Snow Apples by Mary Razzell Read Free Book Online Page A

stopped by on my way home from work, wearing my newshorts and blouse, I heard Tom shout, “Oh, boy! Watch out, Nels! Here comes your girlfriend!”
    Jim, who was putting up shelves, called out, “Hey, Nels, did you know Sheila shaved her legs?”
    â€œYou creep!” I told him that evening when I knew my mother was outside, closing the chickens in for the night. “You’d better not do that again!”
    â€œOr what?”
    â€œYou’ll be sorry!” I tried to put as much threat as I could into my voice.
    But none of it made any difference. Nels ignored me completely. And so after a couple of weeks I gave up and pretended I didn’t care about Nels Bergstrom at all.

8

    M Y BIRTHDAY CAME . Sixteen at last. Here I was, aching to have a boyfriend, and what did I have? There was Bob McLean at Port Mellon who never wrote again, and Nels, who thought I was just a kid.
    I began to pay more attention to the boys who were up for the summer, the cottagers from the city. The summer before, I had had a paper route, and after collecting the newspapers off the late Friday night boat, I would sit on the grassy bank above the community hall and watch the couples dancing. I longed to be part of their magical world, but the dances were for the summer boys and girls. It was their record player that was used, and they owned all the records—Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey, Charlie Spivak.
    I knew I didn’t belong. Not then, not now. Not even in the way I dressed. I wore slacks and blouses and sweaters that had been ordered from Eaton’s catalogue. Their clothes looked special, somehow. There was a craze for V-neck sweaters, the longer the better. Some of them were long enough to reach below the hips. All through the summer the girls sat on the village-store veranda knitting away at their sweaters. I heard one of them say she was working on her seventh one.
    In every way, it was a summer of excesses. My family was busy all the time, my mother too involved with the progress of the house to pay any attention to me. I could have gone out every night with Nels if he’d asked me. Blackberries dragged down the bushes with their heavy, swollen clusters. More salmon were caught than ever before. The days were hotter, the ocean saltier, the nights softer, the music sweeter.
    I saw Helga every day. From the Lawsons’ many windows I had a good view of the beach and the diving float, and I often saw Helga come down the path to the beach, the same shapeless print dress flapping against her thin brown legs. Her feet were bare, and as a further concession to summer she wore a peaked fishing cap, faded blue. Her skin was brown and wrinkled, like walnut meat.
    She spent whole days away, off by herself, somewhere in her boat.
    I asked Mr. Percy about it when I shopped for the Lawsons’ groceries. He told me that every summer Helgatook her boat out and searched the bays and rivers. She went as far up as Port Mellon and right out to the mouth of the Sound.
    Was she still looking for her sons, I wondered?
    â€œLeave her be,” Mr. Percy said. “She’s working things out her own way.”
    *  *  *
    Mrs. Lawson liked things perfect. I think that was her problem—trying to be a perfect mother, keep a perfect house.
    It was hard to please her. George began to wet his bed from time to time, which threw Mrs. Lawson into a frenzy. That in turn drove Mr. Lawson into having two drinks before dinner.
    One of my jobs was the family laundry, and I knew things weren’t quite right for Mr. Lawson when I came to wash his pajamas. After I had soaked them and placed them on the scrub board, rubbing the bar of Sunlight soap over the crotch area, I felt a diffusion of mucus. It came up in my hand like egg white. The smell reminded me of bleach. It took me a few minutes to figure out what it could be.
    At school I had heard about wet dreams, but until now I thought only young boys