13 French Street Read Online Free PDF

one morning the people who bought it found her sitting against a fence in the cornfield, and they contacted him. He took her in.” She shrugged.
    Neither of us said anything for a few moments.
    “Alex.”
    “Yes?”
    “You’ll never know how glad I am to see you.” She got off the stool, stepped over to the table, and leaned against it with the front of her thighs. The table came to just below the rim of her red shorts. She laid her palms flat on the table top, then slowly moved them together until they touched. I smelled that perfume and my heart rocked.
    “Wonder how the coffee’s holding out,” I said. “Plenty where that came from.” She moved away. “I’ll heat it up.” Her back was to me. “Alex.”
    “Yes?”
    “Did you hear what I said?”
    “Yes.”
    She whirled, shouted, “Good morning, Mother!”
    The old woman entered the kitchen. She carried a cane. She said, “Good morning, Mr. Bland.”
    “She’ll never say good morning to me,” Petra said. “She’s a witch. I wish to God—” She stopped, went and looked out one of the rear kitchen windows with her hands clenched before her. I couldn’t see her face. Her voice was low, throaty. “She must be a hundred years old.”
    Verne’s mother staggered in a meandering line over to the breakfast nook at the far side of the kitchen. She wore the same gray dress, I thought at first. Then I saw it was fresh, unwrinkled. A different one of the same style and color. Her white shawl. On her feet were carpet slippers that folded out at her ankles. The only sound as she walked was a faint shuffle and the light rap of the cane.
    “Petra, I’m hungry.” The old woman’s voice was full of wavers; it trembled and it was very faint. “I’ll just have a little tea. Some soda crackers in milk.”
    Petra watched her without expression.
    “Warm the milk.”
    I said, “Petra, d’you get a paper?”
    “It’s on the front porch. I didn’t bring it in yet.” As she looked at me, her eyes spoke, trying to say something. “Go look around, Alex. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
    As I left the kitchen I heard the old woman say, “Bet you gave Jenny the day off.”
    “Shut up!” Petra said. But she didn’t say it loud enough for Verne’s mother to hear.
    I found the paper and settled down in what looked like Verne’s study, across the hall from the living room. He had a large desk, so I sat there and spread the paper out on the desk. The books in the bookcases looked somehow too neatly arranged to have been read lately.
    I wondered what spot on the wall Verne beat his head against after he’d locked the door.
    Beyond large windows, autumn was violent with color. A red maple stood close beside the study and its leaves looked as if they had been sprayed with blood. I tried to read the paper. It was no go.
    The desk was clear save for a large, unstained blotter, a single pencil, and a framed picture lying face down. I looked at the picture and it was of Petra. A full-length shot. She was lying in a hammock, with one leg dangling, her hands behind her head. Without thinking, without realizing it for a moment, I suddenly knew I wanted the picture. She smiled out at me. I had to have the picture. It was a strong, abrupt desire, and for an instant conscience, will, everything vanished. Then I laid it carefully face down again and stepped away from the desk.
    “Did you like it, Alex?”
    I whirled. Petra was standing in the door, leaning against the jamb. She held her arms up, tying a white ribbon around her hair, so it bunched at the back of her head.
    “Yes. It’s a fine shot of you.”
    “Verne took it. The hammock’s still there, too. Only nobody uses it any more. It stayed out there all last winter. It’s faded now, but it used to be very bright.”
    “I’m afraid the hammock doesn’t count much in that picture.”
    She knew what I meant, but she said, “How do you mean?”
    I smiled and she smiled. Her hair looked fine tied up that