Free The Western Light by Susan Swan Page A

Mad Killer Pilkie stood before us wearing her funny-looking dark glasses. “Sal, dear, you’ve brought a child with you.” Mrs. Pilkie bent over to shake my hand. Up close, she wasn’t stylish like her son John. She wore a baggy floral blouse and a long skirt that reminded me of my dead mother’s clothes in her old photographs.
    â€œGeorgie, I am babysitting the doctor’s daughter.”
    â€œThe doctor’s daughter? Sal, you should have told me so I could wash my floors.”
    I blushed at the idea of anybody going to trouble on my account.
    â€œMary doesn’t care about your floors,” Sal said, pushing me forward.
    â€œWell, come in, both of you.” Mrs. Pilkie ushered us into a room crowded with sofas and armchairs in plastic slipcovers, and I thought of Big Louie again who would consider the see-through plastic covers in poor taste, along with the shiny white Woolworth Department store blinds. But my grandmother’s la-de-dah views wouldn’t help me with the mother of the hockey killer.
    She noticed where I was looking. “I can open them if you like. I’m afraid the light hurts my eyes.”
    â€œNo, this is fine.” Sal nodded at me. “Georgie has cataracts. She can’t see well anymore.”
    â€œSal, dear, I will be able to see perfectly well after my operation. But that’s not for a while yet.”
    I took off my Lone Ranger hat, and we settled ourselves on a hard-looking sofa. The plastic cover stuck to my thighs. I looked around for signs that John had lived here, but the parlour was disappointingly average. The clean white walls were covered with framed photographs like the ones published in
The Chronicle
under captions such as, “First Snow on the Wye River” and “The Approaching Storm.” On the mantel, a cut-glass vase of purple pansies sat next to a porcelain figure of a shepherd and his sheep. The vase of pansies was the only thing my grandmother would admire. “You wanted to see me, Georgie?” Sal smiled.
    â€œYes, Sal, dear. I’m asking Mary’s father to get us a review of John’s case.”
    Mrs. Pilkie didn’t drop her “ing” endings or talk in a nasal twang like Sal and Sib, and I remembered what Sal had told me about John’s paternal grandfather. So that was the reason John could talk slangy Madoc’s Landing talk, or sound as educated as a man like my father. John’s mother must have told him not to drop his “ings” the way Big Louie told me, and that meant he could adjust his speaking style to suit any situation.
    â€œYou think there’s a chance of John getting out of the Bug House?” Sal asked.
    â€œOf course I do. That fire was a terrible accident. You know John idolized his wife and child.”
    â€œWell, that’s his story.” Sal wiggled her eyebrows so I would know not to believe Mrs. Pilkie.
    â€œI don’t know why you’re making that face, Sal. You used to be sweet on John once.”
    I had no idea that Sal had been sweet on John. Shocked, I turned towards Sal, who dropped her eyes. “Oh, go on with you. What do you want, Georgie?”
    â€œWill you look at my letter to Dr. Bradford?”
    â€œGuess I don’t have a choice.” Sal frowned.
    â€œGood. And now if you will excuse me, I’ll get our tea.”
    â€œNo questions, Mouse!” Sal hissed as soon as Mrs. Pilkie left the room. So I sat meekly until Mrs. Pilkie came back, carrying a silver tray stacked with teacups. She set the tray down on a piano stool and began to pour, placing a lacy paper napkin under each cup in case the tea slopped over into the saucer. Sal watched, sucking her teeth. After Mrs. Pilkie handed Sal a cup, she asked me if I would like to go outside and play.
    â€œLet Mary stay here, Georgie. She can help you with the spelling.”
    â€œIf you say so, Sal.” Mrs. Pilkie fetched the letter from a side