Bedbugs Read Online Free PDF Page B

smoothing out the miniature party dresses on their pink plastic Cinderella hangers and arranging them carefully when she heard the excited clamor from downstairs, as Marni and Emma stomped inside. Downstairs she heard all about the Brooklyn Children’s Museum, which apparently featured a working greenhouse, a delightfully scary collection of snakes, and a fully functional pretend pizza restaurant.
    “And how was the bus ride back, sweets?” Susan asked, crouching to wipe a smudge of yogurt from Emma’s cheek.
    “Oh, actually? She was super worn out,” said Marni. “So we took a car home. I hope that’s OK.”
    Susan went to find her purse, and forked over another nine bucks.
    *
    When Emma was up from her nap, Susan got her dressed and they went out together, with no fewer than three shopping lists: one for the hardware store, one for the drug store, and one marked “misc.” On the front stoop, holding Emma in her arms and balancing the stroller on her back, Susan nearly tripped over Andrea, who was seated on the top step with her legs folded beneath her and the
Times
spread out on her lap.
    “Whoa. God, sorry, Andrea.”
    “No, look at me, I couldn’t be more in the way!”
    Andrea was wearing oversized old-lady sunglasses, studded along the stems with rhinestones. Susan was always seeing glasses like them in secondhand shops and wishing she had the kitschy nerve to sport a pair. “So? Are we Brooklynites now? Are we finding everything OK?”
    “I think so. Wait, no. Butcher?”
    “Oh, yes. The place to go is called Staubitz. It’s down Court Street, just past Kane, I think. Or just before. Anyway, it’s down there somewhere. Should I draw you a map?”
    “No, no.”
    Emma squirmed in her arms. “We’re going, love. We’re going.”
    “Some people like Los Paisanos, on Smith, but if you ask me those people are idiots. Staubitz is the place, and tell John I sent you.”
    “I will. Are you OK?”
    She had noticed that Andrea was holding her hip, shifting her position laboriously from one buttock to the other.
    “Oh, you know. This and that, dear. The equipment is old. Still works, but it’s old.” She gave Emma her big comedienne’s wink,which Emma returned enthusiastically.
    Susan smiled. “So, Staubitz?”
    “Staubitz.”
    She gave Andrea a little mock salute and continued down the steps. Halfway down Cranberry Street, she remembered the person she’d seen, or maybe imagined seeing, lurking in the backyard on Sunday night, staring up at the house.
    She stopped and turned back. “Oh, hey, Andrea?”
    But the door was just closing; Andrea had slipped back inside.
    *
    Tuesday began on an unexpectedly delightful note: Emma woke up early, and Susan, feeling unusually well rested and at ease, decided they should whip up a batch of cookies. Emma, naturally, thought this was pretty much the best idea she’d ever heard. They spent a happy and loud half hour, clanging around the kitchen in matching polka-dot aprons, mixing, pouring, and giggling, until Alex came down for his coffee at 7:45 to find both wife and daughter flour-caked and giddy.
    “Oo! They’re ready! They’re ready!” announced Emma, dancing in front of the oven while Alex yawned and scratched his butt.
    Susan slipped on an oven mitt, pulled out the tray, and handed Emma a sample, which she ate in one bite before throwing her arms around her mother’s waist. Susan sipped her own coffee, shot Alex a grin. “What can I say? The kid loves me.”
    Four hours later, Susan was bustling about in the master bedroom, hanging a few small framed photographs and waiting for the cable guy, when she was struck by a strong pang of guilt and self-recrimination.It was all well and good to take on these endless logistical rounds—shopping, unpacking, hanging pictures, hanging clothes—but when was she going to set up her easel and do some painting?
    That’s right, mess around forever
, whispered the accusatory inner voice she knew too well, arch