Free A Crime in the Neighborhood by Suzanne Berne Page A

toaster, and shaken out all the burnt-toast crumbs. She had even washed the wooden rack of spice bottles and alphabetized them.
    â€œHi Martian,” she said. “Twins still asleep?” She was dressed in an orange middy blouse and a khaki skirt, clothing I had never seen her wear.
    â€œI’ve been doing a little baking.” She pulled a pan of snail-shaped sweet rolls out of the oven and set them on top of the stove. She patted me on the shoulder. “All right. Don’t get hiccups. Want a cup of coffee?”
    She had never offered me a cup of coffee before; she always said it would stunt my growth. But as I stood there staring she poured a little coffee into a mug, adding milk almost to the brim. She set the mug on the kitchen counter and put a sweet roll on a plate. Then she held my crutches while I climbed onto one of the kitchen stools, and she sat next to me while I ate.
    â€œListen, I know you were on the other phone last night,” she said when I had finished my sweet roll.
    Her thin face seemed thinner and her eyes looked red, but she was making an effort to sound composed. “Okay, it’s all right, although please don’t make a habit of it. But I’m going to make a suggestion. You’ll feel better if you find something to do. My advice is to find some kind of hobby this summer.”
    â€œI have a mold experiment,” I said. “I am growing three kinds of mold in jars.”
    â€œWell, that’s a start.” She got up and poured herself a cup of coffee.
    That afternoon she cleaned every room in the house, including the attic, and then she washed the car. Every morning that week she baked something different for breakfast: coffee cake, blueberry buckle, pineapple-pecan muffins.
    Meanwhile the twins played backgammon tournaments on the front porch, only occasionally allowing me to play and never letting me win. My mother shampooed the carpet. She did the laundry and sewed new buttons onto whatever clothing of ours had lost them. She took us along grocery shopping and bought eight bags of food, which she made us help her unpack. Every night she fixed something out of the
Better Homes & Gardens
cookbook, or she let the twins select recipes they found hilarious. One night they decided to make Creole Shrimp in a Rice Ring and Polka-Dot Melon Salad.
    â€œRodney, you gourmet fiend,” cried Julie. She and Steven often called each other Rodney and Felicia, which they thought sounded aristocratic.
    They were wearing aprons and bickering in brittle English voices, elbowing each other out of the way. My mother was upstairs lying down. I sat in the kitchen and watched them fuss around the sink, first making melon balls, then chopping the shrimp with a knife and throwing the shells down the disposal. If my father’s disappearance had upset them, they certainly weren’t going to tell me. Instead they spent more and moretime as Rodney and Felicia, until it was beginning to seem as if the twins had also left town.
    â€œYou’re not taking the mud veins out of the shrimp,” I said.
    â€œWhat do you know about mud veins,” said Julie.
    â€œIt’s shrimp poop.”
    â€œOh please,” said Julie. “Oh disgusting.”
    â€œYou’ve heard, Swamp, haven’t you”—Steven looked at me over his shoulder—“that if Mom and Dad get divorced you’ll probably have to be put up for adoption.”
    â€œThere’s a new law.” Julie tossed her hair out of her eyes. “It says all children under twelve become wards of the state if their parents split up.”
    â€œThat’s not true.”
    â€œOh yes, old Swampy thing,” said Julie. “Sad, really.”
    â€œRotten luck, old girl,” said Steven.
    â€œShut up,” I said.
    â€œOf course, no one may
want
to adopt you.” He pitched a paper towel into the trash can. “Then you’ll have to go to an