The Wages of Sin

by Nancy Allen

  Concern shone out of Marge’s eyes. “Are you certain? Because I’d like to spread the word, see if I can stop the tempest before it goes too far.”

  “Quote me.” Elsie took a savage bite of bacon, chewing fast and swallowing. “That kid can’t seem to get a break.”

  Daintily, Marge sliced through the fried meat with a steak knife. “Honey, you have to get that child a new pair of glasses. Every time I see her picture in the paper, I just want to cry. She looks like something out of Tennessee Williams.”

  A mental picture of the child passed though Elsie’s head. “She seems Dickensian to me.” Like Oliver Twist, if he was a girl, she thought. Or Artful Dodger. Or some combination of both. “Mom, I’m not an optometrist. But I’ll mention it to her social worker—­it’s Tina, she’ll get on it. You’re right, we have to get her into some new glasses.”

  As Marge returned her attention to her eggs, Elsie thought: Don’t want the kid to creep out the jury. She instantly regretted the thought, wondering how she could be so callous.

  Marge was gazing around the restaurant, checking out the other patrons. As Elsie toyed with a slice of toast, she heard Marge gasp.

  “There’s Vera Brown. Oh my goodness gracious sakes.”

  “Who?”

  “Vera Brown.” Marge was speaking in a stage whisper, her face animated with delight behind her spectacles. “We went to school together, back at Barton High. Vera was the most darling girl in class. Pretty enough to be in the movies. First runner-­up for the McCown Peach Queen.”

  Elsie followed her mother’s eye and identified the target of her attention, an attractive woman with a luxurious head of waving hair that almost brushed her shoulders. “She still looks good. But if she was the beauty of McCown County, how come she came in second?”

  The McCown County Peach Queen Pageant, a highlight of the annual county fair in August, was still a local tradition. In Elsie’s youth, she refused to compete, and had attempted a grassroots campaign to eliminate the contest from the fair activities. The idea hadn’t taken off.

  Irritation flashed across Marge’s face. “That Madeleine Thompson. Her daddy wanted her to wear that crown, and by God, he saw to it that she did.”

  Elsie perked up. “Madeleine’s father stuffed the ballot box?”

  Marge leaned across the table to whisper in Elsie’s ear. “He influenced the judges. Namely, that awful old Dean Mitchell. I refuse to eat a bite of Smokey Dean Barbeque, as you well know. Because I don’t respect them.” Settling back in her seat, she frowned again, reliving the injustice. “Madeleine wasn’t even a senior; she was three years behind us in school. She should’ve waited her turn. Looked like a beanpole in a swimsuit. Vera won the swimsuit competition.”

  Laughing, Elsie wanted to press her mother for details about Madeleine, but Marge jumped up. “I’m going to go over there and say hello.”

  As Marge headed across the restaurant, Elsie reached across the table with her fork, stabbed a large bite of chicken fried steak and ran it through the liquid egg yolk, smiling inwardly at the thought of Madeleine as Peach Queen. Had to cheat to wear the crown. In McCown County, some things never changed.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ivy sat at a long table in a book-­lined room. Through a single window, the sun shone directly in, hurting her eyes. She adjusted her glasses, but it didn’t help.

  She sat so low in the wooden chair that her chin nearly rested on the table. She crossed her arms on the polished surface of the table, and used them as a cushion to bury her head, providing momentary relief for her sun-­blinded eyes.

  A sharp tap at the door startled her. She looked up: the door had a panel of glass with chicken wire embedded in it. Black letters were painted on the glass. She knew the letters, but couldn’t make out the word: ETAVIRP. The man with the fancy suit, with a golden necklace dangling at his belly, poked his head through the door.

  “Good morning,” he greeted her.

  He entered the room, baring a toothy smile in her direction. Ivy’s foster mother followed behind him, the baby at her shoulder, wrapped in a blue flannel blanket.

  “Do you all need me?” Holly Hickman asked in a tentative voice.

  “What? What’s that?” The suit man, settling into the chair at the head of the table, right beside Ivy’s seat, turned his attention to her foster mom.

