Baker Towers Read Online Free PDF Page A

She never spoke of her mother or father; when Viola asked after them, she answered in monosyllables. Still, Viola tried.
    “Your mother must be busy with the new baby,” she said.
    “I guess so.”
    Viola waited for more. She wouldn’t have known about the baby at all if, a few months back, Joyce hadn’t missed several days of school. When Viola asked if she’d been ill, Joyce said she needed to be on hand in case the baby came. “But this could go on for weeks,” said Viola. Her cheeks burned; she felt slightly ridiculous. As if I know anything about childbirth.
    “Can’t your mother simply phone the school when the time comes?” she asked. Joyce had blushed a deep red, and only then did Viola understand that the Novaks didn’t have a telephone.
    “His ship stopped in the Philippines,” said Joyce. “The people there eat raw fish and seaweed. It’s a very healthy diet. Some of them live to be a hundred. That’s what Georgie says.” She finished the last bite of cake. “That was delicious, Miss Peale. Thank you very much.”
    “You’re quite welcome.” Viola crumpled up the waxed-paper wrapping and tossed it in the dustbin. At that moment there was a knock at the door. My word, she thought, her heart racing. She felt instantly foolish. There was no rule against eating lunch with pupils.
    She opened the door. A towheaded boy stood in the hallway—hatless, in a shabby winter coat. His hands were crammed in his pockets.
    “Can I help you, young man?” she asked.
    “Sandy! What are you doing here?” Joyce rushed to the door. “This is my brother, Miss Peale. He’s supposed to be in school.”
    Viola studied the child with interest. Curly blond hair, eyes unnaturally blue. His delicate mouth looked painted on, like a doll’s. She glanced at Joyce: the wan complexion, the sharp plain face. It wasn’t fair, the family beauty wasted on a boy.
    Sandy took his hand from his pocket. “I cut myself,” he said, showing it to Joyce. “I broke a glass.”
    Joyce examined the cut. “It’s not so bad. You came all the way over here because of that?”
    “I didn’t go to school,” he said, eyeing Viola. “I had to go find the priest.”
    “What for?” said Joyce.
    “Come on,” said the boy, his eyes filling. “We have to go home.”
     
    T HEY DROVE ACROSS TOWN in Viola’s car, an ancient Ford her father had left her. Joyce had protested when Viola offered to drive them.
    “It’s a long way,” she said. “I couldn’t possibly accept.”
    “Nonsense,” said Viola. “Of course I’ll drive you.”
    They rode in silence, their breath fogging the windows. The boy rode in the rear seat. Joyce sat next to Viola, staring out the window. Her face was perfectly blank.
    As it turned out, the Novaks lived just across town, in a companyhouse in the Polish section. “You can leave us at the bottom of the hill,” said Joyce, but Viola wouldn’t hear of it. When she parked in front of the house, Joyce opened the door almost before she could engage the brake.
    “Wait,” said Viola. “I’ll come in with you.”
    “Oh, no. That’s all right.” Joyce stepped out of the car, red-faced. She glanced quickly at the house. Why, she’s ashamed, Viola thought.
    “Thank you for driving us. It was very kind of you.”
    “You’re quite welcome.” Viola hesitated. “Joyce, I’m so very sorry about your father.”
    “Thank you, Miss Peale.” Joyce took her brother’s hand and climbed the steps to the porch.
     
    A LL DAY LONG the food came. The neighbors sent chicken and dumplings, kielbasa and sauerkraut, almond cookies, loaves of bread. May Poblocki brought stuffed cabbage. Helen Wojick sent three kinds of pirogi: potato, cabbage and prune. Years before, when Rose’s mother died, the donated food had surprised her. Downtown, in the Italian neighborhood, the bereaved were given nickels and dimes to buy masses for the soul of the deceased, votive candles to burn in church.
    They ate the pirogi for