though he owned it.”
“Paul, maybe Dad did borrow the money from him. Uncle James wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
“It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference,” Paul told her. “He admitted he didn’t have any papers to prove it. That would make it a loan and not a mortgage. Any debt Dad owed Uncle James died with him. That makes this our house and he can just take a flying leap of a pier for himself.”
“He’s going to cause trouble for us, Paul,” said Angie mournfully.
“Let him try it. I’m going out, I’ll see you later.” He stormed out the front door and turned toward Joe King’s Happi-Tyme Tavern.
***
Paul didn’t stay out very late that night. The sudden appearance of Uncle James, and his threat to the house, rattled Paul more than he liked to admit.
Uncle James didn’t have a leg to stand on. Paul had the ownership papers, and Uncle James didn’t even have any notes on the loan. It was Paul’s house, no question about it. But it still scared him to have someone of Uncle James’ tenacity and stubbornness trying to take his home away from him.
He was even quieter and gloomier that night than usual, sitting silently in a corner at the bar, neither joining in the conversation nor taking much notice of the people around him. And they, in their turn, barely took any notice of him. When he left abruptly a little after midnight, most of them didn’t even notice his departure.
It was an eight-block walk home, and Paul strode along briskly, almost running, as though he were afraid the home would no longer be his if he didn’t get there right away.
The first-floor lights were all out when he arrived.
The house was dark, except for the one second-floor window which was to Angie’s room. The dimness of the glow against the window indicated that the meager light was coming from the reading lamp attached to the head of Angie’s bed.
The poor kid, thought Paul, she’s all alone in the house.
It was the first time he’d thought consciously of that since the day of the funeral.
He entered the house quietly, not wanting to frighten her. Once inside, with the door closed, he could hear a faint sound from upstairs. It took him a minute to figure out what it was.
Someone was sobbing.
He listened. It was Angie. She was crying softly, as though she’d been doing it for a long time and was now too weary to weep with full force.
He called out, “Angie!” and the sobbing stopped at once. There was silence for a few seconds, until her voice came to him, tremulous, saying, “Paul? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” He hurried up the stairs and around the turn to the left. The bathroom was first on the right, his own room beyond it. His parents’ bedroom was straight ahead, and Angie’s room was to the right, beyond the attic door.
Her bedroom door was half-open and, as he’d thought, the only light came from the reading lamp. She was in bed, wearing pale blue pajamas, covered only with the sheet. She was lying on her back now, the pillow bunched up beneath her head, smiling at him, incredibly young and lovely, her face framed against the pillow by her blond hair.
He stood in the doorway, feeling sudden tenderness for his sister, a sudden protectiveness and a feeling of guilt. “Hey, kid,” he said gently. “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing.” She smiled more brightly. “Not a thing, Paul. Honest.”
“You were crying when I came in.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Come on, Angie, what is it?”
The smile faltered and she looked away from him. “ I--I ’m sorry, Paul. I just get silly sometimes, that’s all.”
“What kind of silly? What’s the matter?”
“The -- the house. All alone here, I -- ”
“Oh, Jesus! ” For it suddenly came home to him what he’d been doing to her these last two weeks. He had left her alone, absolutely alone, in this
“Paul, maybe Dad did borrow the money from him. Uncle James wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
“It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference,” Paul told her. “He admitted he didn’t have any papers to prove it. That would make it a loan and not a mortgage. Any debt Dad owed Uncle James died with him. That makes this our house and he can just take a flying leap of a pier for himself.”
“He’s going to cause trouble for us, Paul,” said Angie mournfully.
“Let him try it. I’m going out, I’ll see you later.” He stormed out the front door and turned toward Joe King’s Happi-Tyme Tavern.
***
Paul didn’t stay out very late that night. The sudden appearance of Uncle James, and his threat to the house, rattled Paul more than he liked to admit.
Uncle James didn’t have a leg to stand on. Paul had the ownership papers, and Uncle James didn’t even have any notes on the loan. It was Paul’s house, no question about it. But it still scared him to have someone of Uncle James’ tenacity and stubbornness trying to take his home away from him.
He was even quieter and gloomier that night than usual, sitting silently in a corner at the bar, neither joining in the conversation nor taking much notice of the people around him. And they, in their turn, barely took any notice of him. When he left abruptly a little after midnight, most of them didn’t even notice his departure.
It was an eight-block walk home, and Paul strode along briskly, almost running, as though he were afraid the home would no longer be his if he didn’t get there right away.
The first-floor lights were all out when he arrived.
The house was dark, except for the one second-floor window which was to Angie’s room. The dimness of the glow against the window indicated that the meager light was coming from the reading lamp attached to the head of Angie’s bed.
The poor kid, thought Paul, she’s all alone in the house.
It was the first time he’d thought consciously of that since the day of the funeral.
He entered the house quietly, not wanting to frighten her. Once inside, with the door closed, he could hear a faint sound from upstairs. It took him a minute to figure out what it was.
Someone was sobbing.
He listened. It was Angie. She was crying softly, as though she’d been doing it for a long time and was now too weary to weep with full force.
He called out, “Angie!” and the sobbing stopped at once. There was silence for a few seconds, until her voice came to him, tremulous, saying, “Paul? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” He hurried up the stairs and around the turn to the left. The bathroom was first on the right, his own room beyond it. His parents’ bedroom was straight ahead, and Angie’s room was to the right, beyond the attic door.
Her bedroom door was half-open and, as he’d thought, the only light came from the reading lamp. She was in bed, wearing pale blue pajamas, covered only with the sheet. She was lying on her back now, the pillow bunched up beneath her head, smiling at him, incredibly young and lovely, her face framed against the pillow by her blond hair.
He stood in the doorway, feeling sudden tenderness for his sister, a sudden protectiveness and a feeling of guilt. “Hey, kid,” he said gently. “What’s the problem?”
“Nothing.” She smiled more brightly. “Not a thing, Paul. Honest.”
“You were crying when I came in.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Come on, Angie, what is it?”
The smile faltered and she looked away from him. “ I--I ’m sorry, Paul. I just get silly sometimes, that’s all.”
“What kind of silly? What’s the matter?”
“The -- the house. All alone here, I -- ”
“Oh, Jesus! ” For it suddenly came home to him what he’d been doing to her these last two weeks. He had left her alone, absolutely alone, in this
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