Tales for a Stormy Night by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Read Free Book Online

returned and watched him. “Sugar and salt,” she said.
    “It’s swell,” George murmured.
    He went to his room to change his clothes, and changing them, caught sight of himself in the mirror. He moved closer to it and examined his face. There was fuzz on his upper lip and on his chin. He twisted his neck that he might see himself from other angles. He was blond like his sister, but there all resemblance that he could find ended. He wondered which one—his sister or himself—did not belong in the family. The possibility that he might be an orphan did not hurt so much as the thought that there might be no bond of family between Elizabeth and him. But there was; he was sure of that. As long as he could remember, Liz had been taking care of him. He could remember her brushing his hair. Then he distinctly remembered his father taking the comb to part it. Liz put his shoes on when he was a child. His father tied the laces.
    His face, as he stared at it, seemed to quiver—as though someone were jiggling the glass. He thrust himself into his work clothes and rushed out of the house. His father had already let the cows in and now was in the loft shoveling hay down the chute. The cows nearest it were straining in their stanchions, the metal of their collars jangling.
    George measured their grain, and until the last one was fed they snorted and bellowed greedily. It was his practice to start at opposite ends on alternate days, and he was always annoyed that they had no appreciation of his fairness. That day he didn’t care.
    His father eased himself down the chute, dropping on the hay.
    “You’ll hurt yourself doing that, Pa. You should walk around.”
    “I was doing that before you was born.”
    “Where was I born?”
    “Better get the milking pails.”
    “It’s early. Where, Pa?”
    “Right in the house there.” The old man motioned toward it. The early darkness of winter was coming down fast.
    “Was that when my mother died?”
    “It was. Your sister took care of you till I got home. It was a terrible storm and I couldn’t get Doc Blake to come. He was drunk. That’s why I’ll whip you if you ever take to liquor. Now get the buckets.”
    “Pa, what’s the matter with Liz?”
    His father looked at him. Even in the half-darkness he could see the anger in the old man’s eyes.
    “Who told you that?”
    “Nobody. I can see. Maybe you told me something when you swore at me.”
    “She’s raised you like she was your mother. There ain’t ever going to be a woman love you like she’s done.” The old man drove the pitchfork down on the cement floor, striking sparks. “You’ve been hanging around that Jennie Bergson…”
    “No, Pa.”
    “Don’t ‘no pa’ me. I seen you cutting out across the lake. Don’t you go touching that girl, George. I’ve been watching her. She’s just asking you to get her in trouble. That’d suit Neil Bergson fine. He’s got too many girls to home now.” He poked his finger into the boy’s chest. “You don’t touch a girl till you get one you want to marry. If you get feeling queer, you tell me about it, George. Maybe I can help you. I don’t know. You can chop down trees.” He made a wild gesture toward the woods. “We can read the holy Bible like I did. Now I’m going for the milking pails.”
    “Pa, what’s all this got to do with Liz?”
    “She’s your sister, ain’t she?”
    The old man’s voice cracked on the words, and George let him go, not wanting to see him cry. Their conversation never did make sense to the boy, although he thought about it many times. He did not try to talk about it to his father again, but he tried to be kinder toward his sister. He did not comment further upon her cooking, and sometimes, making a sort of game of it, he let her wash his hair, and then in turn washed and braided hers.
    “Don’t you tell,” he’d say. “I don’t want them calling me sissy.”
    “It’s a secret,” Elizabeth agreed. “I like secrets.” She