Free Edith’s Diary by Patricia Highsmith Page B

dear. Thank you – kindly.’
    She settled him, made sure the pillows could keep him upright, that the tray was reasonably balanced.
    George’s bald head shone like something polished, pink alabaster, perhaps. In the last years his lower lids had sagged farther. Edith couldn’t bear to look at them. And now he was never up for meals, only got up (thank God) to use the bathroom.
    ‘Cliffie – isn’t he taking his exams for college today?’
    Had she said something to George? If so, she was surprised George had retained it. ‘Yes, this afternoon in Trenton. He’s not back yet.’ What was she doing, standing here? Edith retreated and slipped out, leaving the door ajar, as George liked it.
    The dinner was simple that evening, a corn casserole with leftover roast beef in it, garnished with green pepper. Edith had half cooked it, and would put the oven on again when Brett arrived, as they always liked a drink and a look at the
Standard
before dinner. Now it was twenty to 6, ten minutes later than Brett’s usual time of arrival – though that varied, Edith reminded herself.
    The telephone rang. Edith had a feeling it was Brett.
    ‘Hi, Edith,’ said Gert Johnson. ‘Just wanted to ask how Cliffie made out. Or how he thinks he made out.’
    ‘Well —’ Edith began, trying to make herself sound just as cheery, because she could tell Gert the truth at some other time. ‘I dunno. They’re both a little late. Brett was going to pick Cliffie up afterward.’
    ‘Tell Cliffie we send him our best wishes. Those exams aren’t really stiff, you know, Edie. I’ll bet he’ll pass if he wants to.’
    ‘Wait and see. Cliffie’s full of surprises.’
    ‘Y’know, Edie, there’s a junk sale at the antique place near Flemington Saturday? Feel like going?… Well, call me if you do. I’m going and I can pick you up.’
    They hung up. Edith wanted to make a drink for herself, but lit a cigarette instead. The living room looked handsome, she thought. The big sofa acquired three years ago was second-hand, but in good condition, upholstered in green leather which Edith took the trouble to polish reasonably often. Two oil paintings of her nineteenth-century great-grandparents hung on one wall, and over the mantel was a large mirror not exactly clear and in a fine frame whose gold-leaf was just worn enough, Edith thought, to look right. They had been in the house almost ten years now. Yes, George had come during the first weeks of their moving here, when Cliffie had been ten, his voice still a boy’s voice, his body still slender. She remembered Cliffie well, his likes and dislikes then. The amazing thing was that Cliffie had not changed much. He still liked comic books, though they were not now his exclusive reading. He liked James Bond and science fiction too, but Edith felt sure if she looked thoroughly in the bookshelves in his room, she would find some yellowing comic books dating back to the 1950s. He was now a little more sure of himself, or pretended to be. His tantrums had metamorphosed into touchiness, a downing of tools, a huff if his employer (a grocery store manager just now, as Cliffie worked at the Cracker Barrel lately) tried to bring him into line about something. He had barely scraped through high school, and now at nineteen was trying half-heartedly, for the second time, to make college entrance exams. Of course it didn’t matter at what age one entered college, but one had to
want
to go. Failing to make it, Edith thought, might be one more thing Cliffie had thought of to disappoint her and Brett. In fact, what could have been worse than what he had done today?
    Mildew’s jumping onto her lap cut off Edith’s daydreaming. Mildew was nearly twelve. She jumped in an arthritic way, sparing her left hind foot.
    ‘Old Millie —’ Edith made kissing noises, and fondled the cat’s black ear. Mildew sensed when Edith was upset. Many a cold night, too, Mildew crawled into bed on Edith’s side and made her way down