Free The Eighth Day by Thornton Wilder Page A

lemonade.
    â€œSi,” said Sophia, “you can play somewhere else.”
    â€œGo fly a kite, Sophie.”
    The bystanders watched in silence. Suddenly a tall man with a great curling beard strode onto the platform from the main street. He put a stop to the game with curt unanswerable authority. Sophia raised her eyes to his and said, “Thank you, sir”—lady to gentleman. He was a stranger, but it was not new to Sophia that it would be men and not women who would be useful to her.
    Sophia waited until the fourth day to tell her mother. She left a note on the kitchen table: “Dear Mama, I will be a little late. Am selling lemonade at the depot. Love, Sophia.”
    Her mother said, “Sophia, I don’t want you to sell lemonade at the station.”
    â€œBut, Mama, I’ve made three dollars and ten cents.”
    â€œYes, but I don’t want you to do it any more.”
    â€œIf you made some of your oatcakes, I know I could sell them all.”
    â€œI think people will try to be kind the first days, Sophia, but it won’t last. I don’t want you to do it any more.”
    â€œYes, Mama.”
    Three days later her mother found another note on the kitchen table: “Am having supper at Mrs. Tracy’s.”
    â€œWhat were you doing at Mrs. Tracy’s, Sophia?”
    â€œShe had to go to Fort Barry. She gave me fifteen cents to cook the children’s supper. Mama, she wants me to stay all night there and she’ll give me another fifteen cents. She’s afraid, because Peter plays with matches.”
    â€œIs she expecting you there tonight?”
    â€œYes, Mama.”
    â€œYou may go tonight, but when she comes back you thank her and tell her your mother needs you at home.”
    â€œYes, Mama.”
    â€œAnd do not take the money.”
    â€œBut, Mama, if I do the work, can’t I have the money?”
    â€œSophia, you’re too young to understand these things. We don’t need these people’s kindness. We don’t want it.”
    â€œMama, winter’s coming.”
    â€œWhat? What do you mean?—Sophia, I want you to remember that I know best.”
    Three weeks after Roger’s departure, on August 16, the postman delivered a letter at “The Elms.” Sophia received it at the door. She did as the Moslems do—she pressed it to her forehead and heart. She looked at it closely. It had been opened and clumsily resealed. She carried it to her mother in the kitchen.
    â€œMama, I think it is a letter from Roger.”
    â€œIs it?” Her mother opened it slowly. A two-dollar bill fell to the floor. She looked at the message in a dazed way and passed it to Sophia. “Read . . . ? read it to me, Sophia,” she said hoarsely.
    â€œIt says, ‘Dear Mama, everything’s fine with me. I hope things are fine with you. I’ll be making more money soon. It’s not hard to get work here. Chicago is very big. I can’t send you an address yet because I don’t know where I’ll be. You’d laugh at how I’m growing. I hope I stop soon. Love to you and Lily and Sophie and Connie. Roger.’”
    â€œHe’s well.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œShow the letter to your sisters.”
    â€œMama, you dropped the money.”
    â€œYes . . . ? well . . . ? put it away safe somewhere.”
    Sophia followed her brother’s instructions precisely. She went down the main street. The calendar was in Porky’s window. In the early afternoon when there are few people on the street she returned into the town carrying an old pair of Lily’s shoes. A customer in stocking feet was waiting for a repair. Sophia and Porky, who had never entered a theatre, played a long scene about heels and soles and half-soles; a letter glided from his hand to hers. She continued walking south and sat down on a step of the Civil War monument. She opened the envelope. It contained a