The Truth According to Us by Annie Barrows Read Free Book Online Page B

defunct—picture of Berlin: the kaiser’s pointed helmet glinting among dark columns.
    “Oh, yes, years ago; was it 1930?” Layla paused. “Yes, 1930. Of course, I was only a
child
”—Mae shot a lightning look at Minerva—“but I remember how terribly gloomy it was. The streets were lined with beggars and people selling things, old family heirlooms and so on, for
nothing
. Mother—” She paused again. “Well, it was terribly gloomy. But last year—obviously, we went there in the spring, so there was
that
, but the people seemed to be much more cheerful. And the buildings were so clean.” She glanced at Felix and put down her fork. “Not that I approve of Hitler, you know.”
    “Of course not,” murmured Jottie, adding to her picture a frivolous yellow-haired mother who frittered away the family fortune on German heirlooms. No, better, ran off with a strapping Nazi, leaving Miss Beck to earn her passage home by—what? Dusting? Seemed unlikely. English lessons? Yes, much better. Jottie was just manufacturing an ill-fated romance between Miss Beck and a piano-playing consumptive when Willa came to.
    “We’ve got dessert after this,” she assured Layla earnestly. “We’ve got a dessert course.”
    Jottie smiled at her niece. Dreamy Willa—who knew how her thoughts landed where they did? “As long as we’re on the subject”—Jottie stood—“do you care for sugar or cream in your coffee, Miss Beck?”
    “Sugar and cream, I’m afraid,” said Layla. “Thank you.”
    Felix chuckled. “Uh-oh.”
    “Is that not done?” she asked gaily.
    Felix lifted his dark eyes to his sister’s. “What about it, Jottie? You going to toss Miss Beck out on her ear?”
    She raised an eyebrow at him. Traitor. “Miss Beck can have whatever she likes in her coffee.” She turned to enter the kitchen. “Mae, will you help clear? And you, too, Willa, since you saw fit to disappear before dinner.”
    “I’d be glad to help,” called Layla, looking after her.
    “No, no, you just sit right there,” said Jottie. “Willa.”
    Willa scraped back her chair. She loaded her own plate on her armand set her glass on top of it. Then she put her fork in her glass. She sighed heavily and stumped toward the kitchen.
    “It’s a shame how that child suffers,” said Minerva, assembling plates as she rose. Laden, she backed expertly against the swinging door and entered the kitchen, joining her sisters at the sink. In silence, Jottie scraped Mae’s plate.
    “Go on, Willa,” said Mae, pointing her chin at the door. “Go get some more dishes.”
    Willa plodded away.
    Silently, Minerva and Mae watched as Jottie placed the knives and forks in the sink.
    Mae cleared her throat. “Used to being waited on, isn’t she?”
    “She didn’t even stand up,” said Minerva.
    Jottie set a platter carefully on the counter. “Of course, she’s only a
child
. And clearing the table is so terribly gloomy,” she said.
    Mae’s face brightened. “Not in the spring. Obviously.”
    “Oh,
obviously
,” said Jottie. “I just love the spring.”
    “That’s funny,” said Minerva. “So do
I
!”
    The three sisters snickered and returned, rejuvenated, to the dining room.
    —
    “Close tonight,” Jottie sighed, waving her napkin to and fro.
    “I heard you make yourself hotter doing that,” said Willa. “The waving makes you hot.”
    “Let’s us go sit in the cool,” said Mae. “We can do the dishes later.”
    Jottie rose. “Care to join us on the porch, Miss Beck?” she asked, pitying the girl in spite of her silk dress and uneaten apples.
    Layla’s eyes veered to Felix, but there was no help there. He was watching Bird as she took a guilty finger-scoop of Spanish cream from Mae’s half-filled bowl and crammed it into her mouth. He tossed her his napkin, and she caught it with a practiced gesture.
    “I think—I’m rather tired—and tomorrow—” stammered Layla. “Well, I think I’ll say good night. Thank you for the