Read Online The Friends of Meager Fortune by David Adams Richards - Free Book Online
Authors: David Adams Richards
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enabled this. Her childlike faith, and her belief that Owen could help her and Reggie.
Even now there was something carefree about her—that didn’t sit well with two other women, both part-time employees at the house.
The other women, who had babysat Owen as a boy—and who both disliked him, for he was not the man Will was—told her to come downstairs, and looked over at Owen as they said this in artificial obsequious deference.
“I want to speak to Mr. Jameson,” she said. “I’ll be down later, thank you.”
“Mr. Jameson is far too busy a man—” one woman, a load of sheets in her arms, said.
Owen replied: “Don’t be silly—I am not too busy for Mrs. Glidden.”
There was a particular tightness when he said Mrs .
The woman nodded with some parental concern and left with the superiority a servant can have, talking to herself as she descended the steps.
“Come here and sit with me a while,” Camellia said once they were alone, without the least worry, “and we will decide what to do about Reggie.”
They sat in the dark on the third floor. The purpose of this clandestine meeting—her purpose, with the vague darkness between them and the sweetness of her perfume that seemed to wisp in her breath—was to ask a delightful favor—for Reggie. Reggie at this moment seemed her only concern. In a way she wanted to hotheadedly prove to Lula Brower, and to the Steadfast Few, and to the world at large, that Reggiewas still a great man. So now she spoke, and he listened in silence as this new Reggie was revealed.
Reggie was not whole. And she needed him home. She, however, wanted him to be whole when he came home. He had married her when she had no one. And now she would help him.
“What’s his problem?” Owen asked, puzzled. (It was true he had no idea.)
“You—or that day, or what they say about him—they have tormented him an awful lot. Well, some of the men—and he is too proud to act—I mean he doesn’t fight back but takes it on himself to damage himself instead.”
“That day could have easily gone the other way. Twice he ordered me to leave him—but I had more rank, and refused. That is twice he would have given his life for me,” Owen said.
But Reggie’s reaction somehow bothered him. He was saddened by it. He knew the reaction had come because of who he was. The smaller, supposedly inept brother was not supposed to save Reggie Glidden.
“He does not think I loved him when I married him—when he heard you were coming back—” she said rapidly.
“I see—”
They were silent. Owen again was confused by this. He felt it was a discredit to what he himself had managed to do, if the man was just going to destroy himself. Then she took his hand in hers as easily as she would a boyfriend and said: “Reggie is older and looks upon himself as your protector—because of Will—” (Here she paused.) “However, he believes he lost that quality in the war.”
“Well then, you and I will get him back,” he said, laughing suddenly.
“We—we will—”
“Of course.”
“Oh thank you—sir—” She stumbled over the word, grabbing his hand with both of hers.
“Don’t be silly—and it’s Owen, not sir—”
Between them was only the flat, gray darkness of upstairs, where sheets covered the chairs Will had once sat on, tying flies or laboring over some algebraic problem he had no interest in solving. On those long ago nights everything in the world seemed possible, even happiness in the drudgery of high school arithmetic. Or perhaps giving more elation was the thought of what might have come after it. Which means the end of school and summer free to do what one wanted. Then, of course, he was pulled from school too soon, his father dead just before greatness claimed him, and Will dead just as greatness went away.
Thinking this, he blurted: “I will ask Mom to make him a better offer. We’ll pay him more than the Push at Estabrook or Sloan—tell him that. He knows the
Even now there was something carefree about her—that didn’t sit well with two other women, both part-time employees at the house.
The other women, who had babysat Owen as a boy—and who both disliked him, for he was not the man Will was—told her to come downstairs, and looked over at Owen as they said this in artificial obsequious deference.
“I want to speak to Mr. Jameson,” she said. “I’ll be down later, thank you.”
“Mr. Jameson is far too busy a man—” one woman, a load of sheets in her arms, said.
Owen replied: “Don’t be silly—I am not too busy for Mrs. Glidden.”
There was a particular tightness when he said Mrs .
The woman nodded with some parental concern and left with the superiority a servant can have, talking to herself as she descended the steps.
“Come here and sit with me a while,” Camellia said once they were alone, without the least worry, “and we will decide what to do about Reggie.”
They sat in the dark on the third floor. The purpose of this clandestine meeting—her purpose, with the vague darkness between them and the sweetness of her perfume that seemed to wisp in her breath—was to ask a delightful favor—for Reggie. Reggie at this moment seemed her only concern. In a way she wanted to hotheadedly prove to Lula Brower, and to the Steadfast Few, and to the world at large, that Reggiewas still a great man. So now she spoke, and he listened in silence as this new Reggie was revealed.
Reggie was not whole. And she needed him home. She, however, wanted him to be whole when he came home. He had married her when she had no one. And now she would help him.
“What’s his problem?” Owen asked, puzzled. (It was true he had no idea.)
“You—or that day, or what they say about him—they have tormented him an awful lot. Well, some of the men—and he is too proud to act—I mean he doesn’t fight back but takes it on himself to damage himself instead.”
“That day could have easily gone the other way. Twice he ordered me to leave him—but I had more rank, and refused. That is twice he would have given his life for me,” Owen said.
But Reggie’s reaction somehow bothered him. He was saddened by it. He knew the reaction had come because of who he was. The smaller, supposedly inept brother was not supposed to save Reggie Glidden.
“He does not think I loved him when I married him—when he heard you were coming back—” she said rapidly.
“I see—”
They were silent. Owen again was confused by this. He felt it was a discredit to what he himself had managed to do, if the man was just going to destroy himself. Then she took his hand in hers as easily as she would a boyfriend and said: “Reggie is older and looks upon himself as your protector—because of Will—” (Here she paused.) “However, he believes he lost that quality in the war.”
“Well then, you and I will get him back,” he said, laughing suddenly.
“We—we will—”
“Of course.”
“Oh thank you—sir—” She stumbled over the word, grabbing his hand with both of hers.
“Don’t be silly—and it’s Owen, not sir—”
Between them was only the flat, gray darkness of upstairs, where sheets covered the chairs Will had once sat on, tying flies or laboring over some algebraic problem he had no interest in solving. On those long ago nights everything in the world seemed possible, even happiness in the drudgery of high school arithmetic. Or perhaps giving more elation was the thought of what might have come after it. Which means the end of school and summer free to do what one wanted. Then, of course, he was pulled from school too soon, his father dead just before greatness claimed him, and Will dead just as greatness went away.
Thinking this, he blurted: “I will ask Mom to make him a better offer. We’ll pay him more than the Push at Estabrook or Sloan—tell him that. He knows the
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