We had a powwow right after Christmas to split up the jobs and figure out how to survive until Carl came back.
“First we give up sodas. And ice cream and candy,” Winnie explained. Both the tree lot and the drive-in were closed, and we couldn’t spend the money on junk food. “And we eat the frozen pizzas left over from the drive-in. But you still bake, right, Mom?”
“When I can. But not as often.”
Winnie hadn’t figured out that stress was like jet fuel to Marty.
A thought occurred to me. If money was so tight, maybe Grandma was right. According to her, I was supposed to be getting some kind of insurance money. Maybe Marty wanted it.
“Mom works overtime, so we have to clean up the house and do the dishes and wash clothes. Right, Mom?”
Marty looked kind of embarrassed. “You’re not sentenced to hard labor, Winnie. I just need some extra help, that’s all.”
Winnie dissected an oatmeal cookie, flicking out the raisins.
“When Grandpa gets back, he’s gonna have new pictures to sell at the farmers market.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“Here.” She slurped down her milk. “On the weekends. People bring their crafts and vegetables and junk to sell in the parking lot.”
Of course they do. Dumb question.
We decided on some easy dinners that we could fix if Marty wasn’t home to eat with us. I think she was surprised that I wasn’t totally kitchen impaired.
Carl left right after New Year’s, and we didn’t hear from him very much. I think Marty worried that he was stuck somewhere, because she’d shush us and freeze when news reports aired about stranded motorists or lost hikers on TV.
The whole idea of us being a cleaning service would have worked, except that toward the end, Deja was a slacker. And she let the cat in every night. Winnie and I would have to chase Cyclops around to lock him in the garage. He knew what we were doing. It was cold out there.
Most of the time we were already in bed when Marty got home, so we couldn’t really complain to her until the weekend. Once, when it was Winnie’s week to load the washing machine, Marty said that if Deja wasn’t doing her part to just stop doing her laundry. That got her attention.
“Hey, where’s my stuff?” Deja demanded one night, digging through the laundry basket. “Nothing in here’s mine.”
Winnie chewed her bottom lip and flicked her eyes over at me. I wondered if Deja scared her.
“Look on your floor,” I said.
She ignored me and went to the laundry room. I heard the dryer door slam, and she came back out to the living room.
I could see Winnie beginning to squirm. I jumped in so she wouldn’t cave. Nobody likes a bully.
“I don’t know,” I said without taking my eyes from the TV. “What about you, Winnie?”
I could see Winnie shaking her head out of the side of my eye. Deja positioned herself between us and the TV. I think she was trying to cook the air between us with her laser eyes.
“It’s your job to load the wash,” she said to Winnie. “I need my red sweater for tomorrow. Now, do it.”
“No can do,” I said. “Marty told us to quit washing your clothes.”
Her eyes squinted up so small that I thought they might get sucked into her black hole of a brain. “You’re lying. Why would Mom say that?”
“Hm. Maybe ’cause we’re tired of covering for you.” I looked over at Winnie, who was practically cowering. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re a slacker, and we’re not covering for you anymore.”
I think I threw her. I’d never really stood up to her before. Mostly I tried to ignore her or stay out of her way, but she’d pushed me to the edge.
Deja said something really disgusting, and I think not humanly possible. Winnie looked like she was going to need CPR.
“Okay, brain death,” Deja spewed. “How—exactly—are you ‘covering’ for me?”
I looked over at Winnie. “Let’s see, Winnie cleaned the hall bathroom for you last week, didn’t you, Winnie?”
Her head made the faintest movement in agreement.
“And Marty said for you to fill the dishwasher, but I’ve been doing it every night.”
“I have tons of homework. There’s no way I could do all that and keep my grades up.”
I couldn’t help myself. “I didn’t know Fs were that hard to keep up.”
Deja’s head snapped back like I’d slapped her. I could hardly believe it myself. It was the meanest thing I’d ever said to anybody. Boy, was I going to pay.
Deja locked me out of our room. I was a little bit worried that she might hurt something of mine, but I reached up and touched the rings on the chain around my neck. They were the only thing I really cared about that couldn’t be replaced. I had some stuff in boxes that were taped shut, but she didn’t know what was in them. Grandma had copies of all the photos of my parents. I thought of Mom’s Bible. I didn’t think even Deja would have the nerve to destroy a Bible.
