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"I don't want them here either, Jefferson, but right now we don't have any other choice. If we didn't live with them, we'd be sent away someplace," I said.

"Where?" The idea both intrigued and frightened him.

"A place for children without parents, and maybe we wouldn't be together," I said. That ended his willingness to risk an alternative.

"Well, I'm not going to say I'm sorry," he declared defiantly. "I don't care."

"If you don't, she won't let you eat with us and you don't want to eat alone, do you?"

"I'll eat in the kitchen with Mrs. Boston," he decided. I couldn't help but smile. Jefferson had Daddy's temper and stubbornness. That was for sure. If Aunt Bet thought she was going to break him with her tactics, she was in for an unpleasant surprise.

"All right, Jefferson. We'll see," I said. "Are you still hungry?"

"I want some apple pie," he admitted.

"Let's go back in through the pantry door. Mrs. Boston will give you some pie," I said, coaxing him. He took my hand and followed me. Mrs. Boston smiled happily when she saw us. I sat Jefferson at the kitchen table and she cut him a piece of the pie she had just served in the dining room. I wasn't hungry; I just watched him eat. Aunt Bet came in when she heard us talking. She stood glaring angrily in the doorway.

"That young man should come in and apologize to everyone at the table," she reiterated.

"Just leave him be, Aunt Bet," I said firmly. When our eyes locked, she saw my determination.

"Well, until he does, this is where he will take his meals," she threatened.

"Then this is where we will both take them," I said defiantly. She pulled her head back as if I had spit in her face.

"You're not being a good big sister by encouraging and excusing his bad behavior, Christie. I'm very disappointed in you."

"Aunt Bet, you can't im

agine how disappointed I am in you," I replied.

She pressed her lips together until they were a thin white line, pulled up her shoulders and pivoted to parade back into the dining room to tell Uncle Philip what I had said. I'd been brought up by my parents not to talk back or be rude to adults and it made me feel bad to do so. But Mommy and Daddy had also taught me about honesty and justice and kindness to those I loved. I knew in my deepest heart of hearts that Aunt Bet deserved the things I'd said. She was not treating Jefferson and me lovingly or even fairly, it seemed to my grief-scarred mind. Every day in so many tiny ways Aunt Bet was wiping away with her cleaning rag any proof that our family had ever existed. By covering over the comforting and familiar with wallpaper and paint and, worst of all, the new rules that we were told to live by, she was covering up my memories. And they were all I had left of Mommy and Daddy.

I expected Richard would tease and criticize Jefferson for his behavior at the table that night. He had been complaining about Jefferson's personal habits from the moment he moved into the room with him. As a result, Jefferson had begged me several times to let him sleep with me. All I could think of was Mommy and Daddy forced to sleep in a sofa-bed pull-out when they were children. Why should something like that be happening to Jefferson and me? We had all this room and beautiful furniture. But I couldn't be mean to Jefferson, so I let him crawl in beside me that first night. Now he wanted to do it every night, and especially tonight because of the turmoil at the dinner table.

"You have to stay in your own room, Jefferson," I told him when he asked me later. "Don't let Richard terrorize you and force you out. It's your room, not his."

Reluctantly, he returned and tried to do what I said: ignore Richard. But in the morning, he came to my room howling. At first I thought Richard had hit him, but Richard wasn't a physical boy. I could see that the idea of striking someone and someone striking him back frightened him.

"What's wrong now, Jefferson?" I asked, grinding the sleep out of my eyes and sitting up.

"He's hidden my clothes," he moaned. "And he won't tell me where my shoes are."

"What?" I got out of bed and put on my robe. "Let's see what's going on here," I said, taking his hand. I led him back to his room, but Richard wasn't there.

"See," Jefferson said, "my shoes are gone."

"Did you look in your closet?" I asked. He nodded. I looked anyway and saw his favorite shoes were not there. I looked under the bed, too. "This is ridiculous," I said. "Where is he?"

"He always goes to Melanie's room in the morning," Jefferson revealed.

"He does? Why?" Jefferson shrugged. I stalked out of the room and went to Melanie's door. When I knocked, she said, "Come in." I opened the door to find Melanie seated at the vanity table. She was still in her pajamas. Richard stood behind her, still in his pajamas too. He was brushing her hair. They both turned and gazed at me with expressions so similar, it was frightening at first. Both looked angry about being disturbed—their eyes wide and blazing, their lips curled.

"What are you doing?" I asked, more out of surprise and curiosity than anything else.

"I'm brushing Melanie's hair. I do it every morning," Richard said.

"Why?" I couldn't help smiling in confusion. "I just do. What do you want?" he demanded, showing his impatience with me.