  Holly said, “It’s time to feed the baby. He’ll fuss if I don’t keep him on a schedule. I just thought I’d go find a quiet spot.” Apologetically, she added, “If it’s all right with you, Mr. Parsons.”

  Mr. Parsons showed all his teeth, uppers and lowers. Ivy was amazed to note that not a single tooth was missing. “You go right ahead. Take care of that big guy.” Placing a hand on Ivy’s shoulder he said, “Ivy and I will be just fine.”

  Ivy steeled herself to sit still, not to jerk away from the man’s hand on her shoulder. She didn’t like him, could sense that his smile was false. But she knew that this man was in charge.

  As the foster mother hurried out of the door, Elsie slipped in.

  “Where’s Madeleine?” asked the man.

  “Running kind of late. She’ll join us as soon as she can.” Elsie smiled at Ivy. “Hey, Ivy. How you doing today?”

  Ivy nodded in response. She peeked at Elsie’s bag, hoping it might hold presents for her. Probably not.

  As Elsie settled in a chair across the table from them, Mr. Parsons pointed at Ivy and demanded: “When are you going to get her some glasses?” Ivy stared at his hand. He wore a big gold ring with a red stone in it. He’s rich, she concluded. That would explain all those teeth.

  A cross look crossed Elsie’s face. “You’re the third person this week who has asked me that question. You do understand: it’s not the job of the Prosecutor’s Office—­”

  He cut her off. “Then you light a fire under that foster mother. Or the social worker or whoever you need to deal with.”

  “Fine. I’ll try.”

  Ivy struggled to straighten the glasses on her nose. The Band-­Aid that held the arm together was clean. Her foster mother had put a new one on before they left the house this morning.

  He lowered his voice. “What about the hair. Can you do something about her hair?”

  Elsie shot a look at Ivy then turned back to Mr. Parsons and whispered, “Let’s not discuss this right now, Sam.”

  “There won’t be a later. I’m running back to Jefferson City this morning. And when I come back for preliminary hearing,” and he stopped to wave in Ivy’s direction from his seat at the table, “I want her to look presentable.”

  “Hush,” Elsie said.

  He looked at Elsie with disbelief. “Don’t you tell me to hush.”

  “We shouldn’t have to worry about a prelim, anyway. That’s why we’re here today.”

  Mr. Parsons raised his voice, but Ivy wasn’t listening. She watched the sunlight sparkle on his ring.

  “You think you can shush me like a subordinate? Like a child? I’m in charge here.”

  Again, Elsie whispered. “Don’t hurt her feelings.”

  “I have come all the way down here to provide assistance to your office, in this godforsaken part of the state. I will not be shushed by a young upstart.”

  Elsie’s face reddened and she opened her mouth to reply, but stopped when Ivy spoke up from the end of the table.

  “I like them.”

  Both adults turned their eyes toward her. “What’s that, young lady?” the man asked, baring his false smile.

  “My glasses. I like them. They work good.”

  She swung her feet, hoping to mask her shame.

  Elsie stood, picked up her bag, and came to sit at Ivy’s left. In a quiet voice, she said, “They work, because they can help you see better. Right, Ivy?”

  Ivy nodded, grateful for the understanding.

 
Elsie gave a smile, like she was about to tell a secret. “Did you know I wear glasses, too?”

  When Ivy inspected Elsie’s face, there were none to be seen. She shook her head.

  Elsie widened her eyes. “Contact lenses. But I take them out at night, and put my glasses on.”

  Ivy didn’t respond. She digested the information.

  “I got my glasses in—­let me think—­the third grade, I guess. So I was a little older than you. Getting that first pair of glasses was exciting.”

  Ivy didn’t recall any particular excitement. Her mom had been mad that they had to go to the clinic, two times, to get the job done. It was a lot of trouble, she recalled.

  “Do you know what happened? I stepped on them in my bedroom and broke off the arm. My mom thought it was pretty careless, but what you gonna do? So we got new ones. When your glasses break, you replace them with a new pair.”

  Ivy looked from Elsie to Mr. Parsons in confusion, uncertain what they wanted from her. “I don’t got no money. Glasses cost. I know that much.”

