Lady, Are You Rich?
By Marion Doolan
They huddled inside the storm door - two children in ragged
outgrown coats.
"Any old papers, lady?"
I was busy. I wanted to say no - until I looked down at their feet.
Thin little
sandals, sopped with sleet. "Come in and I'll make you a cup of hot
cocoa." There
was no conversation. Their soggy sandals left marks upon the
hearthstone.
I served them cocoa and toast with jam to fortify against the chill
outside. Then I
went back to the kitchen and started again on my household
budget....
The silence in the front room struck through to me. I looked
in.
The girl held the empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy
asked in a flat
voice, "Lady...are you rich?"
"Am I rich? Mercy, no!" I looked at my shabby slip covers. The girl
put her cup
back in its saucer - carefully. "Your cups match your saucers." Her
voice was old,
with a hunger that was not of the stomach.
They left then, holding their bundles of papers against the wind.
They hadn't said
thank you. They didn't need to. They had done more than that. Plain
blue pottery
cups and saucers. But they matched. I tested the potatoes and
stirred the gravy.
Potatoes and brown gravy, a roof over our heads, my man with a good
steady job
- these things matched, too.
I moved the chairs back from the fire and tidied the living room.
The muddy prints
of small sandals were still wet upon my hearth. I let them be. I
want them there
in case I ever forget again how very rich I am.
