loved to slip Sophie.
While her pet was crunching her swift way through her pittance of cat food, Betsy was building a salad of iceberg and romaine lettuce, sweet red peppers, cucumber slices, one of those little cans of tuna, and lots of croutons. She ate with Sophie’s swift efficiency, drinking a glass of iced tea with her meal and then heading over to Doris’s apartment.
Order was becoming apparent. Phil and Doris were working in the living room. The chairs were upright and in place, the broken lamps gone. Phil was tacking the loose underside fabric of the couch back in place with a broad thumb. Doris was sorting bills, postcards, letters, and other papers from the floor beside a small wooden desk. She didn’t seem to be looking at what she was picking up, but merely stacking them a few at a time and putting them into random drawers. Her face was almost expressionless.
In a few days , thought Betsy, she’ll have to go through all of that again.
Shelly and Bershada could be heard in the bedroom and bathroom.
Alice was sweeping up the last quarter of the kitchen floor, a pile of flour growing under her broom.
“That must have been spilled toward the end,” remarked Betsy.
“Why do you say that?” asked Alice, turning to smile a greeting at her.
“He wouldn’t have wanted to leave footprints.”
“A careful vandal,” said Alice, started to sweep again. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“Can I help you in here?”
“It’ll need to be mopped pretty soon.”
“Call me,” said Betsy, going back to the living room.
“Phil? Phil!” That sounded like Bershada, calling from the bedroom.
Phil called back, “I’ll be right there!” He looked around, saw Betsy, and said, “Here, give me a hand.”
Doris saw what they were about to do and came to help. They tipped the couch up onto its feet and pushed it back against the wall.
“Phil!” called Bershada again.
“I’m coming!” Phil called back. He touched Doris on the arm, and walked away.
Doris went back to the hard wooden chair in front of her desk, hung her head, and looked about to weep. Betsy hurried to put a hand on her shoulder. “Doris, it’ll be all right. Trust me, it will be all right.”
“I know, I know. But to think of a stranger’s hands pulling all my things out and dropping them like they were nothing important, leaving his dirty fingerprints all over everything . . .” She sobbed once. “It’s like he’s still here, smirking at me from every corner. It’s like I’ll look in a mirror and see him looking back at me from over my shoulder with a slimy smile.” She shuddered. “It makes me want to just walk away, leave everything behind, start over somehow.”
“No, don’t do that,” Betsy said.
Doris smiled sourly. “You don’t want to lose another tenant, huh?”
Betsy smiled back at this sign of courage. “That’s right. You’re paying the taxes on this place, you know.” She squeezed Doris’s shoulder. “Besides, I’d miss you. And Godwin would miss you—him especially. You’d break his heart if you moved away.”
“Maybe. I love him—and you, and the Monday Bunch. I’d have to stay in Excelsior. And there’s not many places in this town I can afford to rent.”
She was right. Excelsior looked like a sweet little country town—and it was—but its residents paid big bucks to live in a safe, clean, attractive, Mayberry-like place this close to the Twin Cities. Betsy had some lucrative investments that made the shop almost a hobby and enabled her to charge less-than-average rent for two apartments and stay in the third herself.
“Once everything gets put away, I think you’ll feel better,” Betsy said.
“You’re probably right.” But Doris didn’t sound as if she believed it. She bent to gather up the last of the papers and shove them into another drawer.
“Where’s Waldo?” asked Betsy.
“Hiding in the linen closet. He hates company.”
Betsy went off to see why Bershada
While her pet was crunching her swift way through her pittance of cat food, Betsy was building a salad of iceberg and romaine lettuce, sweet red peppers, cucumber slices, one of those little cans of tuna, and lots of croutons. She ate with Sophie’s swift efficiency, drinking a glass of iced tea with her meal and then heading over to Doris’s apartment.
Order was becoming apparent. Phil and Doris were working in the living room. The chairs were upright and in place, the broken lamps gone. Phil was tacking the loose underside fabric of the couch back in place with a broad thumb. Doris was sorting bills, postcards, letters, and other papers from the floor beside a small wooden desk. She didn’t seem to be looking at what she was picking up, but merely stacking them a few at a time and putting them into random drawers. Her face was almost expressionless.
In a few days , thought Betsy, she’ll have to go through all of that again.
Shelly and Bershada could be heard in the bedroom and bathroom.
Alice was sweeping up the last quarter of the kitchen floor, a pile of flour growing under her broom.
“That must have been spilled toward the end,” remarked Betsy.
“Why do you say that?” asked Alice, turning to smile a greeting at her.
“He wouldn’t have wanted to leave footprints.”
“A careful vandal,” said Alice, started to sweep again. “I never heard of such a thing.”
“Can I help you in here?”
“It’ll need to be mopped pretty soon.”
“Call me,” said Betsy, going back to the living room.
“Phil? Phil!” That sounded like Bershada, calling from the bedroom.
Phil called back, “I’ll be right there!” He looked around, saw Betsy, and said, “Here, give me a hand.”
Doris saw what they were about to do and came to help. They tipped the couch up onto its feet and pushed it back against the wall.
“Phil!” called Bershada again.
“I’m coming!” Phil called back. He touched Doris on the arm, and walked away.
Doris went back to the hard wooden chair in front of her desk, hung her head, and looked about to weep. Betsy hurried to put a hand on her shoulder. “Doris, it’ll be all right. Trust me, it will be all right.”
“I know, I know. But to think of a stranger’s hands pulling all my things out and dropping them like they were nothing important, leaving his dirty fingerprints all over everything . . .” She sobbed once. “It’s like he’s still here, smirking at me from every corner. It’s like I’ll look in a mirror and see him looking back at me from over my shoulder with a slimy smile.” She shuddered. “It makes me want to just walk away, leave everything behind, start over somehow.”
“No, don’t do that,” Betsy said.
Doris smiled sourly. “You don’t want to lose another tenant, huh?”
Betsy smiled back at this sign of courage. “That’s right. You’re paying the taxes on this place, you know.” She squeezed Doris’s shoulder. “Besides, I’d miss you. And Godwin would miss you—him especially. You’d break his heart if you moved away.”
“Maybe. I love him—and you, and the Monday Bunch. I’d have to stay in Excelsior. And there’s not many places in this town I can afford to rent.”
She was right. Excelsior looked like a sweet little country town—and it was—but its residents paid big bucks to live in a safe, clean, attractive, Mayberry-like place this close to the Twin Cities. Betsy had some lucrative investments that made the shop almost a hobby and enabled her to charge less-than-average rent for two apartments and stay in the third herself.
“Once everything gets put away, I think you’ll feel better,” Betsy said.
“You’re probably right.” But Doris didn’t sound as if she believed it. She bent to gather up the last of the papers and shove them into another drawer.
“Where’s Waldo?” asked Betsy.
“Hiding in the linen closet. He hates company.”
Betsy went off to see why Bershada
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