The Recycled Citizen Read Online Free PDF Page B

grouped around yellow plastic-topped tables. A long counter at the back, also plastic-topped, held a couple of big urns and enough cups and saucers to stock a tea shop. They were real cups and saucers, Sarah noticed, not thick institutional mugs. Mary had used far more plastic than she’d wanted to in the decorating because it was the only way to keep the place clean, but she’d drawn the line at utility china.
    Attractive green draperies were looped back from freshly washed windows. Between them a big vase of chrysanthemums from the Kelling estate sat next to a discreet green and gold sign announcing that this was in truth the Senior Citizens’ Recycling Center. A tipped-over SCRC collecting bag with some debris spilling out of it in a tasteful and decorative manner completed the window display and served as a visual aid to those who couldn’t read the sign. Mary thought of everything.
    A number of the members were sitting around the tables drinking coffee or tea and chatting. Others were playing checkers or dominoes and getting more advice than they wanted from onlookers. One man sat alone with his eyeglasses down near the tip of his nose, reading a church magazine. Perhaps this was the man who preached, getting some ideas for Chet Arthur’s funeral sermon.
    Though the day was still young, members were already coming in with full bags and being ushered into the back room, not by Osmond Loveday but by an affable hostess wearing a dress that Sarah recognized with some sense of shock as having once belonged to her own mother. When they opened the center, Mary had gone around the family scrounging respectable hand-me-downs and Sarah had been delighted to unload. It was interesting to see the old duds still going strong.
    The woman wouldn’t be a paid employee but one of the SCRC members putting in some volunteer time. She’d be recompensed with, a discreet gift of hosiery, underwear, another hand-me-down, a hot bath and a haircut, or whatever she happened to be most urgently in need of at the moment. Dolph was too wily to start paying for services at the low rate the center’s budget would allow and risk falling afoul of the regulations that beset employers. Those who chose to work at the center were content with this arrangement; those who preferred cash could earn it by selling their salvage. Most did a little of each.
    Part of Mr. Loveday’s job, Sarah assumed, would be to keep track of the volunteers’ schedules. He’d have rubber stamps, no doubt, to mark their time cards. Mr. Loveday had always had a passion for rubber stamps. Sarah remembered how intrigued she’d been as a child by the neat rack of them he’d kept on his desk.
    Her parents had taken her to Great-uncle Frederick’s office up behind the State House every so often. They’d always insisted she save half her weekly ten-cent allowance, to teach her the New England virtue of thrift. When she’d saved up enough to make the excursion worthwhile, she was given the privilege of bringing it to Mr. Loveday and forking it over to whatever cause Uncle Frederick was espousing at the moment. This was to teach her the particularly Brahmin virtue of public charity.
    Sarah hadn’t thought much of her parents’ teaching methods, and she’d especially resented the fact that Mr. Loveday would never let her play with his stamps! She’d never protested because children weren’t supposed to, but the grievance had rankled.
    Sure enough, Mr. Loveday was stamping something, with a finicky dab and his little finger sticking out straight, just as he always had. He might as well have been a goldfish, in his glassed-off corner. No doubt it made sense for him to have a place where he could work undisturbed and still keep an eye on what was happening in the room; but Sarah knew perfectly well the old prune had insisted on being separated because he really didn’t like being so close to the people who provided a reason for him to keep working for the Kellings.
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