Tender at the Bone by Ruth Reichl Read Free Book Online Page B

replied in a buoyant tone.
    I wasn’t tall enough to reach the peephole so I opened the door a crack. Sure enough, it was Mrs. Peavey, with a tall gaunt man dressed entirely in black who was “My friend Mr. Holly.”
    I was relieved to see a familiar grown-up. Mrs. Peavey and Mr. Holly settled themselves in the living room. Mr. Holly admired my mother’s tree and peered at the fading fall leaves my mother had wired to its branches. I listened to them making small talk, happy to have their company and too young to wonder what they were doing there. But even I could tell that Mrs. Peavey was not quite herself. Her pale skin was flushed and she was talking more animatedly than usual. Then she asked if I would like to come out with them for a little while.
    I instantly understood that my parents were not to know about this excursion. It was a school night. More than that, I knew that wherever we were going was not a place my parents would approve of. As we were walking to the door Mrs. Peavey stopped and asked,as if it were an afterthought, “Do you have any money in your piggy bank?”
    I checked; there was $7.27 in dimes, pennies, and quarters, and the silver dollar I had gotten from Palmer.
    “Bring it along,” said Mrs. Peavey gaily. As I handed her the money she said, “I’ll pay you back next week.” She smelled like peppermint LifeSavers.
    It was a dark, chilly night. We walked west on Tenth Street to Sixth Avenue and made a left. Just across from the Women’s House of Detention was a sign that said GOOGIE ’ S beneath a huge pair of red neon spectacles.
    “We’re going to a bar?” I asked.
    “Why not?” asked Mrs. Peavey. I could have offered any number of reasons, but decided not to. We went in and Mr. Holly lifted me up to one of the tall, Naugahyde-covered barstools. He ordered Perfect Manhattans for them and a Shirley Temple for me.
    The air was cool, smoky, and dusty blue. Mrs. Peavey was so jolly it seemed as if she had put on a new personality. When she excused herself to go to the bathroom she went down the length of the bar with a word and a smile for everybody along the way. Watching her, Mr. Holly leaned over and said, “What a wonderful woman!”
    I could smell the sweet liquor on his breath, mingled faintly with aftershave and cigarettes. I nodded. “I tell her that I’m not good enough for her,” he said mournfully, looking more skeletal than ever, “but she says that she has had enough of being rich to last her a lifetime.”
    I kept very still, thinking that perhaps if I didn’t say anything he might keep talking.
    “Imagine that husband of hers leaving all the money to the boys!” mused Mr. Holly, almost to himself. “He was going to be so smart, avoiding the taxes. And then those little pricks thought they could tell her how to live! Why—”
    He stopped abruptly as Mrs. Peavey returned. “One more drink,” she said cheerfully, “and then I think it’s time to take Ruthie home. She has school tomorrow.”
    The bartender draped half a dozen cherries around the rim of my Shirley Temple and I sipped it slowly, wishing Mrs. Peavey would go back to the bathroom. It had never occurred to me to ask if Mr. Peavey was still alive, or wonder how he had died. But I got no more information that evening.
    Mrs. Peavey did not come back the next day. Or the next. For almost a week I came home from school every day, put my key into the lock, and wondered what I would find on the other side of the door. I’d stick my nose in first and sniff hopefully, wishing for the smell of cooking. Instead it was just my increasingly irritable mother with a long list of errands for me to do and lamb chops, again, for dinner.
    On the third day I ran to Mrs. Peavey’s closet to make sure her dresses were still there. I put my face against the sagging cotton shapes with their pale tiny flowers and inhaled the reassuring smell. Then I went into the bedroom, where my mother was polishing her short nails with