Read Online A Bigamist's Daughter by Alice McDermott - Free Book Online
Authors: Alice McDermott
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dusting.
“Mish Connelly!” he sputters when he sees her.
“Hello, Mr. Palmer,” she shouts, holding out her hand, helping him out of the chair. “Nice to see you again.”
He reeks of Old Spice and she can feel drops of spittle falling on her outstretched arm as he speaks. “Ash beautiful ash ever,” he says, beaming, his yellow upper plate slipping from his gums with each word. His thin hair glistens with tonic.
“Thank you,” she says. “You’re looking well yourself. Come inside.”
He goes through the door ahead of her and as he does, she notices Bonnie. Her hand is over her mouth, her eyes and blood-red forehead wrinkled with laughter.
Mr. Palmer walks slowly down the corridor, his free handbrushing the wall. Taking his elbow, she guides him into her office, into one of the brown chairs.
“Now, Mr. Palmer,” she asks, smiling, closing the door. “What can I do for you?”
He lifts both hands and taps them on his brief case. “Thish is my manuscript,” he says. “I want to show you the changes I made.”
He fiddles with the latch and then hands the brief case to her, smiling apologetically. She opens it for him and passes it back across the desk. It’s an old leather bag with the initials JWPP printed on it in worn gold letters.
He takes out the moth-eaten manuscript and she moves to the chair beside him so he won’t have to lean across her desk.
“That’sh a lovely dress,” he says softly before he begins.
“Thank you,” she says.
He hands her the manuscript, then searches in his brief case again. She imagines Ned’s reaction when Apocalyptic Calculations hits production.
Mr. Palmer extracts a small, wrinkled sketch from his bag. It is on dirty tissue paper and seems to be a grid of some kind.
“Thish,” he says, pointing to the paper with a trembling finger, “goesh here.” He taps the front page of the manuscript and she marks the spot with a red pen.
“Fine,” she says.
“That’sh very important, you know.”
She nods, looking grave, and he turns a few pages of the manuscript. “Theesh numbers here are all wrong,” he says, pointing to a row of them.
She crosses them out with the red pen and he says, “Very good.”
“What should they be?” she asks him.
He taps his fingers against his brow, rolling his eyes, wafting Old Spice through the room. “Eshleben,” he says finally.
She repeats it and he nods and she writes 11 on the page.
“No,” he cries, smiling. “Eshleben.” Spittle hits the page like tiny raindrops.
“Seven?” she asks. He nods and she writes 7.
“No, no,” he says again, laughing. He is being very patient with her. “Eshleben.”
She points at the 11 she’s just crossed out. “Eleven?” she asks again.
Very gently, he takes the pen from her hand and writes, in large, shaky letters: 29. He hands the pen back to her and points to the number. “Eshleben,” he says, smiling.
She nods and he pats her gently on the shoulder. “Oh,” she says loudly. “Eshleben.”
This goes on. Five is 9, twenty-two is 50. He shouts numbers at her and she writes them down. Only twice is she right. Every other time, Mr. Palmer gently takes the pen and patiently writes the number for her. It’s like learning to count all over again.
“See?” he asks, and she says, “Yes, twelb,” nodding and pointing to a 93.
When the last number is changed (selenty-sel is 33), he sits back, sighs. “Now it’sh finished,” he says. “It’sh a very good book.”
“Yes,” she tells him. And he smiles at her with all his perfectly yellow false teeth.
“Yesh,” he says. “I know.”
Chapter 4
When she leaves work at five, she walks down to Penn Station. It’s starting to get dark earlier now, and the crowds around Thirty-fourth Street are moving quickly, crossing the street in clumps, like conventions of blind people. A woman in a red coat stands in front of her as a group of them wait for the light on Eighth Avenue. The woman has a black
“Mish Connelly!” he sputters when he sees her.
“Hello, Mr. Palmer,” she shouts, holding out her hand, helping him out of the chair. “Nice to see you again.”
He reeks of Old Spice and she can feel drops of spittle falling on her outstretched arm as he speaks. “Ash beautiful ash ever,” he says, beaming, his yellow upper plate slipping from his gums with each word. His thin hair glistens with tonic.
“Thank you,” she says. “You’re looking well yourself. Come inside.”
He goes through the door ahead of her and as he does, she notices Bonnie. Her hand is over her mouth, her eyes and blood-red forehead wrinkled with laughter.
Mr. Palmer walks slowly down the corridor, his free handbrushing the wall. Taking his elbow, she guides him into her office, into one of the brown chairs.
“Now, Mr. Palmer,” she asks, smiling, closing the door. “What can I do for you?”
He lifts both hands and taps them on his brief case. “Thish is my manuscript,” he says. “I want to show you the changes I made.”
He fiddles with the latch and then hands the brief case to her, smiling apologetically. She opens it for him and passes it back across the desk. It’s an old leather bag with the initials JWPP printed on it in worn gold letters.
He takes out the moth-eaten manuscript and she moves to the chair beside him so he won’t have to lean across her desk.
“That’sh a lovely dress,” he says softly before he begins.
“Thank you,” she says.
He hands her the manuscript, then searches in his brief case again. She imagines Ned’s reaction when Apocalyptic Calculations hits production.
Mr. Palmer extracts a small, wrinkled sketch from his bag. It is on dirty tissue paper and seems to be a grid of some kind.
“Thish,” he says, pointing to the paper with a trembling finger, “goesh here.” He taps the front page of the manuscript and she marks the spot with a red pen.
“Fine,” she says.
“That’sh very important, you know.”
She nods, looking grave, and he turns a few pages of the manuscript. “Theesh numbers here are all wrong,” he says, pointing to a row of them.
She crosses them out with the red pen and he says, “Very good.”
“What should they be?” she asks him.
He taps his fingers against his brow, rolling his eyes, wafting Old Spice through the room. “Eshleben,” he says finally.
She repeats it and he nods and she writes 11 on the page.
“No,” he cries, smiling. “Eshleben.” Spittle hits the page like tiny raindrops.
“Seven?” she asks. He nods and she writes 7.
“No, no,” he says again, laughing. He is being very patient with her. “Eshleben.”
She points at the 11 she’s just crossed out. “Eleven?” she asks again.
Very gently, he takes the pen from her hand and writes, in large, shaky letters: 29. He hands the pen back to her and points to the number. “Eshleben,” he says, smiling.
She nods and he pats her gently on the shoulder. “Oh,” she says loudly. “Eshleben.”
This goes on. Five is 9, twenty-two is 50. He shouts numbers at her and she writes them down. Only twice is she right. Every other time, Mr. Palmer gently takes the pen and patiently writes the number for her. It’s like learning to count all over again.
“See?” he asks, and she says, “Yes, twelb,” nodding and pointing to a 93.
When the last number is changed (selenty-sel is 33), he sits back, sighs. “Now it’sh finished,” he says. “It’sh a very good book.”
“Yes,” she tells him. And he smiles at her with all his perfectly yellow false teeth.
“Yesh,” he says. “I know.”
Chapter 4
When she leaves work at five, she walks down to Penn Station. It’s starting to get dark earlier now, and the crowds around Thirty-fourth Street are moving quickly, crossing the street in clumps, like conventions of blind people. A woman in a red coat stands in front of her as a group of them wait for the light on Eighth Avenue. The woman has a black
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