This Sweet Sickness by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online Page B

breakfast. There’s lots of oatmeal. Bacon Sunday mornings, too, but she’s pretty stingy with it.”
    David, though he tried, could not think of a thing to say. Neither, he realized, was he curious as to what had happened between Wes and Laura, whether they intended to divorce, whether Laura knew or not where Wes was. And he was not at all interested in the fate of Effie Brennan, even though last night some absurd gallantry had been stirring in his breast, some impulse to protect her innocence. She looked virginal, but who could really tell? David stared at a dingy painting of a north woods landscape on the wall in front of him, looked at the corner cupboard with its hideous display of thick white mugs and a few plates, all from the dime store. The wallpaper was light blue, but not uniformly blue. Its pale sections showed the shapes of pictures and pieces of furniture that had blocked out the light for years.
    â€œWhat d’you say there, David?” Wes asked in a facetious tone. “And what’re you smiling at? What’s funny about my housewarming?”
    â€œNothing!” David said, knowing he had missed what they had been talking about.
    Effie was laughing into her napkin. “Oh, this one’s so absentminded!” She turned her long-lashed eyes to David.
    David ate a few small bites of his sponge cake on which sat a Lilliputian ball of vanilla ice cream. He put the ball of ice cream into his coffee and let it float, and Effie pretended to find this vastly amusing, and did the same with hers.
    â€œDo you have a long drive to your mother’s on weekends?” Effie asked him.
    â€œOh—about an hour,” David replied.
    â€œDo they let you sleep in the building?”
    David felt sure Mrs. Beecham had told her they did, or Wes had told her, because David had told them that. “Yes. They’re very nice about it. I have a private room and bath. Then they let me take my meals with my mother too, of course.”
    â€œWhat’s the name of the place?”
    David crossed his legs carefully under the low table. “Well, because of a request of my mother’s—years ago—I’d rather not say. She’s sorry she has to be there and—she has a few friends who see her, of course, besides me, but she made me promise not to mention it to anybody else.”
    Effie looked at him. “I feel very sorry for her,” she said seriously, “but she ought to be thankful she’s got a son as fine as you are.”
    Irreverently Wes hummed “God Save the Queen.” David knew he had had a brace of scotches, maybe more, before dinner. Now he was all wound up for his evening with Effie.
    â€œI do have a letter I ought to write,” Effie was saying to Wes.
    â€œWrite it now. It’ll take me a few minutes too.” He winked at her, not slyly but in the straightforward manner that he said always worked. “I’ll see you both about eight?” he asked as he stood up. “Excuse me.” He bowed. “I think you both know where I live.” He went out, nodding pleasantly to Mr. Harris, to Mrs. Starkie, the freelance nurse, to Sarah leaning tiredly in the doorway waiting for people to finish so she could clear up, finally to Mrs. McCartney, who was just coming in.
    Mrs. McCartney had an announcement to make, David supposed about the heat or the hot water. She spread her thin arms as though silencing a din of happy banqueters, and said, “There would’ve been mashed potatoes tonight, children, but somehow— somehow they got burned!” She laughed. “We could’ve taken some out of the center, but it wouldn’t’ve been enough,” she added, bringing her head down positively on the last word. “So I hope you’ll forgive me and the cook and I hope you won’t starve. Burned potatoes—well, they’re just impossible.” With a flurry of her hands, a bowed head, she dismissed