Selected Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

the cleanness, the wiped and swept surfaces, there is a faint sour smell—maybe of the dishrag or the tin dipper or the oilcloth, or the old lady, because there is one, sitting in an easy chair under the clock shelf. She turns her head slightly in our direction and says, “Nora? Is that company?”
    “Blind,” says Nora in a quick explaining voice to my father. Then, “You won’t guess who it is, Momma. Hear his voice.”
    My father goes to the front of her chair and bends and says hopefully, “Afternoon, Mrs. Cronin.”
    “Ben Jordan,” says the old lady with no surprise. “You haven’t been to see us in the longest time. Have you been out of the country?”
    My father and Nora look at each other.
    “He’s married, Momma,” says Nora cheerfully and aggressively. “Married and got two children and here they are.” She pulls us forward, makes each of us touch the old lady’s dry, cool hand while she says our names in turn. Blind! This is the first blind person I have ever seen close up. Her eyes are closed, the eyelids sunk away down, showing no shape of the eyeball, just hollows. From one hollow comes a drop of silver liquid, a medicine, or a miraculous tear.
    “Let me get into a decent dress,” Nora says. “Talk to Momma. It’s a treat for her. We hardly ever see company, do we, Momma?”
    “Not many makes it out this road,” says the old lady placidly. “And the ones that used to be around here, our old neighbors, some of them have pulled out.”
    “True everywhere,” my father says.
    “Where’s your wife then?”
    “Home. She’s not too fond of the hot weather, makes her feel poorly.”
    “Well.” This is a habit of country people, old people, to say “well,” meaning, “Is that so?” with a little extra politeness and concern.
    Nora’s dress, when she appears again—stepping heavily on Cuban heels down the stairs in the hall—is flowered more lavishly than anything my mother owns, green and yellow on brown, some sort of floating sheer crêpe, leaving her arms bare. Her arms are heavy, and every bit of her skin you can see is covered with little dark freckles like measles. Her hair is short, black, coarse and curly, her teeth very white and strong. “It’s the first time I knew there was such a thing as green poppies,” my father says, looking at her dress.
    “You would be surprised all the things you never knew,” says Nora, sending a smell of cologne far and wide when she moves and displaying a change of voice to go with the dress, something more sociable and youthful. “They’re not poppies anyway, they’re just flowers. You go and pump me some good cold water and I’ll make these children a drink.” She gets down from the cupboard a bottle of Walker Brothers Orange syrup.
    “You telling me you were the Walker Brothers man!”
    “It’s the truth, Nora. You go and look at my sample cases in the car if you don’t believe me. I got the territory directly south of here.”
    “Walker Brothers? Is that a fact? You selling for Walker Brothers?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “We always heard you were raising foxes over Dungannon way.”
    “That’s what I was doing, but I kind of run out of luck in that business.”
    “So where’re you living? How long’ve you been out selling?”
    “We moved into Tuppertown. I been at it, oh, two, three months.It keeps the wolf from the door. Keeps him as far away as the back fence.”
    Nora laughs. “Well, I guess you count yourself lucky to have the work. Isabel’s husband in Brantford, he was out of work the longest time. I thought if he didn’t find something soon I was going to have them all land in here to feed, and I tell you I was hardly looking forward to it. It’s all I can manage with me and Momma.”
    “Isabel married,” my father says. “Muriel married too?”
    “No, she’s teaching school out West. She hasn’t been home for five years. I guess she finds something better to do with her holidays. I would if I was