Miss Lizzie Read Online Free PDF Page A

my stepmother’s social equal; particularly not now, with the tavern, in this first year of prohibition, being operated illegally. But, strictly speaking, my stepmother had no social equals: She saw the world as divided into those above her—the very rich—and those beneath her—everyone else. What Mrs. Mortimer lacked in refinement she made up in subservience and availability.
    â€œHorses sweat,” my stepmother announced, “and men perspire, but women glow.”
    â€œWell, in that case,” said I, spiteful child, “I’m glowing like a pig.”
    Mrs. Mortimer tittered.
    I walked over to the stove and lifted the lid off the pot sitting there. Oatmeal. Again.
    â€œDon’t encourage her, Esther,” my stepmother said. “Amanda, why do you insist upon being disgusting?”
    Obviously it was not a question that could be answered without starting a fight. I took a bowl from the cupboard and scooped into it some of the glutinous oatmeal. “Has William come down yet?” I asked.
    â€œNo,” said my stepmother. “And if he doesn’t get himself down here soon I’m going to go upstairs and pin his ears back.”
    I was careful not to snort: William, over six feet tall and weighing nearly two hundred pounds, was an unlikely prospect for ear pinning.
    I opened the icebox door, lifted out a bottle of milk, pried off the cardboard cap, started to pour some over the oatmeal—
    â€œShake the bottle first,” said my stepmother.
    â€œBut I like the cream,” I said. This was in the days before homogenization, and at the top of the bottle there was always a small sweet conic section of cream.
    â€œ You like, you like. Don’t you ever think about anybody but yourself?” She wanted the cream, of course, for her coffee.
    Sighing, I put the cap back on and shook the bottle. I took the cap off again, poured the milk over the oatmeal, put the cap on once more and returned the bottle to the icebox. I carried the bowl to the table and sat down opposite my stepmother, with Mrs. Mortimer to my right.
    Mrs. Mortimer asked me brightly, “Are you having a nice summer, Amanda?”
    â€œI was until it got so hot.” I spooned sugar over the oatmeal. “How is Mr. Mortimer?”
    She bobbed her head again. “Very well, thank you.”
    â€œCan I have some coffee?” I asked my stepmother.
    â€œ May I have some coffee.”
    â€œ May I have some coffee?”
    â€œNo,” she said, “you may not.” Her face was expressionless; one of the differences between adults and children is that adults do not admit the pleasure they derive from petty triumphs. “If your father wants to let you have coffee on Sunday,” she said, “that’s his business. He knows I don’t approve. But as long as it’s my responsibility, I refuse to damage your health. It’s a medical fact that caffeine can stunt your growth. Look at your brother.”
    â€œBut William never drank coffee.”
    She nodded, smug. “Exactly.”
    A sudden loud clatter at the front of the house told us that William himself was hurtling down the stairs. A few seconds later he came rushing into the room, dressed all in dazzling white—shirt, slacks, shoes. His black hair slicked back with brilliantine, his smile agleam, he looked (to a sister at any rate) like a younger, taller version of Douglas Fairbanks. “Sorry, folks,” he said. “Can’t stay. Hi, Mrs. Mortimer. Gotta run over to Andy’s. We’re taking his jalopy up the coast for a picnic.”
    â€œSit down for a minute, William,” said my stepmother.
    â€œGee, Audrey, I can’t, I haven’t got—”
    â€œYou sit down,” she said, and her mouth was grim, “or you’ll regret it.”
    She had never spoken to either of us that way before. William looked at me, puzzled; as surprised as he, I shrugged and shook my