The Sweetest Thing by Elizabeth Musser

morning, Mr. Robinson came over and sat with Mamma and me as we once again went through the endless paper work that had become our responsibility. I didn’t want Mr. Robinson to come visit us on business. I wanted things to be the way they used to be.
    Mamma and Daddy had often had the Robinsons and the Chandlers and the McFaddens over to play bridge. I’d always thought the men made a funny quartet—Daddy all tall and thin and dark; Mr. Chandler, big and boisterous with thinning hair and a thick belly; Mr. McFadden with his pale blond hair, taller and skinnier than Daddy; and little Mr. Robinson, prematurely gray, bookish-looking with his thick glasses. But they laughed, played bridge with their wives, and then retired to the library, where I imagined they puffed on cigars and sipped brandy and talked business. Pretty, petite Mamma sat in the garden with Josephine Chandler and Patty Robinson and Ellen McFadden, chatting gaily, sipping on a drink, and occasionally breaking into melodious laughter, like the trill of a flute.
    Oh, how I longed for those lazy summer evenings, my windows wide open and the sound of Daddy’s low rumbling laugh and Mamma’s trilling. It seemed like another life, a strand of music that I would never hear again.
    But Mr. Robinson was definitely at our house on business and, true to his word, was determined not only to educate Mamma about the state of our affairs but also to help her find solutions, specifically to allow us to keep the house.
    Mamma shocked both of us that morning by announcing in the midst of looking at the accounting books, “I plan to go to work.”
    I dropped my pencil.
    â€œJohn McFadden’s brother works down at the capitol and has found me a job in the tag department.” Mamma’s brow creased a little. She cleared her throat, sat up straight, and said, “I’m sure it will be just fine. It’s nothing hard, a little monotonous, perhaps, but I feel lucky to have this prospect so quickly.” She smiled at me, reached over, and patted my hand. “And if we have to sell the Buick, well, I can ride the streetcar to the capitol. You can even bring Irvin and Barbara to see me after school if you want.”
    I could not imagine Mamma working at a job, but Mr. Robinson looked awfully pleased. He took off his glasses and said, “Why, that’s wonderful news, Dot!”
    â€œYes, isn’t it? I’ll be starting right away.” Mamma sounded as excited as if she had been asked to set up all the floral arrangements for the Garden Club’s annual fund-raising event—something she adored doing.
    She gave me a sad smile. “Don’t look so distraught, Perri. It’ll be okay. You and Barbara can still attend Washington Seminary, and Irvin will be fine at Boys High. Really, the only thing that will change at all is that I’ve told Ellen McFadden I’ll have to step down from being president of the Garden Club for a while. She was disappointed, of course, but said I was doing the absolute right thing, considering the circumstances.”
    I felt proud of Mamma and relieved for her job, but I made up my mind right then that no one would look down their noses at us. Somehow we’d keep our house and our membership at the country club and our car and our position in society. We came from a well-respected family, and there was no way Daddy’s horrible death was going to turn us into a family to be pitied. Not if I could help it.
    When I returned from lunch at the Piedmont Driving Club with Mae Pearl, I found Dobbs waiting for me on my front porch. She was dressed in the pretty bright pink dress that Mrs. Chandler had bought for her and looked as if she were ready to go to the Driving Club herself, all fresh and glowing. As soon as I stepped from the car, she rushed down the steps and across the yard, her face all aflame with excitement.
    â€œOh, Perri! I thought you’d never get home! I’ve