Snow Apples by Mary Razzell Read Free Book Online

snap and glitter green.
    I tried to describe Mrs. Lawson to my mother when we were doing the dishes together after supper.
    â€œRight after breakfast she goes into the bathroom, and she stays there for an hour and a half, maybe two hours. She washes her hair and has a bath, puts on lipstick and powder and rouge—even mascara. Every day she does her nails a new color. Once it was purplish. It’s called Hot Grape.”
    â€œYou’re making that up.”
    â€œNo, honestly! That’s what it’s called. Hot Grape.”
    â€œI guess she looks beautiful, then—her hands and all,” my mother said almost wistfully.
    I was astonished. “I thought you’d think it was terrible of her to be that vain.”
    My mother set down the dish towel and looked at her own hands, turning them over and back. “People used to say, when I was young, that I had beautiful hands. I did, too, even if I shouldn’t say so myself. I kept the nails buffed and looking nice all the time. Look at them now.”
    I looked at her hands. They were rough, calloused. One nail was violet where she had missed with the hammer.
    â€œI think you have beautiful hands, Mom.”
    When I said that, she sighed and picked up the dishtowel, and I wished I could say the right thing for once. It seemed I lacked the knack to please her.
    â€œWhat about Mr. Lawson and their boy? What are they like?” She returned a fork that was still dirty to my dishpan of suds.
    I worked away at the offending dried gravy on the fork. “Mr. Lawson’s okay, I guess. Mild, sort of. George is quiet. Almost a sissy.”
    â€œHow old is he?”
    â€œSix. Mrs. Lawson doesn’t like him to play too hard. She makes him lie down after meals for an hour, things like that. She’s always taking his temperature and giving him vitamins.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter? Is he sick?”
    â€œNo, that’s just the way she is. Fussy.”
    â€œToo fussy by far,” declared my mother.
    â€œThe pay’s good, though.” Fifty cents an hour and lunch. I moved over to wipe off the oilcloth.
    â€œTrue. It will come in handy for your books and things for school next year.”
    My back was to her when she said this, and I was thankful. I spoke carefully. “Does that mean I’ll be going into grade twelve after all?”
    â€œOh, I think so,” she said matter-of-factly. “Mind you, I want you to get a part-time job—after school, or at least on the weekends—to help out.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, not trusting myself to say more.
    We finished tidying up the kitchen in silence.
    *  *  *
    Paul’s month-long leave from the air force came to an end. He was to report to the base at Gander Bay. Before he left he made arrangements to have a carpenter and his son come in and finish the house. The Bergstroms were new arrivals in Gibson’s Landing, and Tom was going to work with them.
    My first sight of Nels Bergstrom was of him laughing at something his father had said. His head was thrown back, his shirt was open at the throat, and I could only stare.
    Paul introduced us. “Nels, this is my sister, Sheila.”
    â€œHi,” he said and turned back to his work.
    From then on I tried everything I could think of to make him notice me. Mrs. Lawson took me into Vancouver with her one weekend to get their city house in order, and while I was there I went to the hairdresser and had a feather-cut. Everyone was having one that summer. It made my hair seem thicker and darker, and I looked older, I thought. That and a new sharkskin blouse, white sandals and a pair of yellow shorts that could be rolled high on the leg, plus a tube of Tangee Natural lipstick—all bought at Woodward’s with my first pay check, just before we caught the Union steamship home.
    I hoped Nels would pay attention to me now.
    My brothers didn’t help matters. The first afternoon I