Edith’s Diary Read Online Free

she’d make them come, even if the house wasn’t completely fixed up. The Zylstras hadn’t even seen the house, just a couple of photographs Brett had taken of it.
    ‘And I hope your new job works out, Brett.’
    ‘Oh.
Trenton Standard
,’
Brett said, a bit uneasily. ‘Less money, I’ll tell you that right now.’
    ‘Yes,
I
know.’ Marion laughed, then she was gone.
    ‘What’s
that
?’
Edith said in a whisper, having heard an ominous growl from the cat, from somewhere.
    Brett followed her across the hall into the bedroom.
    ‘Cliffie?’ Edith said. ‘What’s happening?’
    Cliffie wriggled off the double bed and stood up. From a heap of blue-and-white eiderdown the cat emerged, staggering, coughing, and jumped limply to the floor.
    ‘Were you trying to smother her?’ Edith said quickly, and anger suddenly burned her cheeks. ‘You were!’
    ‘All right, Edith, I’ll —’ Brett, just as grim as Edith, checked himself, however. He had long ago decided to let Edith handle Cliff, in case of crises. Brett didn’t want Cliffie scarred by paternal sternness, and Brett realized he did lose his patience, had since quite a while lost it in regard to Cliff, beyond the degree to which a parent should lose it.
    Speechless, Edith stared at the cat long enough to see that she wasn’t seriously hurt, then looked at her son.
    Cliffie’s face was expressionless, as usual in such circumstances, neutral, rather calm, as if he were saying inwardly, ‘What’ve I done, after all?’
    Edith knew quite well that if not for the brief silence after Marion closed the door, she and Brett might not have heard the cat’s growl under the comforter. Mildew might’ve been dead, if Marion had stayed two minutes longer.
    ‘She was sleeping under the comforter,’ Cliffie said with a shrug. ‘
I
didn’t know it.’
    Edith exchanged a dismal glance with Brett.
    Brett passed a hand across his forehead, as if to indicate that they had enough to deal with just now without going further into this.
    When Cliffie walked out of the room, Edith’s shoulders relaxed, and she called after him, ‘Go and wash your hands and face, Cliffie. We’ll be going out to dinner soon.’ Then to Brett she said softly, ‘He’s upset about the move, you know.’
    ‘Yeah-m-m. And he seemed to be crazy about the house.’
    ‘Did you find what you wanted today?’
    Brett smiled. ‘Oh, sure.’
    They walked to the Chinese restaurant. It was a lovely September evening, just growing dusk, the air just cool enough to promise autumn. Edith felt happy at the thought of the work ahead, which meant writing too of course, in the new house. She and Brett had talked of starting a newspaper which they might call the
Brunswick Corner Bugle
or
Voice
or some such, a four-pager to begin with, with a letters column, an editorial column by her or Brett, local advertisements to keep it going. The healthy American liberal outlook, a bit left-wing. Edith had hopes. Brunswick Corner wasn’t stuffy, wasn’t mainly peopled by the rich and elderly. It was pretty enough to be a tourist attraction, however, had some historical houses – manses they were called – built around 1720 and 1740, had its share of gift shops, but lots of people commuted to New York and Philadelphia to their jobs.
    And maybe it was the last time, Edith thought, they’d be having dinner at Wah Chum’s. The food was good and reasonably priced. They could gorge on fried rice and soy sauce, butterfly shrimp, rice cakes, plus free fortune cookies which Cliffie adored.
    ‘You’re not sorry about the move, Brett, I mean – doubtful?’ Edith asked, because it had been her idea.
    ‘Gosh, no! I’m all for it. Even —’ Brett paused to spoon more bean sprouts onto his plate.
    Edith waited.
    ‘Went by to see Uncle George this afternoon. Just a little ways from Bloomingdale’s, you know. He said he envied us. Asked how many rooms we had. As if I hadn’t told him.’
    ‘I suppose he’d like to live