beetle, Catherine felt relieved to have escaped the house at last.
“So, how'd it go?” Bobbi glanced askance through oversize tortoiseshell glasses.
“Last night or this morning?”
“Both.”
“Don't ask.” Catherine rested her head back tiredly and shut her eyes.
“That bad, huh?”
“I don't think the Forresters could believe it when the old man barged in there. God, you should have seen that house; it was really something.”
“Did they offer to pay the bills?”
“Clay did,” Catherine admitted.
“I told you he would.”
“And I told you I'd refuse.”
Bobbi's mouth puckered. “Why do you have to be so almighty stubborn? It's his baby too!”
“I told you, I don't want him to have any kind of hold on me whatsoever. If he pays, he might think he has some say in things.”
“But the economics of it doesn't make sense! You can use every cent you can get. How do you think you're going to pay for second semester?”
“Just like I'm paying for the first.” Catherine's lips took on that determined look Bobbi knew so well. “I've still got the typewriter and sewing machine.”
“And he's got his father's millions,” Bobbi retorted dryly.
“Oh, come on, Bobbi, they're not quite that rich, and you know it.”
“Stu says they're rolling in it. They have enough that a few measly thousands wouldn't tip the scales.”
Catherine sat up straighter, her chin stubbornly thrust out. “Bobbi, I don't want to
“I'm going. I have to catch my bus.”
He came out of his reverie, looked over his shoulder with a sour expression. “Yeah, go. But just be ready to put the screws to old Forrester again tonight. Five thousand ain't a piss in a hurricane to a rich son-of-a-bitch like him.”
When she was gone, Herb leaned over the sink and took up whispering to himself. He often whispered to himself. He told Herb that the world was out to get Herb, and Herb deserved better, by God, and Herb was gonna get it! And no uppity little slut was gonna ace him out of his rightful due! She had her mother's whorish blood, that one did. Didn't he always say so? And didn't she prove him right at last, getting knocked up that way? Just goes to show, things come out even in the end. Yessir. Catherine owed him—Ada owed him—hell, the whole damn country owed him, if it come down to that.
He poured himself another coffee royal to stop the shakes.
Goddam shakes, he thought, they're Ada's fault too! But after his third drink he was as still as a frog eyeing a fly. He held out his hand to verify the fact. Feeling better, he chuckled to think how clever he was, making sure old man Forrester wouldn't want any Andersons tied to his highfalutin' bloodlines! By the end of the week Forrester'd pay, and pay good to see no wedding took place between his high-class son and no knocked-up Catherine Anderson from the wrong side of the tracks.
It took Herb until nearly noon to get his fill of coffee royals and amble from the house in search of his imminent ship.
From the corner grocery store Catherine watched her father leave, hurriedly called her cousin, Bobbi Schumaker, then returned to the house to pack. Like Catherine, Bobbi was in her first year at the University of Minnesota, but she loved living with her family. Her home, so different from Catherine's, had been a haven for Catherine during her growing-up years, for the two girls had been best friends and allies since infancy. They kept no secrets from each other.
Bumping along an hour later in Bobbi's little yellow Beetle, Catherine felt relieved to have escaped the house at last.
“So, how'd it go?” Bobbi glanced askance through oversize tortoiseshell glasses.
“Last night or this morning?”
“Both.”
“Don't ask.” Catherine rested her head back tiredly and shut her eyes.
“That bad, huh?”
“I don't think the Forresters could believe it when the old man barged in there. God, you should have seen that house; it was really something.”
“Did they offer to pay the bills?”
“Clay did,” Catherine admitted.
“I told you he would.”
“And I told you I'd refuse.”
Bobbi's mouth puckered. “Why do you have to be so almighty stubborn? It's his baby too!”
“I told you, I don't want him to have any kind of hold on me whatsoever. If he pays, he might think he has some say in things.”
“But the economics of it doesn't make sense! You can use every cent you can get. How do you think you're going to pay for second semester?”
“Just like I'm paying for the first.” Catherine's lips took on that determined look Bobbi knew so well. “I've still got the typewriter and sewing machine.”
“And he's got his father's millions,” Bobbi retorted dryly.
“Oh, come on, Bobbi, they're not quite that rich, and you know it.”
“Stu says they're rolling in it. They have enough that a few measly thousands wouldn't tip the scales.”
Catherine sat up straighter, her chin stubbornly thrust out. “Bobbi, I don't want to
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