Having the St. Jameses move in was not the most fun I have ever experienced, let me tell you. Not only did my bighearted parents give their room to those two West Coasters, but my sister had to move into my room with me so Daddy and Mama could have her room. Good grief.

Maybe the two of them thought they didn’t have a lot of clothes and stuff, but they like to have never stopped bringing in suitcases and wardrobe bags. And I’d hate to see how many shoes Isabel left behind, ’cause she sure as the world brought a million pairs with her into our house.

Where’d they plan to wear all that stuff, anyway?

The next day was Sunday, and you should know that we Reillys always go to church on Sunday unless we’re sick.

At the supper table that evening, Mama invited the St. Jameses to go with us the next morning. Well, remembering how they acted at the mere mention of saying grace at the supper table, I knew how this was gonna turn out.

Isabel sucked her own used cigarette smoke back into her big mouth and nearly choked to death. That was her reply.

Ian bugged his eyes, then squirmed and shifted on his chair and said, “Er . . . er . . . no, thank you. We aren’t church people.”

“I understand,” Mama said.

“Yes, of course, we understand,” Daddy added, “but it would be a good way for you to meet some of the other folks in the community. A lot of the men who’ll work on your house go to church with us. I’m sure they’d like to meet you.”

“Well . . .” Ian glanced at his missus, who'd have shot him dead if her eyeballs had been a pair of six-shooters. “Maybe another time,” he finished, and he didn’t look at Isabel again for a good while.

Here’s the thing as I saw it: Ole Ian sat at that table and scarfed down hamburgers and fried potatoes and baked beans and Mama’s good-neighbor chocolate cake like there was no tomorrow. Daddy was giving them our good ole pickup, which he dearly loved because he bought it new a long time ago, and now he’d have to buy another one—and they got to sleep in Mama and Daddy’s king-size bed. Now, after that, wouldn’t you think the Very Least those St. Jameses could’ve done was go to church and meet some of the people who were going to help them even more? Didn’t their folks ever teach them how to be grateful, for Pete’s sake?

When we were getting ready to leave for church the next day, Isabel and Ian were both snoring away.

“They’re just exhausted,” Mama said.

Baloney.

Wouldn’t you know Myra Sue pitched a fit to stay home on Sunday too? When Mama told her no, she started whining, “But someone needs to be here when they wake up. I can fix their breakfast and coffee and make their bed and everything.”

“Oh brother,” I hollered. “You don’t even make your own breakfast. And have you ever in your life made coffee, pray tell?”

“Don’t be dumb!” she snarled, pinching me.

“Girls,” Daddy said. “It’s Sunday. Act like it.”

Well, I’ll tell you something. I’d rather go to church and live there full-time, even when it’s empty and spooky, than be at home one day with the St. Jameses there. I was not offered that option.

As that week passed, however, it turned out that the deal Daddy made with Ian worked out well, because ole Ian was outside and away from the house most of the day. It was kinda funny to see him in Daddy’s jeans and work shirts instead of his tailored trousers and spiffy shirts. After a day or two of the sun scorching his face and his bald spot, he took to wearing a billed cap from the Farm and Tractor, where Daddy buys his farm supplies. Every time Isabel looked at him, she sort of shuddered. One thing for sure, he didn’t look like a slick banker man anymore.

Isabel turned out to be pretty worthless. That woman’s main activity besides sleeping late and smoking and griping about the heat and putting down the intelligence and class of people who live here—most of whom she has never met, by the way—was stretching and bending and doing twirly dance steps out on our big front porch.

Myra Sue joined her the very first day, and those two knotheads would have jumped around to Jane Fonda’s workout videos and exercised every waking hour of the day to tapes of Wham and Rick Astley and Blondie if Mama didn’t break it up and assign some chore to my sister. She didn’t say much to Isabel other than a gentle hint that some help would be appreciated.

Let me tell you something. People like Isabel St. James don’t take hints. She dragged herself out of bed at the crack of noon quite frequently, and let me tell you, she was not a sight for sore eyes. Then, when she took a bath, she was in there so long it was like she was determined to drown herself. Her and her mister quarreled a lot. There was one day when I overheard Mama and Daddy talking to the St. Jameses in voices that were supposed to be private. Now, I couldn’t hear exactly what was said, but the gist was this: Stop all that fussing and cussing in our home. I’m sure my folks said it in nicer terms than that.

That little conversation worked—for a while, anyway, ’cause them two fightin’ St. Jameses got along for a little bit. Or they pretended to. Either way, it was a break for my ears.

All this nonsense went along for another week; then one morning, Mama said to me, “Better get scootin’ on over to Grandma’s, April Grace. It’s Tuesday.”

I was wolfing down cinnamon toast and scrambled eggs.

“But, Mama, Mr. Rance has took her to town a million times lately,” I said.

“He has taken her to town,” she corrected.

“I know! So she don’t need me.”

Mama was washing jars because she planned to can beans that day. The gigantic pressure cooker sat on the stove like Old King Cole. She looked at me over her shoulder.

“I declare, I’ll be glad when school starts again. You talk as if you’ve never heard proper grammar. As much as you read, it seems to me you’d pick up on language rules.”

I sighed, then shoved in the last bite of toast.

“Grandma doesn’t need me,” I said. “She has him. Or is it ‘she has he’?”

Mama gave me a look that clearly said she did not appreciate my attempt at humor.

“And where’s ole Myra Sue, anyways?” I asked. “Doing stomach crunches and twirly-toes on the porch with Isabel?”

For a minute, I figured I was in trouble for being sassy again, but what she said was, “April, why are you so cranky? Are you feeling all right?”

I shrugged. I’d probably never feel all right again for the rest of my life, or until Ian and Isabel moved out, whichever came first. I like excitement and fun as much as the next kid, but I have to tell you, those past two weeks with all the ruckus had been rough on my world.

“Your sister is picking beans,” Mama told me.

I brightened. “All by herself?”

“Yes,” Mama said. “She dillydallied about getting her chores done yesterday, so today she picks beans. And I don’t want you helping her. This is her punishment.”

Aw, shucks. And I was hankering to pick beans from the itchy, old bean vines out in the broiling hot sun.

Just about then, the door to Mama and Daddy’s bedroom opened, and you could hear the scuff-scuff of Isabel’s feet as she shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen. Boy, oh boy, she looked spookier than she had that day Mama invited her and Ian to live with us. This morning she wore a slinky robe that she hadn’t bothered to tie and a nightie so sheer you could practically see her gallbladder and spleen. In one hand, she clutched her cigarettes and lighter.

“April Grace,” Mama said, pouring a cup of coffee. “Better get a move on. And bring in that basket of green beans on the porch, will you, honey?” She put the coffee in front of Isabel and said, “Isabel, have you ever snapped beans before?”

The woman drew herself up straight. “I have not,” she said, looking outraged that she had been asked such a question.

Mama smiled grimly. “Well, this is your lucky day. I’m going to show you how. There are enough to keep you and Myra Sue busy until tonight, if not tomorrow, as well.”

Some things are worth seeing, but Mama said, “April Grace, your grandmother is waiting for you.”

I was about halfway across the hayfield to Grandma’s house before I stopped laughing.