Riversong Read Online Free PDF Page B

fried meat and old grease. She ordered a Heath Bar Blizzard, thinking this small desolate town was similar to where she was headed. They all had Dairy Queens.
    Since Dan's death and the subsequent nightmare days and nights that followed, her skin seemed to ache all the time. She fought the urge to put her head on the counter and weep. Instead she stuffed several napkins and a straw into her purse. She watched an older couple in the corner booth. The woman, missing several teeth and gray hairs hanging from the sagged skin underneath her chin, shoved a breakfast sandwich in her mouth, all the while berating her male companion and rubbing the silver cross that hung below her ample breasts. “It's your problem,” she said. “She's nothing but a druggie. I'm not taking her brats into our house.”
    The man's skinny legs rested in the aisle because his beach ball sized stomach couldn't fit in the booth. Like a pregnant woman he rested one arm on the top of his stomach and turned the pages of a newspaper as if he couldn't hear her. He took four fries in his hand and scratched his head, leaving a layer of grease on the pink shiny scalp.
    Woozy, Lee turned to see if her order was ready. The teenager was at the drive-through window, talking into the speaker. Behind her she heard a child's yell and looked over to see toddler twins chasing each other around and between the plastic tables. The mother, bones showing under sallow skin, greasy limp hair, yellow in the whites of her eyes, stared at the wall. Her baby, trapped in the cheap wooden high chair, blubbered and held up his arms. “Mama, up. Mama, up.” Without looking at him, she threw fries onto the table in front of him. “Eat.”
    Across the restaurant the older woman huffed, her voice a harsh rasp. “Why some people don't control their monsters, I'll never know.” The mother flipped the old woman the finger.
    Lee paid for her order and left. She sat in the car, her breath fogging the windows. She thumped her head against the steering wheel several times and then, sighing, turned on the car. She dialed Ellen White's phone number from the cell phone. There was no answer, just a click from an outdated message machine with a recording of Mrs. White's voice, sounding startled. “It's Ellen. Leave a message at the beep.”
    “Hi Mrs. White. This is Lee. Just wanted to let you know I'd be there in about three or four hours. Uh, well, thanks. See you soon.”
    Ellen White had kept her promise to Lee all those years ago and looked after Eleanor. She checked on her every day, made meals, did her shopping, and paid her bills with money Lee sent every month. At the first of every month Mrs. White sent a note on plain white paper with an update on Eleanor's health and a detailed account of expenses. In a postscript she often included a personal note, written in a brief, almost telegram type style, as if the personal side of things should be kept brief. All those P.S's over the years had never failed to make Lee smile.
    Ten years ago Mrs. White had written, “P.S. Retired last month. I assume were glad to get rid of an old bat like me but gave me a grand sendoff with cake and champagne. I'll miss teaching Hemingway and such but glad to have more time to garden.”
    Lee, in turn, wrote brief notes in the same style included with the monthly checks. On her admittance to the MBA program at Wharton she'd said, “Off to graduate school to study business. The art world is fine if you don't mind starvation. Hoping to add more dollars to these checks in a couple years.”
    Mrs. White wrote back to her new address in Chicago. “P.S. I'm proud of you. Don't forget to take out those paints once in awhile just so you can remember who you are. My beans are taking over the garden – will take me a month of Sundays to can all of them.”
    From Wharton Lee wrote, “Graduate in one month. I've met a man in the program named Dan Johnson. He's full of fire and ambition. Not sure of the