Apron Strings Read Online Free PDF

seemed to know. Mrs. Mason held her gloved hand out for me to inspect the bracelet.
    “This charm came from Russia. Look what it does,” she said. She felt around the small golden sphere for an invisible catch. The charm sprung open to reveal six tiny picture frames. The pictures were so small the people could have been anyone. Mrs. Mason said they were her children and her grandbabies.
    She let me inspect the pictures for some time. Of all of my mother’s “tea party” friends, Mrs. Mason was my favorite. She was pretty, but old—probably around fifty—though she didn’t act that old. She smiled more than most old women, and her smile never seemed fake. She didn’t smell old, either; more like loose powder and faint flowers.
    She lit a cigarette. “What are you doing to keep yourself busy this summer?” she asked. Mrs. Mason exhaled smoke over my head as she tilted her’s to catch my response.
    “I don’t know,” I replied absently. “Nothin’.” I tried to think of another topic that might interest her. I patted her arm gently. “Well, Miz Mason,” I said, “how’s your pig?”
    A trail of smoke escaped her lips. She smiled, her forehead crinkled with confusion and amusement. “Pig?” she asked. “Honey, I don’t have a pig. Where on earth would you come up with a notion like that?”
    I blushed, flustered. I tried to recall details from my mother’s conversation. “You know, the one that gets all sunburned,” I offered. “The one the doctor said you can’t take outside anymore unless she’s wearing a hat and gloves.” Mrs. Mason’s expression was still puzzled, but no longer amused.
    She laughed nervously. Just then my mother appeared. “A pig, Sallee?” Mrs. Mason asked. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” She eyed my mother suspiciously.
    “Sallee Mackey, you apologize this instant!” my mother commanded. She looked earnestly at Mrs. Mason. “Dorothy, I am so sorry. I don’t know what I am going to do with this child. There are times when she can’t tell fact from her own stories. I don’t know how she comes up with this stuff.”
    Mrs. Mason stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette, the charms of her bracelet jingled and banged against the ashtray. “No doubt she is only repeating something she has heard,” she said, not looking at my mother. “Ginny, it’s been a lovely party, but I really must be going.” After she gathered up her purse and cigarettes, Mrs. Mason turned to me. “In the future, young lady, you would be well advised not to ask so many questions.”
    “I’m sorry,” I sputtered. Mrs. Mason brushed past me. The other guests hadn’t noticed a thing. My mother swooped down, grabbed my arm, and escorted me to the parlor door hissing like a mad goose. I scurried upstairs in shame. In that instant I was jealous of Stuart. She didn’t care what our mother thought of her. I wished somehow I had her distance, her cool detachment.
    When my mother walked into the kitchen later that night as we were eating dinner, I noticed Ethel quickly tipped out the contents of a tin cup into the sink. The cup must’ve been nearly full. She refilled it with water from the faucet and took a sip. She placed the cup back beside her on the sink and continued washing the tea party dishes. My mother leaned against the counter.
    “I love those old girls,” she said, “but dear Lord, it is getting harder and harder to entertain them. And Betty Chambers, who calls herself my best friend, won’t even come.” She mimicked Miss Chambers in a high-pitched voice. “‘Oh, Ginny, you are such a darling to keep inviting them, but who has tea anymore, really?’” Then she answered in her own voice, “Della Eades, that’s who, though she gets more food on her dress than in her mouth, poor dear.”
    Ethel chuckled as she finished drying the teapot. She began to stack the cups and saucers on a tray.
    “Well, I guess I’ll have to consider it my civic duty,” my