The Hope Chest Read Online Free PDF Page B

shafts of others. Buildings loomed overhead, and most of the streetlights were broken. Violet suddenly felt cold, even though it was an August night. This whole street seemed foreign and dangerous and smelled overwhelmingly of horseradish. To distract herself, Violet said, “Don't you want to be a maid, then?”
    “Would you?” said Myrtle.
    “Of course not,” said Violet. She had an odd feeling that Myrtle's situation was a little like her own—except that Violet had marriage looming in front of her and Myrtle had being a maid. But they were both caged in by other people's plans for them, with no hope of escape. Except that Violet
was
escaping.
    “I'm sorry about your parents,” Violet added belatedly. She thought about what it must be like to have both your parents dead. Father rarely spoke to her, and Mother was mostly in the business of handing out rules. They were never warm or friendly like parents she'd read about in books. Still, not having them would make the world a very strange place. Like a house without a roof.
    “Thank you,” said Myrtle with dignity.
    A sharp pickles-and-onions smell cut through thehorseradish and manure, and Violet realized how hungry she was. She looked around for the source.
    There! Violet saw a pushcart on two huge wooden wagon wheels topped by a big canvas umbrella. A kerosene lantern hanging from the umbrella pole shed just enough light for Violet to make out the words painted on the side:
Hot Dogs Lemonade.
    The warm light from the lantern made the street seem less scary. “Let's get a hot dog, Myrtle,” Violet said.
    “I don't have any money,” Myrtle said.
    “That's okay. I do.” Violet turned to the hot dog seller, a man in a long white apron and plaid cloth cap. “Two hot … er, how much are they, please?”
    “Five cents each,” the man said. He had a foreign accent. “Five cents for lemonade—you gotta drink it here, though, 'cause I only got the one glass.”
    Violet looked at the smudged glass, which he held out for her inspection, and at the open bucket of lemonade hanging on the side of the cart. She was thirsty, but …
    “Two hot dogs, please,” she said. The man took a sharp iron knife and slit two buns, then delicately plucked two red, spicy-smelling sausages out of the cart with his fingers. He slathered them with mustard and ketchup and forked sauerkraut and fried onions on top of them. “There you go, miss. Don't drop 'em.”
    Violet had always been taught that only the very lowliest of the Wrong Sort of People ate on the street, and Myrtle had apparently been taught the same thing. Theywalked for a minute in silence, breathing the delicious smell of onions. Violet's stomach growled.
    “In here,” Myrtle said. They stepped into a narrow alley crisscrossed with clotheslines overhead and gobbled the hot dogs out of public view. Violet thought nothing had ever tasted better.

Henry Street
    T HE H ENRY S TREET S ETTLEMENT H OUSE had stone steps with wrought-iron railings. At the bottom of the steps sat a group of girls playing jacks and a woman rocking a baby in a baby carriage with her foot. Violet followed Myrtle up the steps to a heavy wooden door.
    “I think we just go in,” said Myrtle.
    Violet had a lifelong training in good manners, and it did not include going into other people's houses without knocking. She hesitated, but Myrtle pushed the door open and went in. Violet followed her with some trepidation. The house had an ordinary hall, with a carpet and an umbrella stand.
    Upstairs, some people were singing. Violet couldn't understand the words. They were in a foreign language.
    Violet looked questioningly at Myrtle. Myrtle shrugged. “I've never been inside here before,” she said.
    Violet went over to one of the doors and tentatively pushed it open.
    It was a parlor, rather like the one back home had been before it was turned into Stephen's recuperation room. There were some bookshelves, a mahogany table, and a sofa and some armchairs