Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh Read Free Book Online Page B

she missed Ken’s father, the helpless old reverend who’d watched her adoringly while she fed him. She found city life unsettling; walking alone downtown, the sheer volume of strangers intimidated her, the endless parade of faces she’d never seen before and would never see again. She rarely left the house; she had no one to talk to except the students who phoned each day to ask Ken’s advice. Birdie began to recognize certain voices: the stammer, the Texas drawl. A particular girl called often, first several times a week, then every day. “This is Moira Snell,” she announced each time, as if Birdie should recognize her name. Her husky voice became as familiar as that of the weather girl, a plump little blonde who stood in front of a Virginia map on television.
    Then one morning the husky-voiced girl came to the house. She looked nothing like the weather girl: she was tall and thin, her eyes rimmed with dark liner, her hair the color of molasses, hanging straight and shiny down her back. She wore blue jeans and a blouse that left her shoulders bare. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
    “My husband has already left for work,” Birdie told her; but the girl hadn’t come to see Ken. She looked Birdie right in the eye. Her confidence was unnerving.
    She’d come to tell Birdie that she and Ken were lovers.

    C OOKING SMELLS floated through the open window; next door Mrs. Gleason was preparing dinner. Birdie glanced at the clock. The children, she thought. I have to get the children. She stepped clumsily into her shoes.
    The sun hung low in the sky, the feverish end of a hot afternoon. Birdie emerged squinting from the house, her legs soft and unreliable. In front of the house, the trash had piled up. Six, seven bags were heaped at the curb, ripening in the heat. Birdie looked up and down the street. At each neighbor’s house sat a single neat bag.
    She crossed the street to the Semples’ and knocked at the door. Miss Semple answered, holding Jody by the hand.
    “We were expecting you an hour ago,” said Miss Semple.
    Birdie smiled. Her teeth felt thick, her breath fruity. She’d forgotten to rinse with Listerine.
    “I’m a little late,” she confessed. “Did they behave themselves?”
    “We-ull,” said Miss Semple, her voice trailing off. She stepped back and let Birdie inside.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “Charlie is under the weather,” said Miss Semple. Behind her Birdie could see through to the sunporch, where a scrub brush sat in a pool of water. “We put him in the parlor.”
    “Goodness.” Birdie followed Miss Semple down the dim hallway.
    “It was very sudden. I don’t know what came over him.”
    The parlor was dark and crowded with furniture: an ornate love seat, a highboy, an old Victrola draped with doilies. In one corner sat a cabinet full of china thimbles. Charlie lay on the brocade sofa holding a metal bucket.
    “Sweetheart,” said Birdie. “What happened?” She sat next to him and lay her hand on his forehead. “You’re white as a sheet.”
    Charlie looked up at her with watery eyes. “Sick,” he said. His breath was hot and sour. Birdie flushed. She turned to Miss Semple.
    “I hope he didn’t.”
    “I’m afraid so,” said Miss Semple. The hem of her dress was wet, her face as white as Charlie’s. Nothing in her ordered life had prepared her for the mess of a little boy’s vomit.
    “I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was ill.”
    Miss Semple’s mouth tightened. “I need to check on Mother. She’s a little upset.”
    She went out to the sunporch, her man’s shoes silent on the carpet.
     
    T HEY CROSSED the street, Charlie holding Birdie’s hand, Jody grasping the hem of her skirt. Once inside, Birdie sat Jody on the sofa.
    “Come on,” she told Charlie. “Let’s get you out of those clothes and into bed.”
    “But I’m not sick anymore,” he protested.
    She looked closely at him. His color was back, his eyes bright; he seemed perfectly fine. Yet a boy didn’t throw