Free The Rainmaker by John Grisham Page B

which they don’t always share with me.”
    It’s after five, and she wants to go. “Thanks, Mrs. Skinner. For everything. It’s nice to know someone cares.”
    “I’ll keep looking, I promise. Check back next week.”
    “I will. Thanks.”
    I return unnoticed to my study carrel.

Six
     
     
    T HE BIRDSONG HOUSE IS IN MIDTOWN, an older, affluent area in the city, only a couple of miles from the law school. The street is lined with ancient oaks and appears secluded. Some of the homes are quite handsome, with manicured lawns and luxury cars glistening in the driveways. Still others seem almost abandoned, and peer hauntingly through dense growth of unpruned trees and wild shrubbery. Still others are somewhere in between. Miss Birdie’s is a white-stone turn-of-the-century Victorian with a sweeping porch that disappears around one end. It needs paint, a new roof and some yard work. The windows are dingy and the gutters are choked with leaves, but it’s obvious someone lives here and tries to keep it up. The drive is lined with disorderly hedges. I park behind a dirty Cadillac, probably ten years old.
    The porch planks squeak as I step to the front door, looking in all directions for a large dog with pointed teeth. It’s late, almost dark, and there are no lights on the porch. The heavy wooden door is wide open, and through thescreen I can see the shape of a small foyer. I can’t find a button for the doorbell, so I very gently tap on the screen door. It rattles loosely. I hold my breath—no barking dogs.
    No noise, no movement. I tap a bit louder.
    “Who is it?” a familiar voice calls out.
    “Miss Birdie?”
    A figure moves through the foyer, a light switches on, and there she is, wearing the same cotton dress she wore yesterday at the Cypress Gardens Senior Citizens Building. She squints through the door.
    “It’s me. Rudy Baylor. The law student you talked to yesterday.”
    “Rudy!” She is thrilled to see me. I’m slightly embarrassed for a second, then I am suddenly sad. She lives alone in this monstrous house, and she’s convinced her family has abandoned her. The highlight of her day is taking care of those deserted old people who gather for lunch and a song or two. Miss Birdie Birdsong is a very lonely person.
    She hurriedly unlocks the screen door. “Come in, come in,” she repeats without the slightest hint of curiosity. She takes me by the elbow and ushers me through the foyer and down a hallway, hitting light switches along the way. The walls are covered with dozens of old family portraits. The rugs are dusty and threadbare. The smell is moldy and musty, an old house in need of serious cleaning and refurbishing.
    “So nice of you to stop by,” she says sweetly, still squeezing my arm. “Didn’t you have fun with us yesterday?”
    “Yes ma’am.”
    “Won’t you come back and visit us again?”
    “Can’t wait.”
    She parks me at the kitchen table. “Coffee or tea?” sheasks, bouncing toward the cabinets and swatting at light switches.
    “Coffee,” I say, looking around the room. “How about instant?”
    “That’s fine.” After three years of law school, I can’t tell instant coffee from real.
    “Cream or sugar?” she asks, reaching into the refrigerator.
    “Just black.”
    She gets the water on and the cups lined up, and she takes a seat across from me at the table. She’s grinning from ear to ear. I’ve made her day.
    “I’m just delighted to see you,” she says for the third or fourth time.
    “You have a lovely home, Miss Birdie,” I say, inhaling the musty air.
    “Oh, thank you. Thomas and I bought it fifty years ago.”
    The pots and pans, sink and faucets, stove and toaster are all at least forty years old. The refrigerator is probably of early sixties’ vintage.
    “Thomas died eleven years ago. We raised our two sons in this house, but I’d rather not talk about them.” Her cheery face is somber for a second, but she’s quickly smiling again.
    “Sure. Of