Free The Eighth Day by Thornton Wilder Page B

stamped envelope addressed to “Mr. Trent Frazier, General Post Office, Chicago, Illinois,” a sheet of writing paper, a dollar bill, and his letter. He was well. He was growing so fast she wouldn’t know him. He had begun by washing dishes in a restaurant, but he’d been promoted and now he was helping the cooks in the kitchen. Every minute they were calling, “Trent, do this,” “Trent, do that.” He thought maybe he’d be a clerk in a hotel next. Chicago was very big; he didn’t know what all those people were doing on earth. It was a thousand times bigger than Coaltown. He kept thinking about the day when she would come and see him in Chicago. He saw a place the other day where it said “School of Nursing.” “Well, that’s where you’re going, Sophie.” Only Roger, Dr. Gillies, and her father knew that Sophia dreamed of being a trained nurse. “I guess you know I sent Mama two dollars. I can send more soon. Here’s a dollar for you to put in your secret bank. Stop in at Mr. Bostwick’s and see if he won’t buy some of our chestnuts. They’re the only ones for miles around. Here in Chicago they’re twelve cents a bushel. That’s last year’s. If you get short of pencils Miss Thoms will give you some. She has them to burn. Now write small, Sophie, so you can get a lot of words in. Write the very day you get this letter. I guess nobody ever was as glad to get a letter as I’m going to be when you write me. How’s Mama’s voice? What things have you been having to eat? When there’s reading aloud, do you ever laugh any? Don’t forget what I told you about being downhearted. You wouldn’t be like that. We’re going to win. I forgot to tell you not to let Mama know that you get letters from me, but I guess you knew that. Roger. P.S. Now I wish I hadn’t changed my name. We don’t care what a billion people think. Papa didn’t do it. P.S. II, I think of you and Mama and the house every night at NINE O’CLOCK, SO make a note of that in your think box. P.S. III, How are the oak trees Papa planted getting on? Measure them and tell me.”
    The days went by. The vegetable garden and the chickenhouse fed them. They drank linden tea made from the petals of their own tree. Sophia bought no more coffee—a cutting deprivation for her mother, who made no comment. The money dwindled away: flour, milk, yeast, soap. . . . ? Long before winter Sophia began picking up coals at the edge of the railroad yards as many of the poorer sort did. Often in the early dark the women and girls of the town would stroll by “The Elms,” affecting an easy nonchalance. On six evenings of the week no lights showed in the house. All Coaltown waited in suspense: how long can a widow—a virtual widow—with three growing girls exist without money?
    Constance was a child. She could not understand why she was withdrawn from school or why she was forbidden to accompany Sophia on her daily trips into town. At certain hours she would steal upstairs to a window overlooking the main street. She watched her former friends go by. Lily had always been a dreamer. Even during the trial she gave little attention to what was passing before her. She was not asleep, she was absent. Three things that were essential to her were missing: music, a continuous stream of new faces, and young men whose privilege it would be to admire her. She was neither melancholy nor sullen. She did willingly and well what she was called upon to do. All the Ashley children were slow-maturing, Lily most so. Her absence was a waiting. She was like a sea anemone that lies inert and colorless until the tide returns and flows about it.
    Beata Ashley held herself as straight as before. There were no idle hands at “The Elms.” The house was spotlessly clean. The attic and cellar were put in order. Many discarded objects were found that