The Folded Leaf Read Online Free Page A

Chinese embroidery for a runner, and a pottery lamp with a brown shade. Also a round ashtray with cigar bands glued in a garish wheel to the underside of the glass, and a small brass bowl. The bowl was for calling cards. It had nothing in it now but a key (to a trunk possibly, or to the storeroom in the basement) and thumbtacks. On the shelf under the table were two books, an album partly filled with snapshots and a somewhat larger one containing views in color of the Wisconsin Dells.
    The opposite wall of the living room was broken by a fireplaceof smooth green tile made to look like bricks. The gas log had at one time or other been used. It was not lit now. At either end of the mantelpiece were two thin brass candlesticks, each holding a battered blue candle. Between them hung a framed sepia engraving of an English cottage at twilight. The cottage had a high thatched roof and was surrounded by ancient willow trees. The only other picture in the room hung at eye level above the sofa. It was a color print of a young girl, her head wound round with a turban, a sweet simpering expression on her face, and (surprisingly) one breast exposed.
    Beyond the living room was the hall, with the front door bolted and chained, and then a rickety telephone stand. On the right was a door with a full-length mirror set into it, and another door that opened into Mr. and Mrs. Latham’s bedroom. The hall opened into the dining room, which had two large windows looking out on a blank wall (this was not the apartment Mrs. Latham would have chosen if they’d had all the money in the world) and was a trifle too narrow for anyone to pass easily between the table and the sideboard at mealtime. In the center of the dining room table, on a crocheted doily, was a small house plant, a Brazilian violet which showed no sign of blooming.
    After the dining room came the kitchen, and right beside it a bedroom—a girl’s room by the look of the dressing table and the white painted bed. On the dressing table there was a letter. The room had a single window and French doors at the far end. The curtains must have been intended originally for some other room than this, since they did not quite reach the window sill. They were organdy and had ruffles. The glass in the French doors was covered with white net.
    It was easy to guess that the door in the hall, the one withthe mirror set into it, would, if opened, have revealed a closet. But these two French doors were tightly shut and without the help of Mrs. Latham there would have been no telling what lay beyond them. When the street lamps were turned on outside, something prompted her to stand up, brush the threads from her lap, and walk back here. She put her hand on a glass knob and turned it slowly. The door opened, revealing a boy’s body lying fully clothed except for shoes, on a cot that was too small for it. The position—knees bent awkwardly, right arm dangling in space—seemed too inert for sleep. It looked rather as if he had a short time before been blindfolded and led out here to meet a firing squad. But such things seldom happen on a sleeping porch, which this clearly was, and besides, there was no wound.

6
    W hen Mrs. Latham spread a blanket over Spud he turned and lay on his back. His face, freed for the time being of both suspicion and misery, was turned toward the ceiling.
    It was too bad, Mrs. Latham thought as she bent over him, it was a great pity that they had to leave Wisconsin where they knew everybody and the children had so many friends. But at least Evans had been able to find another job. That wasn’t ah ways easy for a man his age. And in time he’d probably get a raise, like they promised him, and be making the same salary he had been making before. The children were still young. They’d have to learn to make new friends, and be adaptable.
    She raised one of the windows a few inches and then closed the door behind her softly.
    It was nearly six when Spud awoke. He drew the