  “Oh, Ivy, honey,” Elsie said, placing a warm hand on her arm. “It’s not your job to get it done. I’ll talk to your friend, Tina Peroni.”

  At the end of the table, Mr. Parsons opened a big pile of papers. “Now,” he said in a loud voice, “let’s get ready to roll, girls.”

  “Ivy,” Elsie said in a soothing voice, “today a man will come and ask you questions.”

  Ivy stared through her glasses at the man seated at her right hand. “Him.”

  “No, not him; Mr. Parsons is here for the prosecution, for the State.”

  Ivy sighed. “A policeman.”

  “No,” Mr. Parsons said, waving the palm of his hand in dismissal. “Not a nice policeman. It’s the defense attorney.”

  Turning on Mr. Parsons with her lips pressed in a grim line, Elsie gave her head a little shake, but he ignored it.

  “This is a deposition. Can you say deposition?” he asked.

  Ivy gave him a flat stare. “I don’t want to.”

  “What? Say the word?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Repeat after me. “Dep-­o-­zi-­shun.”

  The girl made no attempt to parrot the attorney’s long word. She dropped her head onto her folded arms. Her voice muffled, she said, “Answer questions. I don’t want to do that. Not today.” She peeked out to see their reaction.

  Elsie gave the man another look. Pulling a pink piece of paper from her file, she nudged it under Ivy’s arm. “Do you like pink?”

  After a moment, Ivy nodded.

  “See this paper? Is it pink, would you say? Or purple?”

  Ivy peeked at it. “Pink,” she whispered.

  “Look here,” Elsie said. She placed her index finger on the line that bore Ivy’s name. “Can you read that?”

  “Ivy.”

  Elsie smiled, beaming encouragement. “That’s right. That’s your name. So this pink paper says that you, Ivy,” and she pointed at the typewritten print again, “are coming here today—­ here’s the date—­to answer questions.” In a confiding tone, she said, “This is official. That means you are important.”

  Mr. Parsons pointed his finger at Ivy. She didn’t like to be pointed at. He’d done it three times so far, that very day. “Don’t volunteer anything. Just answer the questions. Don’t provide additional information.”

  Elsie’s eyes closed for a moment, and her jaw hardened. When she opened her eyes to look at Ivy, her face was serene. “Whenever you are asked a question, just tell the truth. That’s all you need to do. Easy-­peasy.”

  The man opened his mouth to speak, but snapped his jaw shut when the door opened behind him. Another man entered, a good-­looking guy. He didn’t look scary at all. Ivy figured he was the kind of dude that Larry Paul could smack down with ease. But Larry was in jail. Ivy liked to think of Larry locked up in a jailhouse. It made it easier to sleep at night. Most of the time, anyway.

  Josh Nixon entered, wearing creased khakis and a rumpled dress shirt, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His long hair, brown with streaks of blond, flipped over his forehead, and he tucked it behind his ear.

  “Morning, all,” he said, setting a Styrofoam coffee cup on the table. He had a fabric briefcase hanging from his shoulder. He pulled some printed pages from the bag before he sat down. “Beautiful day, huh?”

  Samuel Parsons just nodded in reply. Ivy regarded Nixon with a blank stare.

  Now that the deposition was about to proceed, Elsie was tensing up, though she took pains to hide it. She said, “When is your court reporter going to get here?”

  “She’s already here. It’ll be Candy Miller; I saw her in the parking lot. Probably dodged into the coffee shop. Or the bathroom.”

  Elsie started to pull a disgruntled face, until she saw Ivy watching. Samuel Parsons swiveled in his chair. Folding his arms behind his head, he pushed away from the table and stretched his legs across the floor. The court reporter, a woman in her thirties in a figure-­hugging red dress, arrived a moment later and almost tripped over his feet as she entered.

  Parsons jumped up. “So sorry, ma’am. Hope you’re not hurt,” he said. His focus flickered from her bust to her face and back again.

  “I’m fine,” she said, turning to Josh Nixon with a lipsticked megawatt smile. “Josh, sorry to hold you all up.”

