by Olive Balla
Though Jillie had never really liked Beth’s in-laws, she agreed to stay with them rather than return to juvie to await placement with other foster parents. It wouldn’t be long—just until Beth came for her. And anything would be better than juvie.
She shivered at the memory of her fifteen-year-old juvie roommate’s threat to dig her purple-ass eyes out with a spoon and put them in a baby food jar if she didn’t stop whining and bawling all night.
As Jillie exited the courtroom with the Elliotts, people with cameras shoved microphones toward her face and shouted questions. Others stared at her, held their hands in front of their mouths and whispered. Although she couldn’t understand most of what people were saying because of all the shouting, she overheard one woman call her a murderer, while another said she must be some kind of monster.
Moms Potter made her way through the crowd to Jillie. “Don’t pay any attention to these jerks. Some people get their kicks from other people’s pain.” She patted Jillie’s shoulder. “You did the right thing.”
A young woman squeezed through the herd and approached Jillie. “I’ll be your caseworker.” She pointed to a bench where Jillie’s suitcase and nylon backpack sat. “I got permission to pick these up for you. You’ll want to look it all over, but your stuff ought to be just as you left it.”
Jillie nodded her thanks. “Can I go see my sister now?”
With a sad smile, Moms Potter said, “She isn’t awake yet.”
“I need to be there when she wakes up.”
The caseworker put a warm hand on Jillie’s forearm. “I’m sure your family will take you once you get settled. You’re a smart girl, Jillie, and you’re strong. Beth’s lucky to have you for a sister.”
Having moved to within earshot, Margo Elliott leveled a hard look at the caseworker, and her lips curled like she’d just discovered a maggot in her spaghetti. Cleg’s face was set in its usual blank stare.
“I’ll see to Beth,” Moms Potter said. “And I’ll come see you as often as I can.” She turned her head away, but not before Jillie saw a tear fall onto her shirt front.
“We should get going,” Margo said.
Jillie picked up her suitcase and backpack. She waved goodbye to Mrs. Potter, swallowed hard, and followed the Elliotts to their brown, rusted-out pickup.
As Cleg got into the driver’s seat, Margo motioned for Jillie to scoot in next to him. A satisfied look on her face, Margo squeezed in next to Jillie and slammed the pickup door.
“Now then,” Margo said. “Isn’t this nice?”
Jillie shivered as if someone had run an icicle up her spine.
Please God, make Beth better soon.
Chapter Three
Except for Cleg’s wheezing around the plastic tube that ran from his nose to a metal container with the word oxygen written on it, the trip to the Elliotts’ house was made in silence. But the way Margo stared at Jillie the whole time made her feel all squirmy inside, and the rotten cheese smell coming from old man Elliott made her wish someone would open a window.
On the outskirts of Belen, Cleg turned the pickup down a washboard-dirt road that led to a circular driveway. At the end of the drive, a two-story house sat hunkered like a huge molting bird of prey out of Jillie’s biology book.
Gray, weathered wood siding had pretty well managed to rid itself of any paint, but a few stubborn little patches looked like it might have once been white. With a dirt front yard, partially collapsed brick flower bed clogged with dried weeds, and a cracked front window patched with duct tape and cardboard, the place looked like a house out of a horror movie. The skin on Jillie’s forearms puckered into goose bumps.
Cleg turned off the engine, and the three exited the pickup.
Merciless afternoon sunlight poured over Margo’s body, highlighting every gap and bulge. Her mouth looked like a slit in an old inner tube, with deep creases running from her top lip up toward her nose. Bright pink lipstick seeped up the creases. A small flap of skin at the edge of one nostril fluttered when she snorted—which was often. Stick figure arms dangled from the short sleeves of a clingy dress covered with a weird blue pattern, and skinny fingers fiddled with the white crocheted collar buttoned up tight. Thin, blue-veined legs held her upright.
“We’re taking you in because no young girl ought to have to live with total strangers.” Margo’s lips barely moved over teeth that stayed clamped shut.
“That’s right.” Cleg’s jaws chomped down on each consonant, like he was chewing something gristly. He paused, wheezed, and sucked air in through his nose. “We don’t hold Digger’s killing against you; you were just trying to protect your sister. Ain’t that right, Honey Bumpkin?”
Margo twitched her pointy nose like a hound sniffing at something dead. She shot a look at her husband that made him hold his hands up like he was praying for rain.
Cleg’s eyes dropped to the ground. He cleared his throat then muttered something about telling that boy a hundred times his temper was going to get him into trouble.
Old man Elliott’s body was exactly the opposite of his wife’s. The flesh under his eyes was all puffed out, like someone had pulled the skin back and stuffed the inside full of cotton balls. His bloated, blue lips were wet from constant licking, and small gobs of white crusty residue formed crescents in the corners of his mouth. When he walked, his legs looked like they moved only from the knees down, and his stomach arrived at its destination a full heartbeat ahead of the rest of his body. From the nearly hairless head perched on top of thick shoulders, all the way down to his tiny, tennis shoe-shod feet, the man looked like a human ice cream cone.
“We’ve come up with a few rules,” Margo said. She paused to let those words sink in. “First, you’ll be allowed two meals a day. You can choose which two.”
Two meals? Beth always made sure she had three hot meals and two snacks a day. She’d said a growing girl needed sustenance. A frown drew the edges of Jillie’s mouth down.
Margo squinted. “One day you’ll thank me. Chubby girls don’t get on well in the world. Especially if they look like you.” Her lip curled. “All that white hair and pale skin…and those eyes…they’re just plain unnatural.”
