The Persian Pickle Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

know how I hate tramps.”
    “They’re not tramps, Queenie.”
    The way he said it made me look up at him. “Well, gypsies, then. It’s almost the same thing.”
    “No, they’re not gypsies, either. Not these folks. They’re just people, hill people, down-and-out. They’re pretty near as broke as anybody I ever saw.”
    “You told them to move on, didn’t you?”
    “No,” he said, rubbing the little port-wine spot on his chin.
    “We can’t have people like that camping on our land.”
    “What do you mean, ‘people like that’?” Grover asked. He moved his hand away from mine and picked up a hermit and bit it in half, spilling crumbs on the table. “They’re people like Ruby and Floyd. People like you and me.”
    “Don’t say that.”
    Grover ate the other half, then picked at the crumbs on the cloth, putting them into his mouth. “Whether you like it or not, they are. There but for the grace of God—”
    “Don’t you preach to me, Grover. Are you going to tell them to move on?” I interrupted. Grover looked at me so long without replying that he made me nervous. So I got up and took out another glass from the cupboard, then poured myself some buttermilk, but I don’t know why, because I hate buttermilk. Grover took the glass out of my hand and set it on the table. “You hate buttermilk,” he said. “Look at me.”
    Grover didn’t tell me what to do very often, so I looked at him.
    “Queenie, these people aren’t moochers. They’re just about our age, with a boy no more than six or seven years old and a baby. They’re in need, and it’s our Christian duty to help them.”
    “You sound like Lizzy Olive,” I told him. And when I said it, I thought, No, he doesn’t, but I do.
    “That’s not you talking, Queenie. I met these people. There’s nothing wrong with them except they’re broke. I’m sorry for them, and I want to tell them they can camp out there on the creek until they’re ready to move on. Maybe we could offer them the hired man’s cabin.”
    I just stared at Grover.
    “We’ve got no use for it,” he said. “There’s no reason in the world some family in need can’t live in it for a bit.”
    “Are you telling me or asking me? I guess it’s your farm, so you can do what you want to with it.”
    Grover sighed, and I could tell he was disappointed. “I’m asking, Queenie. It’s
our
farm. You know that. I’m not saying you have to invite them over to supper or to let them join your stitch-and-itch club.” He’d started calling it that this summer because the chiggers were so bad. When I didn’t laugh, Grover added, “I’ll tell them to move along if you really want me to.”
    I don’t like to go against Grover, but sometimes he can be a sap, believing every hard-luck story he hears. He could call those squatters anything he wanted, but they were tramps to me. “There was a man and wife in Missouri who got killed when a tramp set fire to their farmhouse. They’d chased him off, and he waited until dark, then burned them alive. When he got caught, he said he wasn’t sorry. I read it in the newspaper last week.”
    “These folks won’t hurt anybody, Queenie. I promise.”
    “You can’t promise any such thing, because you don’t know them,” I told him.
    “Well, I know you, don’t I? You wouldn’t turn your back on a less fortunate, and that’s just what they are.”
    “If you want to help the less fortunates, what about Tom and Rita? We ought to extend a hand to our own kind first.”
    “Tom and Rita may not have money, but they aren’t poor. Besides, they don’t want to throw up a tent on the creek.”
    There was no use fussing with Grover when he had his mind made up, so I said, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to take a look at them.”
    Grover reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I misspoke about the shack. All I’m asking is that you let them camp here for a while. If you still think they’re tramps after you meet them, I’ll