St. Urbain's Horseman Read Online Free PDF Page A

big stricken brown eyes went from her son to the empty glass beside him on the floor. She brought a hand to her mouth, appalled. “Oh, my. I’ll get the C-H-I-L-D-R-E-N out of the way immediately.”
    â€œHe’s asleep,” Nancy said evenly. “He’s asleep, that’s all,” and she shut the sitting room door softly behind her.
    Jake surfaced to have his mother’s voice come clawing at him out of the kitchen. She must have Molly on her lap again, he thought.
    â€œSweetie-pie! My precious one! Beauty! Such a face. Have you ever seen such a face? Well, do you love your granny? Tell me.”
    No answer.
    â€œSay I love you. I-LOVE-YOU.”
    â€œIlubyou.”
    â€œ
You
hear?
She loves me! She loves me, the beauty.”
    â€œWould you care for some coffee, Mrs. Hersh?”
    â€œOnly if you’re making.”
    â€œBut I make coffee every morning, Mrs. Hersh.”
    â€œAnd who said no?”
    Molly began to whine.
    â€œI suppose it’s uncomfortable for her, the dirty diaper. Maybe I should wake Jake.”
    â€œJake has never changed a nappy in his life. Let’s not wake him yet. And please, Mrs. Hersh, I’m not criticizing but –”
    â€œOf course not, doll. Why should you?”
    â€œâ€“ but when Jake comes in please don’t give him the long sad look. As if this was his last day on earth. Ignore him. Let him read his newspapers.”
    â€œCertainly, doll,” Mrs. Hersh said, sighing.
    Seated with them at the kitchen table, Jake read,
    THE CRIPPLED BOY WHO
WANTS TO
BACK BRITAIN
    A 19-year-old cripple wants to back Britain but, in spite of the fact that every Thursday he goes to the local labor exchange and asks for a job, they cannot find him one.
    But for George the half-mile journey from his home in Eden Street, Kingston, Surrey, is a supreme effort, for he has a disease which makes every step difficult.
    Apart from his physical handicap he is registered as a blind person. Recently he –
    The doorbell rang.
    â€œJake!”
    Does she have to disturb him? It’s such a pleasure to see him laugh.
    Resentfully, Jake lowered his newspaper.
    â€œI’ll get it,” Mrs. Hersh said, leaping up. “Let him read.”
    â€œHe’ll get it.”
    Usually, Pilar would have answered the door. But she had picked this, of all times, to visit her family near Malaga, and so they would be without a housekeeper for another week.
    It was the postman.
    â€œGorgeous day, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI suppose you’re grateful for this sort of weather?”
    This was the flip side of a record they sometimes played. Then Jake was supposed to say, At home, I’ve seen blizzards in September, and the postman would shake his fat foolish head, astonished but grateful to have been born in such a temperate and civilized climate.
    Screw him. This morning Jake would say nothing. But the postman didn’t budge or hand over his mail.
    â€œO.K., so you’ve seen the newspapers,” Jake said.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI don’t see how you could have missed it.”
    There was, among other things, a familiar, yet all the same ominous-looking, brown envelope that had come OHMS . The tax inspector again.
    â€œI’m sure the girl’s lying,” the postman said vehemently. Then he spoiled it by adding, “You’re just not the type,” but hopefully, quizzically.
    â€œNeither was Christie,” Jake said, shutting the door.
    Molly said, “I ate my lunch.”
    â€œYou mean breakfast, you nit,” Jake said, yanking her curly blond hair.
    Molly was only four, but Sammy was seven, so it was necessary to conceal the newspapers from him. Jake retreated into the sitting room and had already begun to rip open the long brown envelope when the door began to inch open tentatively.
    â€œIs it bad news?”
    â€œI haven’t opened it yet, Maw.”
    â€œYou’re