The Last Adam by James Gould Cozzens

cumulative effect of such un-happiness, illness, dirt, poverty? Mrs. Talbot's hair— had she ever washed it?—lay in a scanty offensive snarl, matted to the back of her neck; and, looking down on it, May had to swallow twice before she could say: "You get your coat on. I'll be right back."
    She closed the door, stepped down the two wooden steps and fled, her heels catching on the foot-marked path, yesterday's slush frozen hard as iron. She kept her mouth open, gulping in the clean air. Entering her own back door, she saw—it had been impossible for her to remember—that she had left nothing in danger on the stove. From this frigid shed of a kitchen, she passed into the warm room. "Joe," she said, "I've got to bring Mrs. Talbot over here. She's pretty near crazy—"
    "Hello, May," Harry Weems said. He was sitting on the other side of the stove and she hadn't seen him at all. "What's the trouble?"
    "Mamie Talbot died."
    "Say, that's too bad!" Harry got to his feet, agitated. Joe had gone pale, his mouth tightening in a sort of sullenness. Joe wanted his supper, not Mrs. Talbot. Joe couldn't stand Mrs. Talbot anyway—who could? —and May didn't blame him. "I couldn't help it," she said, "She can't get herself anything to eat. Harry" she added in sudden appeal, "could we get a bottle of gin or something? We've got to give her something —"
    "Sure thing," said Harry Weems. "Get you one right away."
    "Wait. I'll pay you."
    "Don't be dumb," he said. "Anything I have you can have. Gosh, May, what do you think I am?" He was a little redder; hurt; pulling his cap on as he went out.
    "He'd never miss it," Joe said. Joe really tried, but he couldn't hide the bitter edge on his words. Look at Harry and look at him. "He made a hundred and seventy-two dollars last week," Joe said. "He brought five cases over from New York State last night, and he says practically all of them are spoken for. Listen, for God's sake, what's the good of bringing Mrs. Talbot here?"
    "Joe, I tell you she's pretty near crazy. I don't know what she'd do. One thing: she wanted to go up and tell Mrs. Banning she hoped she was satisfied, because she's killed Mamie, all right."
    "Well, I hear it's the truth."
    "No, it isn't! It's just craziness. I think in some ways Mrs. Banning was pretty mean to Mamie. But I happen to know this, because Mamie told me. All this fall, Mrs. Banning came out herself and saw that Mamie drank a glass of milk with every meal."
    "Larry keeps three Jerseys for her. She has to get rid of the milk some way, I guess."
    "Another thing Mamie told me was when it got so cold last September, that week, Mrs. Banning came up to their rooms at ten o'clock at night herself to see if they had enough blankets."
    "Banana oil!"
    "I can't help whether you believe it or not. Mamie told me."
    "Well, what's so wonderful about it? You keep saying 'Mrs. Banning herself,' like she was God or something."
    "Well, lots of people wouldn't have bothered."
    "Yeah, and she's one of them."
    "Well, Joe, I'm sorry. I've simply got to bring Mrs. Talbot over for a little while."
    "Go and get her and let's get it over with!" He shifted a little on his back. One arm slid inertly sideways; but before she could help him, he pulled up his shoulder, turned, making it fall back. "Go on," he said. "Get the hell after her!"
     
    In that wing of Bates' store which was rented to the United States Government, the post office window was not yet open. Behind the high screen formed by the mail boxes, Helen Upjohn and Mr. Bates' daughter Geraldine could be glimpsed in hasty movement under the tin-shaded lights hung above them. There was a constant sound of paper striking glass softly as envelopes went into their proper boxes. Suddenly whole small oblongs would be blocked up with rolled afternoon papers from Danbury, Bridgeport, or New York. People who cared to pay for boxes from time to time stepped forward, twisted the small combination dials, drew out whatever there was and retired to