Free Kind of Kin by Rilla Askew

started for the bathroom because I knew if I didn’t, he’d know. He might not know what, but he’d know something. I cut a wide path across the room by the pantry so he couldn’t reach out and pop me, but I never flinched my eyes from him once.
    So it wasn’t till real late in the night, when I was laying on the air mattress listening to Carl snore with his adenoids, that I understood why my grandpa says there’s no such thing as a white lie or a little sin. He says one sin leads to the next on the road to perdition, and I could see for the first time how it’s really true. Because I’d started out with cussing and went from there to lying, plus stealing, and I thought, No telling where it’s fixing to lead me next. Because when Carl Albert pinched my arm while we were brushing our teeth in the bathroom and whispered, “What’d you do with my knife, Dusthole?” I didn’t say, Hey that knife’s not yours, it’s Brother Oren’s and I’m going to give it back to him, the way I’d meant to . I spat toothpaste in the sink and looked my cousin straight in the face and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He jumped me then, got me down on the floor really bad, till Aunt Sweet came in and pulled him off me, but I still didn’t tell.
    I thought about that a long time while I waited for the house to get completely dark, completely silent, till I felt sure nobody was going to wake up, so nobody would see me take the Swiss Army knife out of my sneaker where I’d hid it and carry it out to the carport to put it with the Mexican man’s coat. Aunt Sweet had laid the coat on top of the old washer she uses for Uncle Tee’s greasy work clothes. I stuffed that smelly coat down behind the washing machine where nobody would find it. I told myself I could always get Brother Oren a new one later, if I could ever get a job for some money, and if I could find out where they sell knives like that, which I didn’t know where, someplace in Fort Smith maybe. My grandpa would know.

Tuesday | February 19, 2008 | 6:45 A.M.
    Main Street | Cedar
    S weet had the boys up, dressed, combed, cerealed, and in the car before daylight. When she went back to check on Mr. Bledsoe, she found him deeply asleep, curled on his side like an ancient, bald little fetus, the extra pain pills doing their work, and yes it was terrible, probably even sinful to dope the old man, but she didn’t know what else to do. She needed to get to Tulsa today. The boys were quiet in the backseat as they drove along the dark Main Street, where a couple of mud-crusted SUVs stood parked in front of the old mercantile that housed Heartland Home Health. Sweet glanced inside the lighted window at the two women in loose smocks drinking coffee at the desk. She knew good and well Mr. Bledsoe would qualify for home health if they’d just put in for it, but Terry wouldn’t let her. His family wasn’t taking any government handouts, he said. Oh, but if she just had an aide coming in once a week to help, maybe she could manage to get a few things done. Drive to Tulsa to get Misty, for instance, without having to dope the old man. Or medicate him rather. Medicate was a better word.
    At the end of the street she turned right, drove around behind the rock elementary building, and parked beside the prefab cafeteria in the back. Three yellow buses idled nearby, puffing white exhaust into the cold morning air. “Y’all sit here a minute,” she said.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Carl Albert whined.
    â€œI’ll be right back.”
    Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Hale were stirring up powdered eggs and biscuits in the steaming kitchen. Mrs. Johnson frowned under her hairnet, but Mrs. Hale smiled. “Why sure, bring them on in here. We’ll feed them with the country kids.”
    â€œOh, thanks,” Sweet said. “They’ve already had