painting; I could paint. What do you think of that? … Well, darling, I’m only forty, think of Gauguin …”
Harriet started, very slowly, heart pounding, to pull the ropes that would start her downwards. It had occurred to her that she’d better exit while Mrs Plumber was blathering away or she would certainly be heard. There was a tiny creak as she got near the bottom, but she was fairly certain no one heard it. There, the main floor. She peeked into the kitchen. Empty. Could she make it? She scrambled down and ran for her life.
I have never run so fast, she thought as she careened around the corner. Panting, she sat on some steps and took out her book.
I THINK THIS MIGHT BE TOO DANGEROUS AN ASSIGNMENT. BUT I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHAT JOB SHE TAKES. BUT HOW CAN YOU WORK LYING DOWN? HOW DOES SHE PAY FOR ANYTHING JUST LYING THERE? I GUESS SHE JUST LIVES ON HER HUSBAND’S MONEY. DOES MY MOTHER MOOCH OFF MY FATHER? I’LL NEVER DO THAT. LOOK AT POOR SPORT. HE HAS TOO MUCH TO DO ALREADY WITHOUT ME LYING UP IN THE BED ALL DAY EATING.
Harriet had three more stops before she was finished for the day, but before she continued she decided to stop by and see Sport. On the way there she got thirsty and stopped in her favourite luncheonette for an egg cream. It was her favourite because it was there that she had first begun to hear what peculiar things people say to each other. She liked to sit at the counter with her egg cream and let the voices from the tables behind her float over her head. Several conversations were always going on at once. Sometimes she would play a game and not look at the people until from listening to them she had decided what they looked like. Then she would turn around and see if she were right.
“A chocolate egg cream, please.”
“Certainly, Harriet. How are you?”
“OK.” Harriet sat down, pleased that she was known. She put her twelve cents down and sipped away as she listened.
“My father is a rat.”
“So, I have to admit, I handled that case in a perfect way, a really perfect way. I said to the judge …”
“He’s a rat because he thinks he’s perfect.”
“Listen, Jane, we have to go to Orchard Street and get that material. I can’t live in that house one more minute without shades. Anyone could see in.”
Harriet had to restrain herself at this point from looking around at a new possibility for the spy route. If anyone could see in …
“You know, I’ve lost very few cases in my time, even if I do say so.”
“He’s such a rat he never lets my mother open her trap.”
Rat trap, thought Harriet.
“You have no idea what it’s like to hide all the time. Geez, I can’t even walk around in a slip.”
Her egg cream finished, Harriet summed up her guesses. The boy with the rat father would be skinny, have black hair, and a lot of pimples. The lawyer who won all his cases would be short, puffy-looking, and be leaning forward. She got no picture of the shadeless girl but decided that she must be fat. She turned around.
At first she couldn’t tell. Then she saw the boy with black hair and pimples. She felt a surge of triumph. She looked at what must be the lawyer, one of two men. Then she listened to see if he were the one. No, the other one was the lawyer. He wasn’t short and fat, he was long and thin, with a handsome face. She consoled herself with a faint puffiness he had around the eyes.
Well, no wonder she won’t walk around in a slip, Harriet thought, looking at the girl with no shades, she’s the fattest thing I ever saw.
Enough. Only two out of three. Some days were better than others. She slid off the stool and went on her way to Sport’s house. Sport lived in an apartment that was up four flights of stairs. He opened the door wearing an apron and carrying a dishtowel. “Hi, Harriet, come in, I just got to do these dishes.”
“Then whataya gonna do?”
“Then I sweep.”
“Aw, Sport, you got too much work to do.”
“Yeah, but what can I do? Somebody’s got to do it. Once I didn’t do it, and after a week I couldn’t find the living room.”
They went into the kitchen and Sport continued to do the dishes. Harriet pointed towards a closed door to the right of the kitchen. “Is he in there?”
“Yeah, he worked all night, so he’s sleeping. I got to go to the store and then get back in time to fix his dinner.”
“I couldn’t even fix dinner, much less for my father. How do you do it?”
“Well, lots of times, you know, it’s Eggsville.”
“Doesn’t he care what he eats?”
“Writers don’t care what they eat. They just care what you think of them. Here, Harriet, hold this.”
“I sure care what I eat.” Just as she was saying this, Harriet heard a loud groan from the bedroom. She almost dropped the plate. “Hey, what’s that?”
Sport looked totally unconcerned. “Nothing, just a bad dream. He has them all the time. Writers have a lot of bad dreams.”
“Don’t you want to be a writer, Sport? Gee, your father could even help you.”
Sport almost collapsed at the sink. “Are you kidding? You know I want to be a ball player. And if I’m not a good ball player, I’ll tell you something, I’m going to be a C.P.A.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know what a C.P.A. is?” Sport screeched.
“No,” said Harriet. She never minded admitting she didn’t know something. So what, she thought; I could always learn.
“Well, I’ll show you what that is. Come with me.” Sport put the dishtowel down, took Harriet by the hand, and led her into his room. You would have known it was Sport’s room because it was as neat as a pin. There was a little cot, made up army fashion, one straight chair, and a little desk. The desk was absolutely bare. Sport took a ring of keys out of his pocket and started unlocking the drawers to the desk. “You see these books? These are my books.” He stepped back proudly. Harriet looked. Each drawer was filled with large ledgers. One drawer held a cashbox, which was also locked.
“My, my,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.
“A C.P.A. is an accountant, for your information,” Sport said pompously, pulling back Harriet’s hand sharply because she had started to reach for one of the ledgers.
“What’s in all those?” asked Harriet, suspecting that they were empty.
“Our FINANCES. What do you think?” Sport was getting irritated.
“I hate money,” Harriet said.
“Well, you’d jolly well like it if you didn’t have any,” Sport said arrogantly. Harriet considered this. It was true. She’d never had to think about it.
“Well, gee, Sport, do you like to do that? Isn’t it just a lot of math?”
“Well, the math isn’t hard; that’s not it. I can’t explain. Don’t you know what I mean? Then you know where everything is.”
“Oh,” said Harriet, who did not understand at all.
“I mean, see, my father gets a cheque, and if I don’t take it, then the next day it’s gone and he just throws up his hands and goes in his room and shuts the door. Then we don’t eat.”
“Really?”
“Really. This way I take the cheque and I cash it and I plan what to do with all the money piece by piece and then we have enough to eat. See?”
“Yeah. That’s