C. M. Kornbluth by I Never Ast No Favours

Author:I Never Ast No Favours
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-11-21T23:06:16+00:00

Page 9

“Oh, it’s legal, but you just shouldn’t do it.”

“I see. I misunderstood, I guess. Back in the Third Ward it’s a worse rap than mopery with intent to gawk. The judges are ruthless with it.”

Her eyes go round. “Is that a fact?”

“Sure. Tell your mother about it.”

Mrs. Parry came back hi with her son and said to us: “Clear out, you kids. I want to make a phone call.”

“I’ll start the milkin’,” Brenda said.

“And I’ll framble the portistan while it’s still cool and barkney,” I say.

“Sure,” Mrs. Parry says, cranking the phone. “Go and do that, Bub.” She is preoccupied.

I go through the kitchen door, take one sidestep, flatten against the house and listen. Reception is pretty good.

“Bonita?” Mrs. Parry says into the phone. “Is that you, Bonita? Listen, Bonita, George is here and he asked me to call you and tell you he’s sorry. I ain’t exactly going to say that. I’m going to say that you’re acting like a blame fool …” She chuckles away from the phone and says: “She wants to talk to you, George/Don’t be too eager, boy.”

I slink away from the kitchen door, thinking: “Ah-hah!” I am thinking so hard that Mrs. Parry bungles into me when she walks out of the kitchen sooner than I expect.

She grabs me with one of those pipe-vise hands and snaps: “You young devil, were you listening to me Page 10

on the phone?”

Usually, it is the smart thing to deny everything and ast for your mouthpiece, but up here they got no mouthpieces. For once I tell the truth and cop a plea. “Yes, Mrs. Parry. I’m so ashamed of myself you can’t imagine. I always been like that. It’s a psy-cho-logical twist I got for listening. I can’t seem to control it. Maybe I read too many bad comic books. But honest, I won’t breathe a word.” Here I have the sense to shut up.

She shakes her head. “What about the ducks that sank and Agnes dropping her calf before her time?

What about

Belshazzar?” She begins to breathe through her nostrils. “It’s hexin’, that’s what it is!”

“What’s hexin’, ma’am?”

“Heathen doings by that old Miz’ Sigafoos. She’s been warned and warned plenty to stick to her doctoring. I hold nothing against her for curing the croup or maybe selling a young man love potion if he’s goin’ down to Scranton to sell his crop and play around a little. But she’s not satisfied with that, I guess.

Dud Wingle must of gone to her with a twenty-dollar bill to witch my farm!”

I do not know what to make of this. My mama, of course, has told me about la vecchia religione, but I never know they believe in stuff like that over here. “Can you go to the cops, ma’am?” I ast.

She snorts like Belshazzar the Magnificent. “Cops! A fat lot old Henry Bricker would know about witchin’. No, Bub, I guess I’ll handle this myself. I ain’t the five-times-great-granddaughter of Pru Posthlewaite for nothin’!”

“Who was Pru— what you said?”

“Hanged in Salem, Massachusettes, in 1680 for witchcraft.

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