Mrs. Kimble Read Online Free PDF Page A

Through her white blouse Birdie could see thethick straps of her brassiere. She felt her own disadvantage: breasts hanging soft under her stained housedress, her breath stale, her armpits slightly oniony. She stepped aside and let the woman in.
     
    T HE COUNTY WOMAN took milk in her tea, a bad sign of things to come.
    “I’m afraid I’m fresh out,” said Birdie.
    The woman peered over Birdie’s shoulder into the empty refrigerator.
    “It’s my market day,” said Birdie. “I’m out of everything.” The four bottles of wine were on the back porch, safe in her handcart. The one thing she’d done right, thank you Lord. She closed the refrigerator door and carried the tea to the table.
    “I’m sorry to come by unannounced,” said the woman. “I tried to call, but the phone company said you were disconnected.” She eyed the stack of bills on the table.
    Birdie flushed. It was the redhead’s curse, the transparent skin that hid nothing, not pleasure, inebriation, or shame. “That’s nonsense,” she said. “I called my sister this morning and it worked fine.” In fact she had no sister, hadn’t picked up the phone in weeks, couldn’t remember the last time it had rung.
    The woman frowned. “That’s odd.” She had a large nose, a faint mustache as fine as dust.
    Birdie smiled. “People make mistakes.”
    “I suppose so, yes.” The county woman stirred delicately at her tea. “Mrs. Kimble, I have to be honest with you. We’ve gotten calls from some of your neighbors. Folks are concerned about your children.”
    Birdie put down her cup. A splash of tea landed in her lap.
    “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “The children are fine.”
    The woman smiled. “I’m sure they are. They almost always are. But two different people have called, so of course we have to check.”
    “Of course.” Birdie wondered who would dare. Miss Semple, the nosy old maid across the street. Or Beckwith’s fat wife—he might have told her what had happened at the store.
    The county woman leaned forward in her chair. “Your husband works at one of the colleges, is that right?”
    “Yes,” said Birdie. “He’s the assistant chaplain at Pennington.”
    “May I speak to him?”
    “He isn’t at home.”
    “He isn’t?” The woman raised her eyebrows. “I figured he would be. The summer and all.”
    Birdie went to the sink. She wet a tea towel and rubbed the spot on her dress. She breathed deeply at the open window. The woman’s perfume was making her queasy, sweet and fruity like summer garbage.
    “He isn’t at home,” said Birdie. “He’s in Missouri visiting his parents. His father is very ill.” She flapped the hem of her dress to dry it. “He won’t be back for another week.”
    “That’s too bad,” said the woman. “Too bad you couldn’t have gone with him.”
    Birdie listened to the dripping faucet, the clock ticking loudly on the wall. The county woman pushed her cup and saucer away. “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’d like to see the children.”
    Birdie imagined twisting the woman’s bulbous nose until it came off in her hand. “Charlie is outside playing.”
    The woman looked at the clock. “It’s lunchtime.”
    “We already ate. Josephine is taking her nap.”
    “I’ll be very quiet.” The woman stood and smoothed her jacket where it creased across her lap. Her belly was large and low. A mother’s apron, Birdie thought, a phrase she remembered from long ago. She rose from her chair. Her bruised knee pulsed like a second heart. She led the way through the living room, stepping carefully around the train set, the wooden blocks. Jody was asleep in her crib. Her long eyelashes lay like butterflies on her cheeks; her small hand jammed in her mouth.
    “There’s my angel,” Birdie murmured.
    “How old is she?”
    “Three and change. Four in November.”
    The woman’s eyes darted around the room, resting on the diaper pail beside the crib. “She always wear a diaper? Or just