YOU CAN'T DO WRONG AND GET BY!

by
Edward J. Longo

Fiction based on a True Story
(an excerpt)

(see Collection ISBN: 0-9713623-9-4) - Fiction Ebook Price $11.95

You Can't Do Wrong and Get By!

. . . Although it was 1980, the family was so poor they still had to resort to using an old outhouse, located in the back yard. Snow flurries had begun swirling to the point they were now beginning to stick to the windows. Even during the winter months, Jean McKeehan had to hang the wash from the porch, where the clothes became so stiff she froze her fingers pulling in the clothesline and removing clothespins.
. . . This particular, cold winter morning the sensitive, button-nosed woman shut off the alarm, scampered to her feet, and tossed her dyed-black hair into an upsweep. Pressing her lips together as she put up the kettle for coffee, the Irish mother of two sons separated the makeshift curtain leading from the kitchen to the living room. In the living room, where Daniel slept, it was so cold there seemed frost on the edge of her Irish accent as she spoke.
. . . "It's seven AM, Christmas Eve, Dan'l, the day your brother comes home from Iran." The forty-eight-year old mother said, attempting to be cheerful. Even though she had on a neatly pressed, polka-dot dress, she permeated of her own earthly scent. At five foot six, weighing a hundred and seventeen pounds, her shoes made squeaking sounds as she scuffled to the window. Her slip, exposed on both sides, revealed an uneven hem as she reached to separate the dust-covered curtains.
. . . Suddenly, struggling with an asthma attack she reached for the poster of Daniel's bed and paused momentarily. "It's time to get up and meet the nine o'clock train, love," she said, regaining her breath. Essentially engulfed in his blanket, save for one black-bottomed foot, Daniel, the nine year old boy responded only with a muffled groan.
. . . "Ohhh, ma . . ." He complained, then rolled over.
. . . Daniel's dog, Blackie, merely tilted his head, curiously. Though quite huge and robust, he lay quite calmly at the foot of the bed. The large-nosed mongrel, giving the impression of a kinky-fleeced black sheep, appeared as an invertebrate heap. Provided one could catch a glimpse through those thick, black strands of hair, his marble-like, peering eyes portrayed exceptional kindness.

END OF THIS SEGMENT

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