Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

department, no one had ever seen anything like her. Lizzie had a softer appearance, lighter, less commanding, eyes more hazel than her sister’s almond, more of her mother’s farm girl solidity. More introspective, less spontaneous, she’d always been more popular because she didn’t have to beat everyone at everything. The sisters didn’t have the same friends or interests, didn’t talk alike or dress alike. Maggie wore Levi’s to school at a time when girls were never seen in anything but skirts; Lizzie dressed like the other girls. Maggie was a talker and Lizzie a listener.

“Shouldn’t the question be,” said Cal to Maggie, “why are you here?”

“It is over.”

“Over over?” said Lizzie.

“Over, over, over. He gave me an ultimatum.”

“Ah, big mistake.”

“You’re taking it well,” said Cal.

Maggie leveled her dark eyes on him. “I got what I wanted. I know how to fly. He got what he wanted. We’re even.”

“Didn’t you both want to get married or something?”

“So, we’ll marry someone else.”

Hair still mussed, she drank her bottle half down with a few large swigs. “Now, back to Uncle Willie: Who is this script reader?”

“Sister Angie,” said Lizzie. “Cal says she’s sexier than I am.”

“What? How old is she?”

He laughed. If Maggie could laugh about breaking off with Harold, he ought to be able to laugh about Willie and Angie. He was still thinking about Angie. “How would I know?”

“Don’t be coy.” Said Maggie. “How old is she?”

“If I had to guess I’d say she’s about your age—maybe a little younger.”

“Oh my God!” said Maggie. “Poor Uncle Willie. Who is she?”

“She’s a preacher—quite good, too, I must say.”

“Since when did you start attending services?”

“Sometimes I watch rehearsals.”

“Uncle Willie wouldn’t do anything stupid, would he?” said Lizzie.

“Like . . . ?”

“Like ‘Taking a Ride,’ remember that show?”

“I don’t,” said Maggie.

“Girl got drunk and got pregnant,” said Lizzie. “Mother and I listened.”

“That was Sister Angie before she was Sister Angie. Anyway, what do I know about anything,” he said, feeling suddenly disloyal. “Maybe they are reading scripts.”

“Come on, Cal. Who are we going to tell?” said Maggie.

“Whom,” said Lizzie.

“Nelly for one,” said Cal, “who would tell everyone, starting with Eddie.”

“Cal,” said Lizzie, annoyance in her voice, “haven’t we trusted each other just about forever? When has any one of us ever blabbed—name one time.”

She was right, of course. A hundred times one of them might have said something that could have hurt the others. No one ever did. Trust was their bond.

“If you want my uninformed opinion,” he said, “I think Dad is in love. First time since my mother died.”

“Their generation still believes in love,” Lizzie said. “And marriage. Imagine.”

“The trouble with love and marriage,” said Maggie, “is that the men are in control. They get you pregnant to stay in control.”

“So, don’t get pregnant,” he said.

“That’s what was wrong with that program of Uncle Willie’s” said Lizzie. “We talked about it at the Bruin—at least the guys talked about it. The girl was stupid, they said—should have brought her diaphragm.”

“Why would she have a diaphragm?” said Cal. “She was a virgin.”

“Exactly my point: that’s the male mind for you.”

He turned to Maggie. “So, what do you do now that marriage is out? What do you both do after graduation, which if I’m not mistaken, is around the corner.”

“The Times asked me in for an interview,” said Lizzie. “They’re looking for women reporters.”

“Well, hallelujah! Why didn’t you say something to somebody?”

“Let’s see first if it comes through—and they don’t put me on the society page.”

“And you, Mag?”

“I’m going to fly. Where and what, I don’t know yet.”

“Breaking barriers.”

“Of all kinds,” said Lizzie. “And you, Cousin Cal. What barriers will you be breaking—or are you going to be your father’s bookkeeper forever?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m working on something.”

“Which is?” they said in unison.

“To quote Lizzie: ‘Let’s see first if it comes through.’”

Chapter 13

Both men wore dark suits and fedoras, the common dress code for downtown businessmen in Depression-era Los Angeles, summer or winter. Willie stood at the door of his second-floor office to greet them, smiling as Miss Shields led them across the reception room, greeting them as he greeted benefactors every Tuesday, which was their day. He didn’t know these men, just as he didn’t know most people who phoned seeking an appointment following a particularly uplifting Sunday evening show. Tuesday mornings were for benefactors, Tuesday afternoons for Soldiers. The hungry and destitute, alms-seekers of all kinds, were always welcome, routed to the first-floor commissary at the rear of the building.

Miss Shields, his secretary, was good at screening people with legitimate interests from cranks and frauds, for the temple attracted all kinds. When she wasn’t sure, she referred the petitioner to the Rev. Marcus Wynetski, the robust associate pastor in the adjoining office, a man who could see through any fake. Most of Willie’s Tuesday morning visitors ended up contributing something to the temple. Jesus was served.

He led them into his office and invited them to be seated. From their chairs they could look over the pastor’s head through large picture windows to the blessed San Gabriel Mountains in the distance, a view, in Willie’s opinion, that inspired visitors to greater generosity. He turned a business card over in his hand: “John C. Porter, Used Auto Parts.”

Was there something familiar about him? A clump of silver hair rose in a pompadour over a large head resting on shoulders too narrow for the bulky body. The tailoring was first class if the body was not. Both men were businesslike, to the point, crisp.

“There are poisons, here,” said John C. Porter, whose suit, unlike his friend’s, was pinstriped. It was one of the stranger opening statements Willie had heard, but his expression never changed. He was there to listen to whatever his petitioners had on their minds. Confrontation was not the path to contribution.

“This is not the Los Angeles we have in mind, Reverend Mull. Since no one in our community has greater moral influence than you, we wanted to