Free The Cape Ann by Faith Sullivan Page B

Mama paredpotatoes and cut up the chicken for supper. At times like this, Mama and I played “Lady Caller.”
    In the bedroom I combed as much of my hair as I could see, pulled on an old navy blue cloche Mama had donated to me, and tiptoed past her as she melted Crisco in the iron skillet. Outside, I adjusted the hat, smoothed my dress, and examined the contents of my red patent leather purse: one powder puff, stiff and lumpy; a pencil stub; a cracked and badly tattered St. Joseph’s missal Grandma Erhardt had passed along when she’d received a new one; a dainty black rosary from the same source; and in the very bottom, jingling as I shook the purse, two pennies.
    Snapping the bag shut, I tucked it under my arm, patted my hair, stepped up to the door, and knocked. Mrs. Erhardt answered, opening the screen.
    “Why, Mrs….”
    “Brown.”
    “Mrs. Brown, it’s nice to see you. Can you come in and visit? I was just putting chicken in the pan to fry.”
    “Thank you. I can only stay a few minutes. I have to get home and make supper for my husband and my little girl.”
    “Well, sit down here at the table. Can I get you anything?”
    “Do you have any penuche candy?”
    Mrs. Erhardt appeared a little surprised by this request. “Yes… let me see.” She went to the cupboard and from the top shelf brought me a candy. “I’m sure you’ll want to save it to share with your little girl after supper,” she suggested, handing over the piece of penuche on a circle of wax paper. “I seem to have forgotten her name.”
    “Myrna Loy.”
    “Myrna Loy?”
    “Yes. Myrna Loy Brown. Don’t you think it’s pretty?”
    “Very. How is Myrna Loy?”
    “She’s fine. She had tonsilitis a while back though.”
    “Was she very sick?” Mrs. Erhardt asked, dropping pieces of chicken into a brown bag of flour and seasonings, shaking them, then placing them one at a time in the hot skillet, where they squirmed and sizzled and spattered.
    “I’m afraid she was. She ran a fever of a hundred and four, and she had to have her throat painted every day. The poor thing missed a lot of school.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. Will she pass to second grade?”
    “Oh, yes. She’s very smart and she works hard. Her papa is strict though. He doesn’t like A-minuses.”
    “A-minuses don’t seem so bad to me,” Mrs. Erhardt said sympathetically.
    “I know, but Mr. Brown wants her to be the best. The same at catechism class.” I crossed my right leg and swung it importantly. “Myrna Loy has a whole cigar box full of holy medals and those little cards with pictures of Jesus and saints on them. She wins something every week at catechism.”
    “You must be proud of her.”
    “Yes, I am. But Myrna Loy worries about confession.”
    “Why is that?”
    “She has so many sins,” I explained.
    “She’s only six years old!”
    “Six-year-old children can be very bad, even when they’re not trying.”
    “Well, six-year-old children should remember that their mama and papa love them no matter what they do.”
    “Yes, I tell Myrna Loy that, but she worries anyway. Sometimes I think she’ll worry herself to death. Did you ever know anyone who worried themselves to death?”
    “No. I don’t think that happens but once in a blue moon.”
    “I’m glad to hear that. I make Myrna Loy penuche candy, like you do for your little girl, and nice dresses like the ones in the catalog. She has a lot of nice dresses. I sewed her an angel dress for church.
That
was a lot of work. We had her picture taken, and I sent one to my friend Earl.”
    Mrs. Erhardt turned the pieces of chicken as they browned. When they were all turned, she put the lid on the skillet, lowered the heat, and flicked on the burner under the potatoes. After this she opened a large can of green beans and emptied them into a saucepan. “I don’t think I know about your friend Earl,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite me. “Is he from around