The Great Husband Hunt Read Online Free PDF

said Aunt Fish. “And time alone, in her room, to compose herself and consider what embarrassment she has caused.”
    I said, “I'm sure it wasn't me who came begging for a dead man's clothes. I'm sure we are not the ones who should feel embarrassed.”
    Ma released me from our awkward embrace.
    “They are crows, Aunt Fish,” I cried, as I fled the room. “They are crows and you are a gull for allowing them.”
    I hid for an hour inside Pa's closet, comforted a little by its smells but anxious, too, that they might be fading. When I returned to my room, a small bottle had appeared on my night table. Pryce's Soothing Extract of Hemp, recommended for cases of nervous excitement.

6
    All through June and July our household was run by Aunt Fish, and then she stayed on through the worst of the August heat wave because we had an electric fan and she did not, and she feared she might expire without it. Uncle Israel struggled on without her, quite weary I suppose of having to dine out every night and drink champagne and play cards with other poor bachelors.
    The days hung dead and hopeless. We visited no one, we had nothing to refresh our conversations, and every exchange was hobbled by unmentionable subjects. Water, travel, Europe, mustard, Iowa, money, joy, happiness, unhappiness; these were the main taboos. But to those I added my own secret list: Irish secretaries, gowns by Mr. Worth, death by drowning and ghosts.
    I was employed in a series of sewing assignments, trimming handkerchiefs with black ribbon, and turning slightly worn sheets sides to middle, a pointless exercise made all the more absurd by the fact that I had ten thumbs. In the privacy of my room, when I made clothes for my dolls and stitched them with my preferred left hand, I sewed very well indeed, but in the parlor, of course, only the use of the correct hand was permitted.
    “How awkward you look, Poppy,” Ma said. “But you must persevere.”
    While I stitched, Ma and Aunt Fish conversed. In the morning, dinner was discussed, and the social events none of us would be attending. Just once a week my aunt would tear herself away from us to attend the opera.
    “It gives me no pleasure, Dora,” she always said, “but a box cannot go to waste.”
    Otherwise the evenings were spent considering next day's luncheon and reviewing our health, two not unconnected subjects.
    “An omelette
is
very binding,” Aunt Fish would bid.
    “But celery is invigorating,” Ma would counterbid.
    My only release from this was that once a week I was allowed to visit Honey. She and Harry had a red-brick on West 74th Street with a bay window high above the street that made it lighter and more cheerful than home. The serviceable, dark plum chintz had been picked out on Ma's advice, and I now recognize, recalling the abundance of valances and frilled portieres, other signs of her hand. If society abhorred a naked door frame, who was she to argue?
    Still, I loved to visit there and play Chinese checkers and try on Honey's new hats, and she enjoyed my being there. Sometimes, without Ma around, or Harry, she could be quite gay.
    But in the fall of 1912 something changed. On my weekly visit there was no gaiety. All afternoon Honey just sat in her cushioned rocker and sucked peppermints. And the next week, and the next. It was December before I found out why. A baby was coming to live with Honey and Harry.
    This news made me very happy. I had often wished to have a brother or a puppy and Honey's baby seemed to promise a good alternative.
    “Where is it coming from?” I asked, and Honey turned scarlet.
    “A little star fell from heaven,” Ma said, “and has come to rest under her heart.”
    I had noticed that the area beneath and around Honey's heart had expanded recently, but I'd attributed this to the quantity of violet creams she ate.
    “And then what?” I asked.
    “The stork will bring it from a special baby garden,” Aunt Fish cut in.
    “Yes,” said Ma, abandoning her