Wives and Lovers by Margaret Millar Read Free Book Online

know?—they all get together and whoop it up.”
    Hazel never caught them whooping it up, but the evi­dence was there: an extra million ants hustling up and down the orange tree, more nests of snails at the roots of the geraniums, new little mounds of earth made by new little gophers, and fresh spider webs strung across the windows and under the eaves. She hosed the ants off the orange tree, she swept away the spider webs and crushed the snails with a spade. She put poisoned grain into the gopher holes. The gophers smelled her scent and avoided the grain, and eventually it sprouted up all over the yard into bright green tufts of wild rice. She set metal traps baited with raw apple and raisins. In order to evade the traps, the gophers dug more and deeper tunnels.
    After that she tried an entirely new system, suggested by Josephine’s cousin who owned a ranch and presumably knew gophers like the back of his hand. In every open hole, Hazel stuck the top half of a broken beer bottle. Josephine’s ranching cousin claimed that gophers were unable to turn around in their holes and that they would commit involuntary suicide on the jagged ends of glass. The beer bottles sticking out all over the yard puzzled everyone, including the gophers. They nibbled a little of the glass, found it too hard to chew, and returned to their normal diet. One of the gophers died of old age and over­eating.
    Just as the weeds and animals had got out of control in Hazel’s back yard, so had the people in her life, her cousin, Ruth, her younger brother, Harold, who drove a truck for a furniture store, Harold’s wife, Josephine, and, in a few more months, Josephine’s child. There was no longer any minute of the day or any square foot of the house that Hazel could call her own.
    Even before she opened the kitchen door, she could hear them talking, Ruth’s high, taut, suffering voice, and Harold’s quiet worried one.
    â€œâ€”but strawberries and artichokes, that’s going too far, Harold.”
    â€œThe doctor said—”
    â€œThe strawberry season is over. You don’t seem to realize how much food costs these days.”
    â€œHazel said I was to satisfy Josephine’s cravings.”
    â€œWe all go through life with unsatisfied cravings, Harold. And not just for artichokes and strawberries, either.”
    â€œEven so.”
    â€œCabbage is excellent nutrition for expectant mothers. It contains calcium.”
    â€œJosephine hates the smell.”
    â€œWe could use a little Air-Wick.”
    Hazel came into the kitchen but they didn’t interrupt their conversation; it was the kind of household where no fuss was made over arrivals and departures, since there were so many of them. Only the little mongrel, Wendy, paid much attention to these matters. She sprang from her place at Ruth’s feet and made a great fuss over Hazel. From somewhere in her obscure ancestry, Wendy had acquired a fine sense of self-preservation, and she seemed to know that Hazel was the head of the house and must be given special notice.
    They were seated across from each other at the round, oilcloth-covered table, Harold drinking a cup of coffee, Ruth cutting up a large head of cabbage into a wooden bowl.
    Hazel leaned down to pat the dog’s firm little rump. “Any more coffee?”
    â€œOn the stove,” Ruth said. “I was just telling Harold—”
    â€œI heard you from outside.”
    â€œWell, don’t you agree?”
    â€œIf she wants artichokes, let her have artichokes.”
    â€œVery well,” Ruth said stiffly. “Very well. I shall eat the cabbage myself.”
    â€œThe calcium will do you good.”
    â€œThere is no growing child inside of me whose little bones need strengthening.”
    â€œInside of me either, but I’ll help you eat the cabbage.” She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table beside Harold. They smiled at each