Read Online The Eighth Day by Thornton Wilder - Free Book Online Page A

with homemade chestnut paste and applesauce. It was seven in the morning. They walked gravely to a portion of the croquet court hidden from the house. Roger got down on one knee, bringing his face level with hers.
    â€œNow, Sophie, I don’t want you to get downhearted one minute. I’d hate to hear that. You just stay yourself like you are. It’s up to you and me.”
    Here he gazed at her a moment, his silence freighted with all the unspoken.
    â€œI’m going to write Mama once a month and send her some money. But I’m not going to give her my new name and address. Do you know why? Because the police are going to open every letter that comes to our house. I don’t want the police to know where I am. That means that Mama won’t be able to write me any letters; but for a whole half year and maybe more I don’t want any letters from her. I’ve got to have my mind all fixed on just one thing, and do you know what that thing is, do you?”
    Sophia murmured, “Money.”
    â€œYes. But I’m going to write you once a month, too. I’m going to send your letter to Porky, so that nobody will know. So, listen, Sophie. The first few days after the fifteenth of the month you go down the street past where Porky’s working at his window. You keep your eyes right ahead of you, but out of the corner of your eyes you look and see if he’s hung up that calendar in his window—you know, the one I gave him last Christmas with the pretty girl on it. If that calendar’s in the window, that means there’s a letter for you. Don’t go in then, but go home and get some old shoes and go into his store as if you were a customer. Nobody, nobody , Sophie, must know that Porky’s the person we’re sending letters through. We could get him into trouble, too. This is all his idea. He’s our best friend. Now, every time I write you I’m going to send you an envelope all stamped and addressed to me, and I’ll put a piece of paper in it for you to write me on. So you go out of the house after dark and mail it in the mailbox at Gibson’s corner. That’s quite a long walk, but that’s the way we ought to do it. Now, Sophie, write me everything that’s going on here, and I mean everything. About Mama and how you all are. And write perfectly true—that’s the chief thing I ask you.”
    Sophie nodded quickly.
    â€œNow, Sophie, remember this: What’s happened about Papa isn’t important. What’s important is what starts right now. You and I. Don’t you change. Don’t you get silly like most girls. We’ll need our wits about us.” He lowered his voice. “We’ve got to be fighters and the fight is all about money. I wouldn’t be afraid to steal to get Mama some money.”
    Sophia again nodded quickly. She understood that. It was less important than what was next on her mind. She said softly: “You’ve got to promise me something, Roger. You’ve got to promise me that you’ll write me what’s perfectly true. Like if you were sick or anything.”
    Roger stood up. “You mustn’t ask me that, Sophie. It’s different with a man. . . . ? But I promise to write pretty truthfully.”
    â€œNo! No! Roger! If you got sick, very sick, or if you got terribly hungry and were alone someplace. Or if something happened to you like what happened to Papa. I won’t promise to write what’s true unless you promise to write what’s true too. You can’t ask somebody to be brave without giving them something to be brave about.”
    There was a struggle of wills. “All right,” he said finally. “I promise. It’s a bargain.”
    Sophia looked up at him with an expression on her face which he was to remember all his life. He was to call it her “Domrémy look.” “Because, Roger I can tell you this: that if there were anything in