Mrs. Kimble Read Online Free PDF Page B

with the descant?”
    No one had ever called her anything but Birdie, a childhood nickname that had stuck because of her lovely voice. Vivian fit her badly, as stiff and chafing as a new pair of shoes. His eyes were a startling blue; they watched her closely, as though he could see through her skin. Blood rushed to her face.
    “No,” she said. “I can sing it.”
    “I know you can.” He laid his hand over hers. “That’s why I gave it to you.”
    In the spring he touched her again. Rehearsal with the windows open, filling the chapel with the muddy smell of life. Birdie’s sinuses were swollen with allergies, her voice thick and nasal. She inhaled and felt a horrible squeeze in her chest. As a child she’d nearly drowned in the pond behind her house. She’d never forgotten the sensation, her lungs clutching for air and pulling in water instead. She grabbed a music stand for support and sent the pages flying, a sheaf of paper drifting to the floor.
    The reverend sat her on the piano bench. Even in her terror she was aware of his arm across her shoulders. He dismissed the classwith a wave of his hand and spoke to her in a soft voice. “Asthma,” he said. “My brother had it as a child.” He rubbed her shoulder through her blouse.
    “You have a brother?” she said. She didn’t care if he had ten of them. She would have said anything to make it last, the unexpected gift of his hand on her shoulder.
    “Used to,” he said. “He died as a child.”
    “I’m sorry,” said Birdie. And quickly, before she could be afraid, she laid her hand on his thigh. “My mother died last year.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. She wanted to lift her skirt and show him her knees, decorated with childhood scars; to tell him about the woman her father had just married, now using her mother’s things. She wanted to take off her clothes and show him everything.
    He kissed her on the mouth.
    They were married on a Saturday morning in June, the day before her nineteenth birthday. She was three months’ pregnant, not yet showing. They drove to a country church in North Carolina, where the pastor preached in shirtsleeves and owned a strawberry farm across the way. After the ceremony he sold Ken an old pickup truck for two hundred dollars. A week later they drove it to Pullman, Missouri, to live with Ken’s parents. He’d been fired from Hambley; they had nowhere else to go.

C harlie hated baths, but for a long time his mother had let him alone. Then one morning he heard the water running, landing loudly in the tub.
    “Charlie Kimble,” his mother called. “You get in here this instant.” His sister splashed in the water, dressed in soap suds. “Go on now,” said his mother. “We haven’t got all day.”
    Charlie shucked his shirt and pants and stepped into the tub. He knew there was no fighting it. Yet it was strange: he had never in his memory taken a bath in the morning. It didn’t make sense. The whole point, he thought, was to go to bed clean.
    His mother kneeled down beside the tub and rubbed the soap with a washcloth. Her hair was rolled in plastic curlers; pins crisscrossed at her hairline.
    “Lord,” she said. “You’re filthy. You look like a little Indian.” She took his arm and rubbed it with the cloth. “This is just a lick and a promise. We have to get you to the Semples’.”
    No, he thought. It was a clear, sunny morning; he’d started adding rocks to the dam in the creek. He knew a hundred betterthings to do than sitting on the sunporch with Miss Semple and her ancient mother.
    “I don’t want to,” he said.
    “I’m afraid you don’t have any say in the matter. Rinse.”
    Charlie obeyed, sliding under the water up to his chin. “Why can’t we have Dinah?” he asked. Any time his mother and father had gone out at night, Dinah Whitacre had come to sit for them. She was fourteen and danced to songs on the radio. She cooked frozen pizzas and let Charlie stay up as late as he