A Stone for Danny Fisher (1952) by Harold Robbins Page B

to fall asleep afterwards. The night seemed to last forever. Now she was tired again and nothing would help. The muggy heat of the morning didn’t make it any easier. These last few weeks of August were generally the worst. She felt she could not take much more of this heat and wished the summer was over already.
    She walked through the kitchen and opened the icebox door and looked in. It was almost empty. She had always taken great pride in keeping a well-stocked icebox. She had always said that she liked to keep enough in the house so that she didn’t have to run out shopping every day. Now something about its bleakness was another ache in her body. The small piece of ice, shrunk from the day before; the almost empty carton of eggs; the half a quarter pound of butter. Even the milk bottle with the small drop of milk in it seemed to hurt her.
    She closed the icebox door slowly. The three eggs would do for breakfast. Suddenly she was glad I wasn’t home. She decided to look in the mailbox to see if my letter had arrived.
    The sound of the milk wagon came to her. She began to feel better; she would be able to get eggs and butter from him as well as milk. And at least he would put it on the bill so she could use the few dollars she had in the tumbler over the sink for a soup chicken. She hurried to the front door to catch him before he went away.
    The milkman was kneeling in front of the storage box when she opened the door. He slowly rose to his feet with a peculiarly guilty expression on his face. “Mornin’, Missus Fisher,” he said in a strained, embarrassed voice.
    “Good morning, Borden, it’s a good thing I caught you,” Mamma replied. The words were spilling from her lips breathlessly from her slight exertion. “I need some eggs and butter this morning.”
    The milkman shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Gee, Missus Fisher, I’m sorry but——” His voice trailed off into nothingness.
    Disappointment etched her face. “You mean you’re all out?”
    He shook his head silently. His hand gestured toward the storage box on the stoop in front of her.
    Mamma was bewildered. “I—I don’t understand,” she said hesitantly , her eyes following his pointing fingers. Then she did understand . There was a yellow note in the box. Only the note, no milk.
    She picked up the note slowly and began to read it. They were stopping her service. She owed them three weeks’ bills. The eyes she raised to the milkman were filled with horror. Her face was white and sick-looking.
    “I’m sorry, Missus Fisher,” he murmured sympathetically.
    A spray of water began to fall across the lawn in front of the house. She was suddenly aware of Mr. Conlon, who had been watering his garden. He was watching them.
    He saw her glance. “Good morning, Mrs. Fisher,” his voice boomed out.
    “Good morning,” she replied automatically. She would have to do something. She was sure that he had seen and heard everything. She looked down at the bill again: four dollars and eighty-two cents. There was just five dollars in the tumbler over the sink.
    She forced her voice up into her throat and tried to smile. Her lips were almost white and the smile was more like a grimace on a stone statue. “I was just going to pay you,” she said to the milkman in a purposely steady voice. “Wait a minute.”
    She closed the door quickly behind her. For a second she leaned against it weakly; the bill fluttered to the floor from her trembling fingers. She didn’t try to pick it up; she was afraid she would faint if she did. Instead she hurried back into the kitchen and took the money from the tumbler over the sink.
    She counted the bills slowly, reluctantly, as if with each re-counting some miracle would make them double. There were only five dollars. She felt cold. A shiver ran nervously through her as she turned and went back to the door.
    The milkman was standing on the stoop where she had left him, but now he had milk, butter, and eggs in a little wire