Free A Crime in the Neighborhood by Suzanne Berne Page B

orphanage.”
    â€œEver read
Oliver Twist
?” said Julie, coming at me. She had fingers like pliers, which could leave a mark that lasted for hours after she pinched you.
    â€œNo,” I cried. “Shut up. Shut up.”
    â€œPathetic case, Felicia,” said Steven.
    â€œSimply awful, Rodney,” sighed Julie, backing away.
    I stumped out of the kitchen and worked my way upstairsto find my mother. She was lying on her back on the bed with a washcloth draped over her eyes.
    â€œMommy,” I began. “Julie and Steven—”
    â€œHush,” she said fiercely, not moving her head. “I am thinking.”
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” I asked.
    My mother pulled the cloth off her face. “Survival,” she said.

Five
    A week and a half after my father and Ada disappeared, my mother decided to sell our house.
    Although I have never understood it, her decision was understandable. Twice she’d been left by a man with no provision for the future; this time she had something worth money—a house and everything in it. The deed was in her name because ironically my father had believed his investments were safer that way, in case any of his clients ever sued him.
    A red, white, and blue “For Sale” sign appeared on our front lawn, lonely and inimical against the soft grass and rhododendrons. To sell the house, my mother used a realtor from my father’s own agency, a cadaverous man named Harold McBride, whose long fingers were double-jointed, so that he could bend his thumb back to his wrist.
    â€œSo sorry for your troubles, Lois,” he said the first time he showed up, towing a young Japanese couple wearing matching blue blazers. “So sorry. Anything I can do to help.”
    â€œSo sorry,” echoed the couple standing behind him, looking confused.
    â€œOh, that’s all right,” said my mother, and opened the door for them.
    Years of dusting and despising china goose girls wafted back to her, like the potpourri smell of the Coy Boutique: Keep your lips shut. Wear an undershirt
and
a bra. Be prepared. Like her own mother, faced with four fatherless girls after the war, she managed.
    Quick as if she were gutting a fish, she emptied the joint checking and savings accounts into a new account in her name. Our allowances were cut off, something I accepted, but the twins complained about it and Julie threatened to sell her clothes. “Go ahead,” said my mother. “But I get fifty percent since I bought them in the first place.” When I asked her if we had any money, she said, “Enough. For now.”
    She began phoning numbers listed in the want ads she’d circled in the newspaper. She wrote up a work schedule for the four of us and taped it to the refrigerator: MONDAY . Marsha—set table. Julie—dishes. Steven—trash. Lois—grocery shopping/dinner. TUESDAY . Marsha—sweeping. Lois—laundry/dinner …
    My mother’s first job was selling magazine subscriptions part-time over the telephone.
    From noon until five every weekday afternoon, she sat at the kitchen table with her ankles pressed together, talking to strangers across the country. As she dialed each number shefrowned as if she had bitten down on a leaf of sandy lettuce. But you could tell when a customer picked up the other end of the line because her eyes widened and her eyebrows shot up. “Hel-lo. This is Lois Eberhardt with Peterman-Wolff Communications Distribution. Are you aware of our special summertime offer of two, yes that’s right, two popular magazines of your choice for the low, low price of…. No? You
haven’t
heard of our offer?” Her voice was so surprised it made her forehead wrinkle.
    She had a basic script to follow, plus a fact sheet filled with alternative responses depending on a customer’s questions. She said she could get “canned” if she deviated from a single line. Supervisors