An Air That Kills by Margaret Millar Page A

Mom.”
    â€œThere’s lots you don’t know, including how to behave to your elders.”
    â€œWhere did you get it?”
    â€œSomeone gave it to me. As a gift.”
    â€œIt looks like genuine alligator.”
    â€œ So?”
    â€œMom. It don’t make sense. Who would give you a genuine alligator wallet?”
    â€œA man, a very rich man.” Celia rose, clutching her purse to her chest. “Now that’s all I can tell you. The rest is my business, and my business alone.”
    â€œYou don’t know any very rich man.”
    â€œI do, too.”
    â€œWhere did you meet him?”
    â€œOn the road, just outside.”
    â€œMom.”
    â€œIt’s the truth, so help me. I met him on the road.”
    â€œAnd he just came up and tipped his hat and said, madam, I’m a very rich man, here is my genuine alligator wallet. Mom.”
    â€œStop saying Mom like that.”
    â€œWell, it don’t make sense.”
    â€œWhat’s more,” Celia said loftily, “you use bad grammar. That’s what comes of marrying beneath you. Well, I warned you. I said, he’s a common laborer, he’ll drag you down with him and you with a high school education . . .”
    â€œDon’t change the subject, Mom. I want to hear more about the very rich man. He intrigues me.”
    â€œAnd don’t get ironical-sounding either. It so happens I’m telling the truth and I don’t expect my own child to be ironical-sounding to me.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do when other people notice the wallet? Tell them the same story you told me?”
    â€œNobody else is going to notice it.”
    â€œHow come?”
    â€œI’m going to get rid of it, that’s how come.”
    â€œGet rid of it! Mom, are you losing your mind? Someone gives you a genuine alligator wallet and now you say you’re going to get rid of it. It’s worth, well, ten dollars at least. And now you say you’re going . . .”
    â€œStop it. Stop pestering me.”
    â€œBut it just don’t make sense, Mom. A real genuine al­ligator wallet and you want to get rid of it, I never heard anything so crazy.”
    They stared at each other across the room, Celia pale and grim, and her daughter red-faced and bewildered.
    â€œI’ll keep the money,” Celia said finally.
    â€œWhat money?”
    â€œThere’s money in it.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œNearly a hundred dollars. ”
    â€œA hundred dollars?”
    â€œNot quite. Nearly.” Celia clung to the word as if it some­how provided a saving grace.
    â€œMom. Where did you get it?”
    â€œI told you. The man gave it to me.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œLast night.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œFor Laddie. To pay for Laddie.”
    â€œWhat’s Laddie got to do with it?”
    â€œDon’t you shout at me! I haven’t done anything wrong!”
    â€œSomething happened to Laddie?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe’s dead?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you don’t even sound sorry,” Mabel said coldly. “You don’t even sound sorry. Your own dog.”
    â€œI am sorry! Only it wasn’t my fault, he ran out in the road. He couldn’t see very well anyway any more, and the car was speeding.”
    â€œWhat car?”
    â€œOne of those sporty kinds without a roof.”
    â€œA convertible.”
    â€œI guess so. There was a man driving. He had on one of those fancy plaid caps people wear sometimes in the movies. He knew right away he’d hit Laddie, I guess he must have heard me scream too. He slowed up and yelled a word back at me, it sounded like ‘sorry.’ Then he threw something out of the car. At first I didn’t know what it was.”
    â€œBut you found out quick enough, eh?”
    â€œI don’t like your tone. It’s not respectful.”
    â€œStop bothering about tones and get back to facts.