The Boy in the Burning House Read Online Free PDF

makes the horrible green Jello with miniature marshmallows for every church social — she phoned Father to let him know she’d seen the girl on the tracks heading up this way.”
    Snoot was curled up on the rocker by the wood-stove. Jim picked her up and held her against his face. She was full of woodstove warmth. Jim took the seat and rocked a bit. It was strange to hear his mother so chatty. Obviously, Father Fisher’s visit hadn’t just been about Ruth Rose.
    She was filling the soup tureen. Jim should have been helping but the stove and the kitten held him captive.
    â€œThe girl’s quite a problem for them, I gather. Poor Nancy.”
    Nancy was Mrs. Fisher. Ruth Rose’s mother. She was the kind of person you said “poor Nancy” about. She was in a wheelchair, but that wasn’t the reason. She had lost an unborn child in the car crash that had crippled her and killed her husband. But that wasn’t the reason, either. She seemed helpless in some other way, almost haunted. She was sweet, though. Everybody at the Church of the Blessed Transfiguration liked her a lot, remarked about what a saintly soul she was.
    Iris Hawkins carried the tureen to the table. She glanced at Jim and smiled to see him with the kitten on his lap. Then she returned to the counter for bread and butter. Reluctantly, Jim got up and washed his hands at the kitchen sink.
    They sat down. Holding his hand, bowing her head and closing her eyes, his mother said grace. Jim didn’t bow his head or close his eyes. As far as he was concerned, there was no God to thank for anything.
    Jim had filled the sky with prayers — stood out in the middle of the field on clear days so that no roof, no trees, no clouds could stop his prayers from reaching the ear of the Maker. He had promised the Almighty elaborate penance, a life dedicated to helping the poor — whatever God ordained. But God had done nothing.
    So now, Jim sat in respectful silence. The respect was for his mother.
    His mother ladled rich corn and potato chowder into his bowl. He cut thick slices of bread, poured them each a glass of water. There was still a smile playing around the edge of his mother’s face. She caught him looking at her and grinned.
    â€œWhat’s up?” he asked, taking a bowl of soup.
    She took a deep, wobbly breath. “The church…” she said, then stopped to compose herself. “The church has decided — well, almost, anyway — to assume our mortgage.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt means that if everything goes according to plan, they’re going to pay the bank the money we had to borrow this year, and we’ll pay back the church at a lower interest rate and with much better terms. Take as long as we want, was the way Father put it.” Her voice was breaking with emotion.
    When Jim didn’t reply, his mother added, “It’s a real blessing, Jim.”
    He nodded and ate some soup. He knew they had money problems. It was the reason his mother had taken the job at the soap factory. He wondered if this meant she could stop now. He didn’t ask, didn’t want to seem too eager about it in case she thought her working bothered him.
    â€œSo he didn’t just come out looking for his daughter?” he said.
    â€œOh, he was looking for her, all right. He had wanted to tell us about the mortgage business but he hadn’t wanted to mention it until it was in the bag.”
    â€œAnd it’s in the bag?”
    â€œPretty much,” said his mother, crossing her fingers. “We’re lucky, Jim, to have such a caring community.” She paused with a spoonful of soup halfway to her mouth as if she were going to say something else. Something about him going to church. But she changed her mind.
    Jim kept his thoughts to himself. They ate in silence for a moment. There was just the sound of spoonagainst bowl, the clicking that came from the