goods.
Why, sure!
Cloth!
But now Icey pursed her lips and frowned.
Well, shoot! A drummer ain’t no bargain for a husband!
Willa smiled and shrugged.
I don’t know any drummers, she said softly. What drummer would want to settle down with me?
Just you wait! laughed Icey. We’ll try again another night. Ouija’s mighty good at lookin’ ahead, honey.
Now they heard the front door squeak out in the ice cream parlor and the soft laughter of young voices.
Gracious! Them’s customers! cried Icey, springing to her feet. Better go tend them, honey.
Willa hurried off and took the orders while Walt put a record on the Victrola, and throughout the next hour they kept busy as other customers came and went and Walt stood by cranking and changing the records and Icey filled orders for sandwiches and coffee in the kitchen. By ten o’clock the town had gone to sleep. Outside the snow drifted past in big flakes and the dark wind had fallen. Willa sat alone by the cash box until Walt came and told her she could go for the night. He and Icey stood watching her move slowly down Peacock Alley toward the river road.
Poor, poor little thing, mumbled Icey, her handkerchief balled and pressed to her lips.
Walt said nothing as he moved about downstairs, locking windows. After a bit he came and stood beside her, staring into the dark that had swallowed up the tiny figure on the road at last.
Poor child, Icey said again, shaking her head. I wonder what will ever become of her. It’s a story sad enough to beat them picture shows.
—
Because a pipeline ran through the Harper yard the gas company gave them a free lamp on a wooden post—a big box with a roof like a birdhouse with glass sides and a perpetual flame within. It stood by the great oak at the road’s edge and when the wind tossed the branches of the tree the light from the gas lamp made pictures on the wall of the children’s bedroom. The twisted, barren winter branches tossed stiffly in the golden light and yet with a curious grace, like the fingers of old men spinning tales, and John, lying snug in his bed beside the little girl, shut his left eye and squinted through the lashes at these weaving phantoms of shadow and light. There was a black horse prancing—lifting its feet to the winter galaxies. And now as the wind changed there came a three-legged peddler roistering to the mad wind’s song. And now a brave soldier appeared; then a merry clown with toothpick legs.
John?
Yes.
Is Mom home?
Yes.
Is she in bed, John?
Yes. Go to sleep, Pearl.
All right, John. Good night.
Good night. Sleep tight, Pearl! Don’t let the bedbugs bite!
The little girl lay still for a bit, breathing thoughtfully into the matted wig of her doll.
John?
Yes?
What’s bedbugs?
Hush up, Pearl! It’s time you was asleep!
She lay still a moment more and then commenced scratching furiously and sat upright in bed.
Does bedbugs tickle when they walk, John?
Hush, Pearl. Go to sleep. That’s just a joke when you say, Don’t let the bedbugs bite. There ain’t no such a thing. Now go to sleep!
Pearl watched the whirling pictures in the light the yard lamp made on the wallpaper.
Tell me a story, John. She sighed, her eyes lost in the fancies of the dancing shadow branches. John lay still and squinted his other eye.
All right. If you’ll lay back down and keep the covers on you so’s you won’t catch your death of cold.
Pearl shot down under the sheets again and tucked her legs up tight against her breast, hugging the doll and waiting for the story to start.
Once upon a time—there was a rich king—
What’s a rich king, John?
Never mind! You’ll see what it means directly, Pearl. There was this rich king and he had a son and a daughter and they all lived in a castle over in Africa. Well, one day this king got carried away by bad men—
Pearl loathed the story now. But still she was silent, thankful enough to hear any story at all; comforted by the droning voice muffled
Why, sure!
Cloth!
But now Icey pursed her lips and frowned.
Well, shoot! A drummer ain’t no bargain for a husband!
Willa smiled and shrugged.
I don’t know any drummers, she said softly. What drummer would want to settle down with me?
Just you wait! laughed Icey. We’ll try again another night. Ouija’s mighty good at lookin’ ahead, honey.
Now they heard the front door squeak out in the ice cream parlor and the soft laughter of young voices.
Gracious! Them’s customers! cried Icey, springing to her feet. Better go tend them, honey.
Willa hurried off and took the orders while Walt put a record on the Victrola, and throughout the next hour they kept busy as other customers came and went and Walt stood by cranking and changing the records and Icey filled orders for sandwiches and coffee in the kitchen. By ten o’clock the town had gone to sleep. Outside the snow drifted past in big flakes and the dark wind had fallen. Willa sat alone by the cash box until Walt came and told her she could go for the night. He and Icey stood watching her move slowly down Peacock Alley toward the river road.
Poor, poor little thing, mumbled Icey, her handkerchief balled and pressed to her lips.
Walt said nothing as he moved about downstairs, locking windows. After a bit he came and stood beside her, staring into the dark that had swallowed up the tiny figure on the road at last.
Poor child, Icey said again, shaking her head. I wonder what will ever become of her. It’s a story sad enough to beat them picture shows.
—
Because a pipeline ran through the Harper yard the gas company gave them a free lamp on a wooden post—a big box with a roof like a birdhouse with glass sides and a perpetual flame within. It stood by the great oak at the road’s edge and when the wind tossed the branches of the tree the light from the gas lamp made pictures on the wall of the children’s bedroom. The twisted, barren winter branches tossed stiffly in the golden light and yet with a curious grace, like the fingers of old men spinning tales, and John, lying snug in his bed beside the little girl, shut his left eye and squinted through the lashes at these weaving phantoms of shadow and light. There was a black horse prancing—lifting its feet to the winter galaxies. And now as the wind changed there came a three-legged peddler roistering to the mad wind’s song. And now a brave soldier appeared; then a merry clown with toothpick legs.
John?
Yes.
Is Mom home?
Yes.
Is she in bed, John?
Yes. Go to sleep, Pearl.
All right, John. Good night.
Good night. Sleep tight, Pearl! Don’t let the bedbugs bite!
The little girl lay still for a bit, breathing thoughtfully into the matted wig of her doll.
John?
Yes?
What’s bedbugs?
Hush up, Pearl! It’s time you was asleep!
She lay still a moment more and then commenced scratching furiously and sat upright in bed.
Does bedbugs tickle when they walk, John?
Hush, Pearl. Go to sleep. That’s just a joke when you say, Don’t let the bedbugs bite. There ain’t no such a thing. Now go to sleep!
Pearl watched the whirling pictures in the light the yard lamp made on the wallpaper.
Tell me a story, John. She sighed, her eyes lost in the fancies of the dancing shadow branches. John lay still and squinted his other eye.
All right. If you’ll lay back down and keep the covers on you so’s you won’t catch your death of cold.
Pearl shot down under the sheets again and tucked her legs up tight against her breast, hugging the doll and waiting for the story to start.
Once upon a time—there was a rich king—
What’s a rich king, John?
Never mind! You’ll see what it means directly, Pearl. There was this rich king and he had a son and a daughter and they all lived in a castle over in Africa. Well, one day this king got carried away by bad men—
Pearl loathed the story now. But still she was silent, thankful enough to hear any story at all; comforted by the droning voice muffled
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