Eight
I rang the bell at Bertha’s apartment.
Bertha’s shrill whistle came screaming down the speaking-tube. “What is it now?”
“This is Donald.”
Bertha grunted under her breath and pushed the buzzer which unlatched the front door.
I climbed the flight of stairs and turned to the left, tapped on the panels of the door, and Bertha yelled, “Come in, it’s unlocked.”
I opened the door and went in.
Bertha was sprawled out in typical Sunday splendour, wearing loose-fitting pyjamas, a robe, her hair pulled straight back and stringing down behind her ears. The big easy chair in the middle of the floor was the centre of a litter of Sunday papers. On a coffee table by the side of the chair was an electric percolator. Near-by was a cup, saucer, milk and sugar; a big cigarette-tray was all but overflowing with the ends of cigarettes and matches.
On the other side of the big easy chair was a table with an electric toaster, a plate of bread, some butter and a plate containing butter-horns.
It was typical of the way Bertha spent her Sundays. From time to time she’d feed a piece of bread into the electric toaster and butter it when it came out a golden brown. Then she’d pour more coffee from the big electric percolator which held half a gallon, and put in lots of milk and sugar. She’d drink coffee, nibble toast, read and snort comments at the news stories.