Read Online Crawlspace by Herbert Lieberman - Free Book Online Page A

great show of trying to visualize him in my mind. “Oh, five-ten, five-eleven, I’d say.”
    She laughed aloud. “He’s nowhere near that. Five-eleven. Oh, Albert. Honestly.”
    “Well, then. How tall is he? You tell me.”
    “He’s a tiny little fellow,” she cooed. “That’s what’s so endearing about him.”
    “Endearing? What do you mean, endearing?”
    “That he’s so small and all that—” She patted the wool sweater tenderly. “I’d be very surprised if he were much more than five-seven.”
    “You must be mad. I’m five-nine, and he’s taller than me.” This time she laughed out loud. “You’re not five-nine, Albert. I know you’ve always wanted to be five-nine. I’ve seen you put it on your driver’s license. But all the same, you’re not any five-nine, my dear.”
    I felt my face flush. “I am five-nine.”
    “Not in your wildest dreams. Not even in your elevated shoes.”
    “Unless I’ve shrunk as of my last examination at Dr. Tucker’s, I’m five-nine. And that last remark of yours was uncalled-for.” With another great flap, I yanked the paper upward again and thrust my face assertively into it.
    “I’m sorry, dear—” Her voice now was wheedling and apologetic. “I really shouldn’t have—” But she was still laughing.
    I plunged myself deeper into the newspaper, and for a while we were silent. She continued to hold the sweater up and admire it—making little cooing sounds to herself. “I can’t wait to see it on him,” she said.
    “I doubt you’ll have that pleasure.”
    “Why?”
    “He’s not about to come up here and model it for you.”
    She looked across at the Christmas tree. We’d put it up the week before. It was festooned with tinsel and sparkled with little lights of many colors. Papier-mâché balls, candy canes, and toy soldiers hung from its branches, and at the top a plastic angel with rouged cheeks and vacant eyes gazed benevolently down on the little parlor.
    “If I were to put it in a pretty box—” she said. I knew she was plotting something from the way her voice trailed off. “—and set it under the tree on Christmas morning, he might just—”
    “Forget it, Alice. Put it out of your mind.”
    “I worked very hard on this. The least he can do is come up here and show his—”
    “Gratitude?” I said.
    The word caught her up short. She looked at me ruefully. “I didn’t mean exactly—”
    “Of course you did. Now that you’ve given him shelter and cooked for him, and gone so far as to knit a sweater, you expect a return on your investment.”
    The word mortified her. Her jaw fell open. “That’s not true,” she protested. But in the next moment, her shoulders sagged and a sigh rose to her lips. “Well—it’s not unreasonable to expect—”
    “It’s unreasonably to expect anything. That’s not why we’re letting him stay here—” I rose and started off across the parlor. Then I turned and stalked back to where she sat. “Now let’s don’t start this stuff, Alice. I’ve told you at least a half-dozen times. Whatever we do for the boy, whatever little is done here, we do without the slightest expectation of recompense or gratitude.”
    She stared at me for a moment, speechless, then shook her head vehemently. “You’re absolutely right, dear. I need never see him wear it. What he does with it is of no importance.”
    “None whatsoever.”
    “The only thing that’s important is knowing that I made it for him out of a sincere desire to give him something.”
    “With no strings attached.”
    “Yes, dear.” She bubbled on, happy once again. “And it’s sufficient for me just to know that.” She sighed contentedly and resumed her knitting. I returned to my chair and paper. After a few moments, she held the sweater up again and laid it flat across her chest, studying it critically. “One of the antlers is bigger than the other.”
    “I wouldn’t worry about it.”
    She seemed distressed. “What shall I do,