When Marty came home and saw me almost asleep on the couch, she and Deja had a talk in Marty’s room. I heard the washer running, so Deja must’ve washed her own sweater after all. But she wasn’t any better about doing her jobs after that. If anything, we saw less and less of her. No loss.
Some nights Deja didn’t come home until ten, just before Marty. I didn’t say anything at first. Marty could hardly drag Deja out of bed for school the next day.
I tried my hand at vacuuming. I did it really fast, just to get it over with, but my allergies got worse from the cat hair. My prescription got kicked up a notch and made me feel like a walking zombie until I got adjusted.
But that wasn’t the worst thing. One night right after Marty got home, I climbed under my covers to read The Hobbit after my shower, and I reached up out of habit to curl my finger around my chain. It wasn’t there. The chain with my parents’ wedding rings was gone.
I searched the bathroom and my night table and the bed. I was tearing apart my suitcase when Deja asked from her bed, where she lay sprawled reading a magazine, “What’re you looking for?”
It shouldn’t have taken me so long to figure out. Two things were odd. One, she never, ever spoke directly to me in a normal tone of voice, and two, she never, ever paid any attention to anything I did. Why should she now?
I whirled to face her. “You have it.”
She gave me a fakey whatever eye roll. “Have what?”
“My chain. My chain with the rings on it. Give it back.” I advanced on her.
“Back off,” she barked. “I don’t have your lame chain.”
She flipped through her magazine. I knocked it out of her hand.
She smiled evilly, in a satisfied way. Then she jumped up from the bed, giving me a wide berth with her hands out to block any blows.
“Mom!” she called, stomping down the hallway toward Marty’s room. I took the advantage and attacked her drawers.
Bizarre. That’s what I’d call the junk filling her drawers. A studded collar, broken pencils, empty soda cans, food wrappers, Ramen crumbs, popcorn kernels, tardy slips, loose tobacco, money, a toe ring. When she came to the bedroom door with Marty, I was pulling out a chain from a pile of holey socks. The chain wasn’t mine, but the dog tags on it did suit her.
I slammed the drawer and turned to Marty.
“Deja took my chain with the rings on it, and she won’t give it back.”
Marty looked at me, and then at Deja, waiting for her response.
“I did not take her stupid chain,” Deja protested. “I don’t even know what it looks like.”
“It’s a plain silver chain with two gold rings on it. And one of the rings had a swirly pattern on it.” I willed my bottom lip to stop trembling. I would not cry in front of her. “They belonged to my mom and dad.”
“When was the last time you saw it?” Marty asked.
“I took it off to take a shower. And when I got into bed, it was gone.”
“And you looked all around for it?” she asked.
“Everywhere. In here, in the bathroom, even my suitcase.”
“Well, Deja?” Marty asked, sizing her up.
“What? Gosh, Mom, I don’t believe this! You believe her over me?”
Marty turned to the dresser and started rummaging through the drawers herself, elbow-deep in clothes. She dumped the drawer on the bed.
“I don’t have her stupid chain!” Deja said, scooping up a heavy sock and stuffing it in her pocket. Then she gathered up clothes and shoved them back into the drawer.
“Deja, I wish I could believe you,” Marty said with her hands on her hips. “I’m really tired. Just make it easier on all of us, and tell us where it is.”
Deja looked from Marty to me, and bared her teeth.
“You’ll never find it in my stuff, because I don’t have it.” She stormed off.
We looked for a long time, but we didn’t find it. I wondered if Deja would try to get rid of it, now that she knew her mom considered her a prime suspect. She wouldn’t want to risk having it found in her possession.
Then I ratted on her. I told Marty how Deja was gone so much and how late she came home most nights. I thought it would make me feel better, but it didn’t. When Marty rubbed her temples, I saw her fake nails were gone. Her own nails were stubby and broken. I guess we were all making sacrifices.
While Deja was in the shower, I pulled out Mom’s Bible. I flipped through, and it naturally fell open to a wrinkled page, creased and dog-eared with lots of highlighter in different colors. Psalm 84. In the margin was my name with an arrow pointing to a verse in yellow. It startled me at first, like a message from beyond. It was verse eleven, the verse Dad wrote in the inscription in the front. It said, “No good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless.” I guessed Mom meant that I was the “good thing.”
If Mom believed that verse, then maybe it was true. I wasn’t perfect, but I couldn’t think of any really bad thing I’d ever done. Maybe I was “blameless” enough to help. I asked God to help me get my rings back. It couldn’t hurt to ask.