The Little Friend

“Because I can’t,” said Edie, who was trying to decide what to pack for her trip to Charleston. Her navy pumps were the most comfortable, but they did not look nearly so well with her pastel summer suits as the spectators. She was also a little annoyed that Charlotte had not consulted her about such an important decision as whether or not to hire or fire the maid.

Presently, Harriet said: “But why can’t you interfere?”

Edie laid down her pencil. “Harriet, it’s not my place.”

“Your place?”

“I wasn’t consulted. Don’t you worry, little girl,” said Edie, in a brighter key, rising to pour herself another cup of coffee and laying an absent-minded hand upon Harriet’s shoulder. “Everything will work out for the best! You’ll see!”

Gratified to have cleared things up so easily, Edie sat back down with her coffee and said, after what was to her a peaceful silence: “I certainly wish I had some of those nice little wash-and-wear suits to take on my trip. The ones I have are all worn down, and linen isn’t practical for travel. I could hang a garment bag in the back of the car.…” She was not looking at Harriet, but somewhere over the top of her head; and she slipped back into thought without noticing Harriet’s red face or her hostile, provocative stare.

After some moments—preoccupied ones, for Edie—steps creaked up the back porch. “Hello!” A shadowy form—hand to brow—peered in through the screen door. “Edith?”

“Well, I declare!” cried another voice, thin and cheery. “Is that Harriet you’ve got in there with you?”

Before Edie could get up from the table, Harriet hopped up and scooted to the back door—past Tat, to Libby on the porch.

“Where’s Adelaide?” said Edie to Tat, who was smiling over her shoulder at Harriet.

Tat rolled her eyes. “She wanted to stop off at the grocery store for a jar of Sanka.”

“Oh, my,” Libby was saying, out on the back porch, in a slightly muffled voice. “Harriet, my goodness! What a joyous welcome.…”

“Harriet,” called Edie sharply, “don’t hang all over Libby.”

She waited, and listened. From the porch, she heard Libby say: “Are you sure you’re all right, my angel?”

“Heavens,” said Tatty, “is the child crying?”

“Libby, how much do you pay Odean a week?”

“Goodness! What makes you ask a question like that?”

Edie got up and marched to the screen door. “That’s none of your business, Harriet,” she snapped. “Get inside.”

“Oh, Harriet’s not bothering me,” said Libby, disengaging her arm, adjusting her spectacles and peering at Harriet with innocent and unsuspicious perplexity.

“Your grandmother means—” Tat said, following Edie onto the porch—since childhood, it had been her task to rephrase, diplomatically, Edie’s sharp dictums and decrees—“what she means is, Harriet, it’s not polite to ask people about money.”

“I don’t care,” said Libby, loyally. “Harriet, I pay Odean thirty-five dollars a week.”

“Mother only pays Ida twenty. That’s not right, is it?”

“Well,” said Libby, blinking, after what was obviously a stunned pause, “I don’t know. I mean, your mother’s not wrong, but—”

Edie—who was determined not to waste the morning discussing a fired housekeeper—interrupted: “Your hair looks pretty, Lib. Doesn’t her hair look beautiful? Who did it?”

“Mrs. Ryan,” said Libby, bringing a flustered hand up to hover at her temple.

“We’ve all got so gray-headed now,” Tatty said pleasantly, “you can’t tell one from the other.”

“Don’t you like Libby’s hair?” said Edie, sternly. “Harriet?”

Harriet, on the verge of tears, looked angrily away.

“I know a little girl who could stand to get her own hair cut,” said Tat, waggishly. “Does your mother still send you down to the barber, Harriet, or do you get to go to the beauty shop?”

“I reckon Mr. Liberti can do it just as well and not charge half as much,” said Edie. “Tat, you ought to have told Adelaide not to stop at the grocery store. I told her I had a bunch of hot chocolate in those little individual envelopes that I’d already packed for her.”

“Edith, I did tell her, but she says she can’t have sugar.”

Edie drew back mischievously, in mock astonishment. “Why not? Does sugar make her wild, too?” Adelaide had recently begun to refuse coffee, citing this as the cause.

“If she wants Sanka, I don’t see any reason why she shouldn’t have it.”

Edie snorted. “Nor do I. I certainly don’t want Adelaide to be wild.”

“What? What’s all this about wild?” said Libby, startled.

“Oh, didn’t you know? Adelaide can’t have coffee. Because coffee makes her wild.” Adelaide had only started saying this recently, since her silly choir friend Mrs. Pitcock had started to go around saying the same thing.

“Well, I like a cup of Sanka myself, every now and then,” Tat said. “But it’s not as if I must have it. I can get along without it just fine.”

“Well, it’s not as if we’re going to the Belgian Congo! They sell Sanka in the city of Charleston, there’s no reason for her to haul a great big jar of it in her suitcase!”