Summer of the Gypsy Moths Read Online Free PDF

The room was barely big enough for two twin beds and a narrow bureau under the window between them. A row of hooks hung over one bed, and a bookshelf over the other. George dumped the linens on a bed. “There’s a backup set of everything, means you don’t have to do the wash at changeover time. Store the extras up in the main house, otherwise they get musty—can’t help it in the cottages, no heat, so close to the water. That’s the next thing….” George nodded out toward the kitchen. “We’ll have to give the counters and cabinets in the kitchens and bathrooms a good wash. They’re all cleaned in September, but things get a little moldy over the winter—”
    â€œBleach kills mold!” If I hadn’t still been so nervous, I would never have blurted that out with Angel standingthere. I bit my lip before I could say anything else, but it was too late—Angel was rolling her eyes, setting up for a sarcastic remark about Heloise.
    But George spoke before it came to her. “That’s right. That’s exactly what we use. It’s in the shed. I don’t leave it out, all these kids coming,” he said. “What’d you say your name was?”
    I told him.
    â€œStella. ‘Stella by Starlight.’ I’ll remember that.”
    And then I didn’t care that Angel was in the room. “You know that song? My father named me after that! He thought it was the prettiest song in the world.”
    â€œIt is—that’s the truth,” George said. “Pretty song for a pretty girl.” He dropped his head then, as if he was worried he’d said something wrong. I smiled at him to show him he hadn’t, and he smiled back—a nice smile, which crinkled his eyes nearly closed. “Your daddy’s got good taste,” he said.
    I fought to keep my smile in place, but my mouth filled with salty water, as if I’d been hit by a wave.
    â€œOh, now…oh, now, sorry,” George said. He took a step toward me, and then shoved his hands into his pockets. “Stupid of me…. I guess if you’re here, he’s not…I’m sorry.”
    I swallowed. “It’s okay. I never knew him. Bleach andsoap,” I said. “I’ll start in the bathroom.” And I walked out, keeping my back straight.
    In the bathroom, though, I forgot about everything. I know it sounds crazy to think that a tiny bathroom could fill a person with joy, but this one did. The pine boarding was painted a pale yellow, the color of butter. Whenever I’d pictured the perfect house, it was this exact color. The shelves and windowsills were whitewashed, and the curtains were checkered crisp blue and white. I raised the window and a breeze immediately pillowed the curtains out, as if the room had been waiting all these months to take a nice breath of fresh air.
    The bathroom reminded me of a summer day at the beach, with all those sunny colors and the salty breeze. And with all those seashells.
    A huge clamshell, cupped like a palm, sat beside the sink ready to hold a bar of soap. Drifts of various shells ran along the windowsill and the long, narrow shelf that spanned the whole wall; they were mounded on top of the medicine cabinet and heaped at the clawed foot of the sink. I wondered how many kids it had taken over how many summers to fill this bathroom.
    I picked up a little moon snail shell. It spiraled down, as if it knew where it was going, as if the center of all things was right inside itself. I had a funny urge to swallow it,to make all that perfect wholeness part of me. Instead, I pressed it to my cheek, felt its cool, smooth thinness, and closed my eyes.
    Suddenly I was aware of someone in the doorway. I dropped the shell, and it cracked on the tile floor.
    George set a jug of bleach down and gathered up the pieces and laid them back on the shelf.
    â€œI broke it,” I said. “And it was so