Mrs. Kimble by Jennifer Haigh

drove them home. After that Charlie and Greg were best friends.
    Greg’s dad was a truck driver. He drove all over the country, to Texas and back, once to California. Each time he brought back a souvenir for Greg: a water gun, an Indian arrowhead, a dead mouse pickled in a jar. Charlie pictured Greg’s dad like Artemus Gordon, his favorite character from his favorite TV show, The Wild Wild West .
    “He’s coming home tonight,” Greg told Charlie as they walked. It was a Friday. “Tomorrow me and him are going to Luray Caverns.”
    Charlie had never been to Luray Caverns, but he’d heard about it at school. He was impressed.
    “I bet your dad’s been there,” said Greg. “I bet the bus goes all the time.” Charlie had told Greg his dad was a bus driver, that he drove a Greyhound all over the country and only came home at Christmas.
    “Sometimes,” said Charlie. They arrived at his front step.
    “You can come with us if you want,” said Greg.
    “Really?” said Charlie.
    “I’ll call you on the phone.” They had exchanged phone numbers; the whole second-grade class had been required to memorize their own numbers and addresses.
    “See you tomorrow,” said Greg.
    “Yeah,” said Charlie. “See you.” He reached under the doormat and unlocked the front door, then replaced the key under the mat. It was a new rule: Charlie was to go in and out through the front door only; he was to lock it behind him. “You never know,” his mother had told him. “Someone could come and take your sister while she’s sleeping.” Charlie couldn’t imagine anyone wanting his sister, but he usually remembered to lock the door.
    Inside, he put down his book bag and took off his shoes, then went to the door of his mother’s room and peered through the crack. She was still in her nightgown, a pillow over her face. His sister lay curled next to her, but she was not asleep. Her eyes brightened when she saw Charlie.
    He held a finger to his lips. “Come on,” he whispered.
    Carefully Jody crawled out of the bed. She could be quiet when she wanted to, quieter than Charlie. She knew better than to wake their mother, who would be in a bad mood.
    They went into the kitchen. Charlie found bread and grape jelly in the refrigerator and made a sandwich of the last two slices of bread. He cut the sandwich crosswise and gave half to Jody.
    “Don’t make a mess,” he said, though it was already too late: after one bite her mouth was slick with purple.
    In the living room the telephone rang. Charlie stood and listened. Luray Caverns, he thought. From the bedroom his mother groaned.
    “Don’t answer that,” she called to Charlie. “It isn’t anybody.”
    “Yes’m,” said Charlie. He knew she was right; Greg couldn’t be home yet. He finished his sandwich and went to the bedroom door. She was sitting up in bed, a dazed expression on her face.
    “We’re out of bread and milk,” he said.
    She rubbed her eyes. “Where’s my pocketbook?”
    Charlie took the pocketbook from the doorknob and approached the bed. His mother took out her wallet and handed him a five-dollar bill. She had begun sending him to the store.
    “Bring me back a bottle of wine,” she said.
     
    T HE SCREEN DOOR slammed. Birdie closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. The phone rang again; a chill climbed her back. For two days she’d called in sick at the luncheonette. The second day it was Mr. Loomis, not Fay, who’d answered. “What exactly is wrong, Vivian?” he’d asked irritably.
    “The flu,” said Birdie. “A bad case of flu.”
    “You been to the doctor’s?”
    “I’m going today. I have an appointment.”
    “How about you bring us a note from that doctor.”
    After that she didn’t call the luncheonette at all. Let Loomis think what he wanted. She had a young child in public school; every other day, it seemed, he came home with a sniffle. It wasexhausting, raising children with no help from anyone; naturally her resistance was