it tied my tongue, though he wasn’t a bit conceited. I felt sorry for him, too, what with what was going on in Europe. Only yesterday we’d gotten news of a second Czech village burned to the ground by the Nazis in retaliation for harboring enemy agents. That made me think of Rachel and her family, and I had to remind myself to put them out of my mind, for the sake of my sanity. I’d done what I could for them.
Joe rescued us from silence.
‘Want to go into the sitting room and listen to the radio?’ he asked. ‘Kate Smith is on. I’ve had enough news for a while.’
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but then I’ll have to knit. I pity the GI who has to wear a pair of socks I’ve made.’
‘It won’t matter, as long as they’re warm.’
A crack of lightning shook the house, and the heavens opened, discharging the moisture that saturated the air during the day. A few minutes later Henry Post burst into the kitchen, furling his umbrella.
‘That was close,’ he said.
‘Have you had supper?’ I asked. ‘There’s ham and stuff in the refrigerator,’ I added quickly, so he wouldn’t think I was offering to fix him something. Damn it, I paid the same rent Henry did and he could make his own sandwiches, the same as the rest of us.
‘I’ve eaten,’ he said. ‘I waited in line at a diner for an hour. There was only one waitress. It was all she could do to take everyone’s order. We had to pick up our own plates from the kitchen.’
Ada Herman and I lived on the second floor of Mrs Knox’s boarding house, in Milt Jr. and Tom Knox’s old bedrooms. We shared the floor’s single bathroom with their mother, Phoebe Knox, who occupied the large master bedroom at the front of the house. Mrs Knox must have had some money left after the Depression, even though her husband tragically drowned – Phoebe’s euphemism for his suicide – the day after the stock market crashed, because she managed to keep the house and raise her sons. And she could have squeezed twice the boarders she had into her home. Both Ada and I could have room-mates if we moved the boys’ desks out of our rooms. Joe and Henry shared an old servant’s room on the third floor, but the box room and cedar closet on the same floor could be converted to bedrooms. Joe and Henry’s room had a cold-water sink, I figured, because the pipe that fed it ran up a corner of my room, near my bed. I didn’t believe there was a full bathroom up there because both men took their baths in the copper tub in the laundry room, and I think they shared a chemical toilet. I’d seen one or the other of them carrying a pot out to the old outhouse on several early mornings.
Dellaphine’s bedroom and bathroom, which she shared with her daughter Madeleine, were in the daylight half of the basement. The laundry was in the dark half at the front of the house. The Knox house was at the end of the block, so it had a porch and a bigger yard than its neighbors. I didn’t know how anyone could live without a screened porch. If it weren’t for the men, I’d sleep out there every night.
I was almost asleep when Ada came in, too late to fire up her record player, thank goodness. I was a fan of Frank Sinatra, who wasn’t, but I’d heard ‘Blue Skies’ enough to last me the rest of my life.
After last night’s rain shower it was cool on the porch, where I sat drinking coffee and eating a biscuit spread thinly with some of Dellaphine’s last pot of home-made strawberry jam. The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead. I resolved to have a quiet day, stay out of the heat, read Five Little Pigs , maybe fix myself a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich for lunch. And on Saturday night everyone in the house knew the radio in the sitting room was mine. The Grand Ole Opry was my only relief from Glenn Miller and his kind. Not that I didn’t like swing and jazz, it’s just that I missed hillbilly music.
Ada slammed the porch door behind her. Ada was a busty woman in her thirties with
Joe rescued us from silence.
‘Want to go into the sitting room and listen to the radio?’ he asked. ‘Kate Smith is on. I’ve had enough news for a while.’
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘but then I’ll have to knit. I pity the GI who has to wear a pair of socks I’ve made.’
‘It won’t matter, as long as they’re warm.’
A crack of lightning shook the house, and the heavens opened, discharging the moisture that saturated the air during the day. A few minutes later Henry Post burst into the kitchen, furling his umbrella.
‘That was close,’ he said.
‘Have you had supper?’ I asked. ‘There’s ham and stuff in the refrigerator,’ I added quickly, so he wouldn’t think I was offering to fix him something. Damn it, I paid the same rent Henry did and he could make his own sandwiches, the same as the rest of us.
‘I’ve eaten,’ he said. ‘I waited in line at a diner for an hour. There was only one waitress. It was all she could do to take everyone’s order. We had to pick up our own plates from the kitchen.’
Ada Herman and I lived on the second floor of Mrs Knox’s boarding house, in Milt Jr. and Tom Knox’s old bedrooms. We shared the floor’s single bathroom with their mother, Phoebe Knox, who occupied the large master bedroom at the front of the house. Mrs Knox must have had some money left after the Depression, even though her husband tragically drowned – Phoebe’s euphemism for his suicide – the day after the stock market crashed, because she managed to keep the house and raise her sons. And she could have squeezed twice the boarders she had into her home. Both Ada and I could have room-mates if we moved the boys’ desks out of our rooms. Joe and Henry shared an old servant’s room on the third floor, but the box room and cedar closet on the same floor could be converted to bedrooms. Joe and Henry’s room had a cold-water sink, I figured, because the pipe that fed it ran up a corner of my room, near my bed. I didn’t believe there was a full bathroom up there because both men took their baths in the copper tub in the laundry room, and I think they shared a chemical toilet. I’d seen one or the other of them carrying a pot out to the old outhouse on several early mornings.
Dellaphine’s bedroom and bathroom, which she shared with her daughter Madeleine, were in the daylight half of the basement. The laundry was in the dark half at the front of the house. The Knox house was at the end of the block, so it had a porch and a bigger yard than its neighbors. I didn’t know how anyone could live without a screened porch. If it weren’t for the men, I’d sleep out there every night.
I was almost asleep when Ada came in, too late to fire up her record player, thank goodness. I was a fan of Frank Sinatra, who wasn’t, but I’d heard ‘Blue Skies’ enough to last me the rest of my life.
After last night’s rain shower it was cool on the porch, where I sat drinking coffee and eating a biscuit spread thinly with some of Dellaphine’s last pot of home-made strawberry jam. The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead. I resolved to have a quiet day, stay out of the heat, read Five Little Pigs , maybe fix myself a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich for lunch. And on Saturday night everyone in the house knew the radio in the sitting room was mine. The Grand Ole Opry was my only relief from Glenn Miller and his kind. Not that I didn’t like swing and jazz, it’s just that I missed hillbilly music.
Ada slammed the porch door behind her. Ada was a busty woman in her thirties with
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