  Josh winked in reply, and her smile widened. Turning to Elsie, he said, “Elsie, you know Candy Miller, right? And Candy, this is Sam Parsons, acting as Special Prosecutor, from the Missouri Attorney General’s Office.”

  “In Jeff City,” Parsons added.

  “I’ll set up right here by you,” Candy said, giving Josh a cozy nudge, “and we can start right up.”

  While she set up her court reporting device, Elsie placed her hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “They will ask you whether you will tell the truth to the questions. Remember when we talked about telling the truth? That’s all you need to do.”

  Josh Nixon shot Elsie a puckish glance, but she ignored it. “Okay, Ivy?” she said.

  Ivy scooted back in the chair as far as her small body could go, and pressed her head against the chair back as if she wanted to brace herself for the onslaught. She nodded, looking straight ahead.

  Parsons said to Nixon, “We reserve all objections except as to the form of the question.”

  “Sure,” Josh said, without looking in his direction. He studied Ivy.

  The court reporter turned to Ivy and said, “Raise your right hand.”

  Ivy raised the left one.

  To Candy Miller, Elsie said, “It doesn’t really matter,” but the court reporter repeated, in an insistent voice: “Right.”

  Elsie pushed Ivy’s left hand down and tapped the right with her finger. Obliging, Ivy raised it.

  Candy Miller said: “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  Ivy didn’t answer immediately. Finally, she said, “I don’t know you.”

  Candy Miller looked startled, as if Ivy had spoken in an unknown tongue. At Sam Parsons’s end of the table, a loud snort sounded.

  Elsie did quick damage control. “Ivy, this is Ms. Miller. She’s a court reporter. That means she’ll write down every word we say today. It’s her job. And it’s her job to ask you the question about telling the truth. She’s not trying to be nosy. She has to ask.”

  Ivy’s face was still suspicious. “Okay.”

  Candy repeated the oath, and Ivy said “Yes” in a murmur.

  “You’ll have to speak up, Ivy,” boomed Parsons’s voice. “Can’t hear you.”

  “Be a loudmouth,” Elsie said to Ivy. “Like him.” She gave the girl a conspiratorial grin, and Ivy’s mouth twitched in response.

  Elsie looked at Josh and nodded. He leaned on the table, tapping a pencil on the
scarred wooden surface.

  “Ivy, this is a deposition. I’ll ask you questions, and you’ll answer them. We’ll start with an easy one. How old are you?”

  “Six.”

  Elsie had expected another whisper, but the girl’s voice was clear.

  “Do you go to school?”

  “First grade.”

  “What’s your teacher’s name?”

  “Mrs. Fulton.”

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  The girl screwed up her face, as if thinking hard. “We have a board at school with the day on it. But I didn’t go to school today.”

  “Can you read and write?”

  “Not good.” She pushed the bridge of her glasses onto her nose. “Not too good.”

  In a quiet voice, Josh said, “Your mother died, isn’t that right?”

  Ivy dropped her head on the table; it made an audible thump when her forehead connected with the wooden surface.

  “Does she need a minute?” he asked, unapologetic.

  Elsie spoke, close to her ear. “Just answer his questions. Then you’ll be done, you can go on back to school. You can be there by lunchtime. Recess, maybe.”

  The room was silent for several tense moments while all eyes were fixed on the child’s scruffy head. When she finally lifted it, her face was stony.

  “Larry killed my momma. With the bat.”

  “Who is Larry?”

  “Mama’s boyfriend.”

  “What’s Larry’s last name?”

  “Paul. He’s Larry Paul.”

  “Did he live with you and your mother?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Where did you live?”

  “In the trailer.” She chewed her index finger. “Now I live in town. In a house.”

  “Did your mother work?”

  Ivy shrugged. “Some. She worked at Smokey Dean’s and she’d bring me barbeque home. But she got too big and her feet swoll up.”

  Parsons leaned back in his chair and motioned to Elsie, speaking in a loud whisper. “How could a woman with AIDS work in food ser­vice?”

  Elsie answered impatiently. “ADA protection, I guess. AIDS is a disability protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act.”