Free The Pillow Friend by Lisa Tuttle Page B

bedroom on one side and the kitchen on the other, and the second bedroom was entered from the kitchen.
    The two bedrooms were linked by a narrow bathroom.
    “I had the bathroom put in,” said Marjorie. “When your mother and I were growing up the bedrooms were slightly larger, but we had to take our baths in the kitchen, and the toilet was in an outhouse.”
    “Gross.”
    “No. It was just the way things were. We might have been living in the last century, for all we knew. It wasn't really until we were in high school, taking the bus to Livingston, and meeting kids whose parents had cars, kids who lived in houses which had not only indoor plumbing but electricity and telephones, that we realized how much we were doing without.”
    “You didn't have electricity?” Her mother had never told her—her mother never talked about her childhood.
    “Still don't,” said Marjorie. “Don't look so horrified! This is an opportunity for you to find out firsthand how people used to live. Aren't you interested in history?”
    “What will we eat?” She spoke plaintively because she was hungry; it was past her usual lunchtime.
    “People did manage to eat before the invention of electric stoves. What do they teach you at your school? Did you think that before this century people went around eating fruit off trees, chewing on raw potatoes and sucking raw eggs? Don't worry, I wouldn't let your mother down, I'll give you one cooked meal a day. I hope you won't squawk about cold cereal for breakfast and sandwiches or salads for lunch. I don't use the woodstove in the summer, it makes this place too hot. I've got a hibachi for grilling things outside, and if I want to boil water for coffee or something there's a little camping stove which uses bottled gas. Are you hungry now? A peanut butter sandwich suit you?”
    She nodded.
    “Tang or tea?” She gestured at the two jars on the counter.
    “Tang, please. Is there any ice?”
    “Afraid not. No freezer. I do have an icebox in the cellar, to keep things cool, but there's no way I can make ice for drinks.” She turned away, taking a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread from a cupboard.
    “You have a cellar?”
    There was a tension in her aunt's posture which reminded her unhappily of her mother. “There is a cellar. You're not to play in it, understand me? It's out-of-bounds. You're not to go into the cellar unless I'm with you. Understand?”
    “I was just asking.”
    “And I'm just telling. You must never go down there by yourself.”
    “Who said I wanted to? Don't worry, I won't. I'm not a baby.”
    “It's nothing to do with your age. It's just—I'm sorry, Agnes. I'm not used to having anyone else here. I live by myself, I do things a certain way—I guess I'm set in my ways.”
    It was true, she thought drearily. Marjorie hadn't wanted her here, not even for two weeks. Nobody wanted her.
    “I'll try to keep out of your way.”
    Marjorie brought their drinks to the table. “I knew you would understand. We're going to get along just fine. And you're not going to have such a bad time, you know. In fact, I think you may find yourself feeling very, very glad you came.” Marjorie leaned across the table toward her with a conspiratorial smile. “Let me tell you a secret about this place. This is a place where wishes come true. You can have whatever you want.”
    Agnes felt her stomach twist painfully as she remembered the last wish her aunt had granted, the doll she had convinced herself could talk. But she'd been a little kid then. Marjorie ought to know she'd grown up and no longer believed in magic. But when she opened her mouth it was only to take a sip of her lukewarm orange drink. Maybe she didn't believe in magic, but she would like to be proved wrong. She would just wait and see, and sneer out loud later, when nothing happened.
     
     
    “And here is a candle to light you to bed,” said Marjorie. It was a stubby white thing in a brown pottery holder. Although she