Read Online Wives and Lovers by Margaret Millar - Free Book Online Page A

wash­ing dishes, and she had a friendly curiosity about all these people.
    Afterwards, Mrs. Freeman described her walks in de­tail, always managing to bring in the exotic street names that she dearly loved. “I strolled up Alameda Padre Serra and over to Plaza Rubio, and finally ended up on Salsipuedes!”
    The weather was a constant source of material. Mrs. Freeman, however, did not content herself with mere temperature reports. She injected drama into a cloudy day by describing the fog rolling in from the sea, and into a windy day by stating that “the small craft warnings are up, all up and down the coast!” Calm, sunny days were provided with an element of terror by Mrs. Freeman’s favorite phrase, “earthquake weather.” The more beauti­ful the day, the more sinister the growl of the earth be­neath it. Thus, Mrs. Freeman’s correspondents got the impression that she lived in the crater of a volcano with the earth forever teetering under her house. This impression served two purposes. It made Mrs. Freeman feel that she did indeed live dangerously, and it discouraged her pen pals from planning a visit to this perilous spot. Flossie of Florida had even gone so far as to remark that she wouldn’t live in California for all the money in the world—hurri­canes Florida might have, yes, but an earthquake practi­cally every day would upset her nervous system. This statement stimulated Mrs. Freeman’s imagination, and she replied by return mail, describing how only that morning the whole house had shuddered, the windows rattled, and the chandelier in the parlor swung like a pendulum. She neglected to add that this was a regular occurrence, caused not by an earthquake, but by an S. P. freight train.
    Any seed, however small, could grow in Mrs. Free­man’s fertile brain. She returned now to her interrupted letter to a third cousin in Michigan. The ink flowed over George and he became a close relative of the Andersons who made that celebrated split-pea soup.
    From where she sat, at the round walnut dining-room table, Mrs. Freeman could hear the angry rise and the de­fensive fall of George’s voice. The combination of attack and appeasement in his tone reminded Mrs. Freeman of her husband, Robert. Robert had been gone for nearly three weeks now and she was beginning to worry and to wonder whether she’d better go to the police. This harsh practical thought of going to the police annihilated Mrs. Freeman’s writing mood. She put down her pen. She had hoped to finish her letter before making herself a bite to eat, but now she couldn’t concentrate on it and for this she blamed George. He had no right to come forcing himself into the house (Mrs. Freeman had no recollection of opening the door for him), using profane language (she couldn’t actually distinguish his words but his tone was profane), and browbeating defenseless little women (mak­ing them accept money, probably tainted). For the mo­ment, Mrs. Freeman was on Ruby’s side. Ruby might be sly, evasive, she might even be a downright liar, but she was a woman, and women should stick together.
    In union is strength, thought Mrs. Freeman, who liked an aphorism as well as the next one.
    She heard the thud of the evening paper as it struck the porch, and she rose to fetch it. When she passed through the hall she made her step good and loud, a cunning device that didn’t escape notice.
    â€œYou’d better go,” Ruby said. “She’s doing that on purpose.”
    â€œAll right.” George got up from Mrs. Freeman’s mo­hair sofa, aware that he had made a fool of himself. He had done what he set out to do, he had apologized for firing Ruby and losing his temper. But the apology had gone wrong. There had been nothing contrite or apolo­getic about it. He had forced it on her, he had apologized at the top of his lungs.
    The apology had a curious effect on Ruby.