Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene Read Free Book Online Page A

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4. Infatuation
    S ISTER P ARKER HELD the canvas bank bag aloft. “Patty, you know anything about this? Found it lying on the stationery counter.”
    “Oh! Yes, thanks. Change from the bank.”
    “Don’t you know any better than to leave a bag of money lying around?”
    “I was waiting on a customer and I forgot. Uh, don’t mention it, please, to my mother or father.”
    Sister shook her head. “I’ve got better things to do than tattle.”
    I found my mother between dress racks with one of those heavy, colorless country women who all look alike until you focus in on the one thing that gives them their uniqueness. Sometimes it’s the forehead that gives a faint suggestion of things noble. Once, I remember, it was long polished hair of deepest auburn. And another time it was the eyes. Large blue-green eyes that seemed to have come from the sockets of some jungle cat.
    I lifted the bank bag to eye level. “Here’s your change, Mother.”
    “Go put it in the big register. Where have you been so long?”
    “Well, I just finished waiting on one of the prisoners and before that I stopped to talk with Edna Louise’s mother—she was in the bank too.”
    “I didn’t know,” said my mother, “that you and Mrs. Jackson had anything in common.” She made an adjustment of the three-way mirror, presumably to give the customer a better view of her large economy-size behind.
    I felt angry enough to burn my mother in her own insult, but open anger was not the tool I needed. “Know what Mrs. Jackson said to me? She said, ‘Patty, it’s always a deep and abiding pleasure talking with you.’ Then she asked me, know what she asked me?” I could see that Mother wasn’t going to bite, so I went right on. “‘Patty,’ Mrs. Jackson said, ‘just tell me where in this wide world did you acquire those nice, polite manners?’”
    Mother glanced at me, shivering as if from a sudden chill. “Can’t you do anything about that hair?” Then she turnedback to her customer with a smile. “Now that fabric is what we call a bemberg sheer. It’s lightweight, easy to care for, and very cool and comfortable. And I do believe that rose is your color, don’t you think so? Do you know how much you’d have to pay for that dress in Memphis?” Mother apparently assumed that Mrs. Country Woman didn’t know the answer, so she supplied it. “Ten ninety-five and not a penny less. But we only have a few left, and I’m closing them out at only five ninety-five.”
    Mother is what you might call a prize saleslady. I mean, she has an answer for everything. If there were silver-dollar-sized holes running across the backside of that dress Mother would be talking about how fine it is for ventilation, or maybe even that it was a definite aid for irregularity.
    Now, customers expect salesladies to praise the merchandise, that’s only natural. But I don’t believe you should outright lie. God would consider that sinful even for a saleslady. But then, what would God think about the lies I tell—“Where in this wide world did you acquire those nice, polite manners?”
    I punched the No Sale key on the register and placed the rolls of change into their appropriate bins. I watched my mother still smiling her gracious smile as she set a pink leftover Easter bonnet on the woman’s head. “Now doesn’t that just make the outfit?”
    Mrs. Country Woman shook her head. “No, ma’am, I don’t want no hat today.”
    “That’s perfectly all right,” Mother said, soothingly. “I just wanted you to see the big difference the hat makes.”
    The woman pushed a loose straggle of hair beneath the bonnet and gave herself a front-view inspection. I thought Isaw her smile. Yes, she had found something in her reflection to admire. She would buy the hat too; my mother would see to that.
    But I didn’t want to think about leftover bonnets or even my mother’s ability as a saleslady. I only wanted to think about him. My friend, Anton. “The next