“I’ll come in any damn door I please,” shouted Papa. “I’ll come down the chimney if I damn well like.”

He tramped upstairs, roughly brushing her aside. The girls tiptoed up behind him, careful not to scar up the stairs or the banister, but their stepmother followed them on her knees, wiping each step. Papa went in the bedroom and banged the door.

“Did your father stop anywhere on the way to your grandmother’s?” She asked Lena sharply.

“No,” said Lena.

“No,” said Marcia.

“No, Ma’am,” said Florrie, lips trembling. “Oh, don’t whip Papa, please!”

28

I FEEL SORRY FOR HER,” Florrie said one day, in troubled tones.

Her older sisters regarded her with a baleful look. They had been forbidden to leave the house or to play cards, because it was Sunday, and they could not go to Epworth League meeting because word had gotten round that these services ended up in kissing games in the choir loft. (Lena had taken a prominent part in these activities, though Marcia had unfortunately not been invited.) They could sit on the porch if they liked, but they didn’t like because they had been forced to change from their Sunday dresses to patched blue calico, and someone might see them, especially since it was their gloomy conviction that She made the patches big on purpose. So they sat in their room, sulking in the twilight.

“What are you sorry for Her about?” demanded Marcia. “She slapped your hands for crocheting, didn’t she?”

Florrie acknowledged this.

“She cries all the time, though,” she said.

“Let Her cry,” said Lena, scowling at the tenderhearted little sister. Then curiosity overcame her and she added, “What does She cry about?”

“It’s about money, and Papa cries too, I think,” Florrie said. “Her eyes are red all the time, and She never puts her rats in her hair any more. She even scolded Minelda, too.”

“She’s getting meaner every minute, ever since Grandma’s been in town,” Marcia said. “She shook you for coughing tonight, and said you just did it to make Papa worry. I don’t see why you feel sorry for Her.”

“I feel sorry for Her because She can’t help being mean,” Florrie said guiltily, knowing this confession of weakness would not please her sisters. “Marcia can’t help spilling things and breaking things, and Papa can’t help his temper, and She can’t help being mean. I guess that’s why Papa doesn’t get mad at Her; it’s because he knows She can’t help it.”

Lena and Marcia frowned into space, speculating on what mighty catastrophe could cause tears in Her eyes. The muffled voices of their father and Her in their own room down the hall encouraged Lena to creep down the hall to listen. She came back, nodding with satisfaction.

“It’s about money, all right,” she said. “She keeps saying, ‘Oh, Harry, why didn’t you tell me before? You know I trusted you.’ Papa’s getting sort of mad. He keeps saying, ‘Can’t I get it through your head that I wouldn’t have touched a penny of your damned money if I hadn’t thought I could put it back? How many times have I got to explain it to you?’ She says She can’t get over his lying about his salary, and now that She’s used up all her money She can’t run the house on what little he makes, and pay taxes and pay his old bills. He says nobody would be after him about the old bills if he didn’t live in this big house, and that’s Her fault.”