September Song Read Online Free PDF Page A

myself.” He spoke without much conviction.
    â€œYou’ll have to say so yourself,” said Junior. “She won’t.”
    The truth of the matter was, it was not finished, for he kept finding fault with it, anticipating Berenice’s objections. While waiting for Wendell to pass on to his reward he twice replaced the kitchen cabinet door knobs and drawer pulls. He changed light fixtures. He fussed with this, that and everything. Nice little bungalow, he had called it; in fact, this roomy house, on which he had worked more painstakingly than on any other of his long career, gave him no satisfaction whatever. Viewing it through Berenice’s eyes, all he could see in it was all that was wrong with it.
    He found difficulty in phrasing his news that the house was ready and waiting for occupancy. It seemed to him that with it he was cutting off his sister’s husband’s life-support system and hastening her into widowhood. What he did was send her a snapshot of the house. On the back of the snapshot he wrote modestly, “Be it ever so humble.”
    They came bringing with them all their worldly goods—far too many to fit into the house, spacious as that had grown, for Berenice was one of those people who never threw anything away—in the biggest model of what Susan called a Yawl-Hawl. Berenice was at the wheel of it. Not because Wendell looked weakly but because she never let him drive.
    â€œWhat did I tell you?” said Susan to Henry. “Never sick a day. Dance on our graves.”
    â€œHe got better,” was Berenice’s explanation for Wendell. “Doctor called it a miracle.” But her smile was not for Wendell’s recovery. It was self-satisfaction in her trickery. Still playing like a cat with her prey, she would later confide, “He can’t last long.”
    At the rate Wendell used up life there was no reason for him not to last forever. He had Berenice to run interference for him. Now he would have his failing health as an excuse to exert himself even less than before. Both would have Henry, and Henry, Jr., to wait on them hand and foot.
    â€œWendell,” said Berenice.
    â€œYes, Berenice,” said Wendell.
    â€œYonder’s your new home. You can see it from here. If you look hard enough. Never mind. It can always be added on to.”

The Apple of Discord

I
    A N OLD APPLE , a rotten apple, the last one from the bottom of the barrel, shriveled, mottled: that was what his face had come to look like. It was moldy with whiskers now that shaving had become awkward for him, and he sullen and resentful and careless of his appearance. To do it at all after his accident he had had to buy this electric razor. With that clumsy right hand of his he would have peeled himself using a blade. But today was the Big Day, weeks in preparation. Today he was to give away the last of his daughters, and he must put on the best face he could for the occasion, and show that he could be gracious in defeat.
    Today’s would be the third wedding in the house in as many years. Generations of Bennetts had been married under this roof in apple blossom time, the family tradition. Now after this one there would be no more—never.
    Of his three girls the first to leave home was Ellen, the oldest. He had opposed her marriage. He opposed it not only because her intended was not what he wasn’t, an orchardman, but also because he was what he was, a preacher. He let his prospective son-in-law know just where he and his boss stood with him. Who was it who sent His sun and His rain to swell and sweeten and color the fruit on the Bennett trees? He who sent His frost and His hail and His drought and His mold and His bugs to blight and destroy it. As surely as God made little green apples? But God didn’t make them— he did, and God put all His obstacles in his way. He thought of himself with his trees as like one of those welfare mothers abandoned by the father