By Garrett P. (Putman) Serviss
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Well, she waited for someone wonderful to come along, and he never did. George Armbruster walked back into my life when I was twenty-eight. As George said: “Hey, twenty-eight’s a lot older than the last time I saw you. ” Then he gave me the once-over. ” By Ridgewood standards, George was a very eligible bachelor. He was an electrician who’d moved somewhere on Long Island but who had his own shop on Metropolitan Avenue and his mother had just died. What could be more perfect? We’d gone to the same high school, and one Saturday when I was at the grocery store communing with a slab of Swiss cheese, he came up beside me.
S. Pale, trembling hands. She kept them in her lap, hoping, I guess, that I wouldn’t see them and get upset. She honestly tried. Though she was no prize as a mother and she knew it, she loved me as much as she could. But she wouldn’t eat to save her life—not even for me. Eating smudged lipstick, and, even plastered, my mother managed enough self-control to keep her makeup perfect. Well, almost perfect: I noticed she’d drawn one of her eyebrows into a higher arch than the other, so it looked as if she had doubts about everything I said.
Make believe you’re me! Come on, don’t laugh. It’ll work. Flirt with that John a little, call him big boy in German. Play your SHINING THROUGH / 33 cards right and before you know it, no more typing for you. ” I went back to the table, swept off a couple of crumbs and put the ketchup in the icebox. It was just as well my mother didn’t even try to help anymore. Dishes flew out of her hands, then crash-landed on the floor. And her idea of an interesting use for leftovers was to dump everything into the garbage.