Suds In Your Eye

Suds In Your Eye by Mary Lasswell Read Free Book Online

Book: Suds In Your Eye by Mary Lasswell Read Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Lasswell
Tags: General Fiction
rye bread an’ a loaf o’ whole wheat raisin nut bread an’ a big coffee cake for breakfast tomorra, all for twenty-one cents.’
    The other two were speechless. Mrs. Feeley could now understand how Mrs. Rasmussen could have those two ten-dollar bills left in her purse at the end of the month.
    They were just attacking their second round when a timid knock came at the door.
    ‘May I come in?’ It was Miss Tinkham.
    ‘Sure!’ cried Mrs. Feeley heartily. ‘Get yourself a plate an’ set down! We got some elegant grub all right since Mrs. Rasmussen took over.’
    ‘Thank you ever so much, but I’m afraid I couldn’t swallow a bite.’
    Mrs. Feeley scented trouble when Miss Tinkham couldn’t eat.
    ‘Couldn’t you find a room?’
    ‘That was bad enough, but now something else has happened to complicate matters: my lawyer back home informs me that my house is vacant, so I shan’t have a cent of income till it is rented again!’ And she spread the letter out on the table for her friends to see.
    ‘That’s a different load o’ poles, ain’t it?’
    No use asking her if she had a nest-egg tucked away anywhere, Mrs. Feeley decided.
    ‘Well, you come visit us awhile till you get squared away. We fixed a real cozy place for Mrs. Rasmussen an’ we’ll figger out some way to put you up till you get back on your feet. Don’t you worry ’bout the expense; Mrs. Rasmussen’s the manager now, an’ she’ll pull us through.’
    Miss Tinkham was about to dissolve in tears of gratitude, Mrs. Feeley could see. She got up and put her hand on Miss Tinkham’s shoulder and said:
    ‘What was that you was tellin’ me th’other day ’bout “Cheerio”?’
    ‘Oh, you mean—“It’s Cheerio, my deario, that pulls a lady through.”’ Miss Tinkham recovered her poise and was cheered by Mehitabel’s philosophy. ‘That is what the cat said in the poem. She had another thought I liked, too: A lady can always find friends.’
    ‘She sure can, dear!’ Mrs. Feeley agreed. Mrs. Rasmussen and Old-Timer waggled their heads in agreement too. Mrs. Feeley set a cold beer down in front of Miss Tinkham and said:
    ‘Drink that an’ fergit your troubles! We ain’t never starved a winter yet!’
    So for the second time that day Old-Timer rolled out the truck and set off with Miss Tinkham to transport her belongings to Mrs. Feeley’s warm hearth. She felt a little bit nervous as she climbed into the truck with him, for she had just remembered who it was he reminded her of with his ruddy cheeks, big bulging blue eyes, and enormous white handle-bar mustache: it was that awful old man on the cover of those Esquire magazines she peeped into surreptitiously in the second-hand magazine stores. She hoped Old-Timer wouldn’t act like him! With all she had been through during the day she felt completely unable to cope with him if he should make a pass at her.

Chapter 6
     
    A FEW days later, Mrs. Feeley began to have a more sympathetic understanding of the problems confronting the Old Woman in the Shoe. Miss Tinkham had no bed to ‘bring with’ her, like Mrs. Rasmussen. Mrs. Feeley did not object to sharing her bed with her, but she felt that a body needed a bed of her own.
    Wandering through the junk yard for inspiration, the solution came to her suddenly. She had this one figured out too! Mrs. Feeley was nothing if not resourceful.
    When she returned to the house the air was full of the scent of boiling dye.
    ‘What’s cookin’?’ she queried.
    ‘Dye! For the blackout curtains!’ Mrs. Rasmussen answered proudly.
    She and Miss Tinkham had spent a good part of the morning ripping the upholstery material off the seats of some of the old cars in the yard. Mrs. Rasmussen was even now busily stitching the pieces together on her machine.
    ‘There!’ she exclaimed, holding up a piece of cloth. ‘That’s the piece I been lookin’ for all day!’
    ‘Which one was that?’ Miss Tinkham asked.
    ‘The last one!’ snickered Mrs.

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