Free Suds In Your Eye by Mary Lasswell Page A

say in the letter, anyway?’
    Miss Tinkham opened the envelope and read silently what the notice contained. She looked stunned, as if unable to believe what her eyes told her.
    ‘Well?’ queried Mrs. Feeley.
    ‘It says: “The county tax collector is required by state law to offer for sale at public auction all that property herein described in the attached legal description of the property, delinquent for taxes of nineteen thirty-six, on or about June thirtieth, nineteen forty-two, at the tax collector’s office. You have been repeatedly notified of the delinquency, and unless the property is redeemed by the full payment of arrears in taxes plus eight per cent delinquent penalty, the sale will proceed according to law.”’
    Mrs. Feeley stopped rocking. She wet her lips and said, ‘Would you just read that over again…slow, like?’
    Miss Tinkham complied, even reading off the list of numbers describing the lots and their location.
    ‘There’s been a awful mistake somewhere!’ Mrs. Feeley announced at last. ‘I paid every cent o’ them taxes long ’fore they was due for six years! I got receipts to prove it, too!’
    From a drawer in her dresser she produced an old tin candy box and dug out a handful of tax receipts. Sure enough, there were the rubber stamp marks in the proper squares marked ‘Paid,’ plain as the nose on your face. Miss Tinkham could see.
    ‘Come on!’ Mrs. Feeley ordered. ‘We ain’t waitin’ for the lawyer: he must be outa town or he’d a been here before now. We’re goin’ right down to the head man about this!’
    Mrs. Rasmussen and Miss Tinkham ran to get their hats while Mrs. Feeley put her shoes on. No one spoke. The tenseness of the situation had spread to all of the group. This situation would require the combined mental resources of the friends, and they were saving their strength. The monstrous fact that their happy home was in danger rendered them utterly speechless. It was all a bad dream.
    As Mrs. Feeley finished gathering up the tax receipts she said:
    ‘We’ll have the truck, on account o’ it’s so important. Just holler to Old-Timer, one o’ you!’
    Old-Timer rolled the truck out and the ladies climbed aboard.
    ‘Where should I tell him to go?’ asked Mrs. Feeley, bewildered by the sudden turn of events.
    ‘Civic Center, I think,’ Miss Tinkham said.
    An education did not always get you much, but it sure came in handy at a time like this.
    ‘By God,’ Mrs. Feeley swore fervently, ‘if I get outa this one with my hide, I’m gonna learn to read sure as God made little apples!’
    Once inside the tax collector’s office, Mrs. Feeley took command. Two or three clerks tried to get her to state her business. This angered her greatly, and she swept them aside when Miss Tinkham pointed out to her the door that led to the tax collector’s private office.
    ‘Outamy way, small fry!’ she cried. ‘I come to see the man himself.’ And in she went.
    The collector was a nice, mild-mannered fellow. Apparently he was not unused to irate taxpayers and their grievances, for he calmed Mrs. Feeley down, gave her a chair, found out her name, and sent the secretary for the proper tax book.
    ‘I been payin’ my taxes regular for six years, ever since Mr. Feeley was took!’ she protested. ‘I been givin’ the money to the lawyer just like he told me to before he died!’
    The collector asked why she hadn’t paid them herself.
    ‘See, on account o’ me never havin’ hardly no schoolin’ to speak of, I can’t hardly read; an’ he thought I oughta have the lawyer to look out for the business end o’ things for me!’ she explained.
    The tax collector soothed her.
    ‘Obviously there has been a slip-up somewhere, Mrs. Feeley. We’ll soon straighten it out, if things are as you say. You said you had receipts?’
    ‘Sure have!’ cried Mrs. Feeley, getting up and bringing them to his desk.
    The collector examined them carefully for several minutes. Then he said