Jillie wanted to scream for Margo to bite the wall. Beth had said her baby fat would go away once she started her periods. Beth said she’d been chubby too, but slimmed down when her hormones kicked in. And once, when she found Jillie crying because a kid at school made fun of her, Beth had promised the mild albinism that gave her porcelain-like skin, thick snow-white hair and nearly purple eyes was going to make her a stunning beauty when she grew up. And Beth was real smart.
Margo pushed her lip-slit into a pucker. “Anyway, Americans eat too much.” She glanced at Cleg, who was staring off into space and didn’t seem to be listening.
“When can I see Beth?” Jillie said.
Margo’s head swiveled toward Jillie and her lip curled upward slightly. “We’ll see how things go.”
“She’ll get better, you’ll see. She promised to take me to the Balloon Fiesta, and Beth never breaks a promise.”
Margo made a funny sound in the back of her throat and pulled the corners of her mouth up. “The Fiesta’s still a couple months away.” She bent over so her eyes were even with Jillie’s. “A lot can happen in two months.”
As if someone had plugged in his power cord, Cleg suddenly came to life. “Maybe I’ll take you to the Balloon Fiesta. Would you like that?” He smiled, like a kid who’d just found a chocolate in his pocket.
Margo frowned at her husband then jabbed an elbow in his ribs. “I said we’ll see.”
As they entered the darkened house, an odor thick as pudding poured over them—like the school’s locker room, only a lot worse. Neither of the Elliotts seemed to notice, but Jillie had to swallow hard to keep from throwing up.
She followed the Elliotts into a large room with several windows, each covered with tightly closed venetian blinds. No happy sunlight, no fresh air would be allowed into tha
t house.
Margo turned on a lamp atop a table next to a sofa and picked up a piece of grimy paper. She jabbed it toward Jillie. “Your chores.”
Though the list was short, the chores looked like something out of the Cinderella story. Every day, Jillie would be expected to prepare all three meals—even the one she wouldn’t be allowed to eat—and wash the dishes. She’d do laundry on Saturdays and clean house once a week.
Tapping the paper with a bony forefinger, Margo said, “It goes without saying that you’ll clean your room every morning before breakfast.” She turned and headed up the stairs. “Come on. You’ll be staying in Digger’s old quarters. It’s just as it was when he left us to marry your sister.”
Jillie gulped. Saliva caught in her throat and set off a coughing spasm. When she could breathe again, she said, “I—I’ll be sleeping in his room?”
“Well now,” Margo said through those clenched teeth, “He won’t be needing it anymore, will he? Besides, all the other rooms are taken.”
Digger’s old room was a tiny, dark space. One small window overlooked the driveway, its four dirty panes covered by gray curtains. The portion of roof covering the porch lay directly underneath and outside the window. A twin bed sat against one wall, a flattened pillow in a thread-bare pillowcase carelessly tossed on top.
A dust-covered bureau stood against the opposite wall. A large, gray, lidded vase rested on its otherwise bare top.
Margo, a peculiar expression on her face, stood at the door, as if expecting Jillie to either do or say something. “How do you like the room?” If Margo’s eyes had been needles, Jillie would have been pinned to the floor like a butterfly on velvet.
“It’s—”
“More specifically, how do you like the urn on the bureau?”
“Bureau?”
“Otherwise known as a chest-of-drawers.”
Jillie looked at the piece of furniture then back at the woman.
Margo rolled her eyes. “Oh my lord, how have you survived this long being so dense. How do you like the urn?”
“You mean that vase—”
Margo bared her teeth and closed the distance between the two of them, bent at the waist, and brought her face in line with Jillie’s. “Not vase, urn. This is, after all, Digger’s room.”
Jillie gulped and took a step backward.
Nearly maniacal laughter bubbled up from Margo’s chest. “Not to worry, Digger doesn’t take up much space, and he doesn’t snore anymore.” She pointed toward the closet. “Stow your stuff.”
Her mouth dry, Jillie put her backpack and suitcase on the floor as far away from the chest of drawers as she could.
Margo pointed to a closed door across the hall. “You’ll share the bathroom with Mort. He’s not here much, so that shouldn’t present any problems.” She smirked. “After all, we must treat you like a welcome guest.”
Just then, the bathroom door opened, and Digger’s younger brother Mort stepped out, zipping his pants. Somewhere in his twenties, Mort was tall like Margo. His head was covered with thick dark hair, as were the parts of his arms uncovered by his short-sleeved T-shirt. He squinted at Jillie and the lips he’d inherited from his father curled into a kind of smirky smile. But, like a line Jillie had read in a mystery novel, his smile never reached his eyes.
“Well, well,” Mort said, “Never thought we’d have us a murderer living under the same roof. Hope you left your machete at home.”
“There’ll be no more of that kind of talk.” Margo glared at her son. “At least I’m doing something to bring in some money.” A funny look flashed across her face as she realized she’d said that out loud. “Of course, we’d take the child in, even if there was no money to cover her keep. The judge said if we didn’t, she’d become a ward of the state.” She patted the top of Jillie’s head as if she were a puppy, only harder.
Mort bent at the waist and looked into Jillie’s eyes. “Watch your back, kid.” He muttered something then went downstairs.
Margo’s eyes hardened into concrete as she stared at her son’s retreating back. “Just like his father,” she said under her breath. “Useless.” Her eyes shifted to Jillie. “Since this is your first night here, you’ll eat with the family. But after that, you’ll eat in the kitchen. Put your things away and come downstairs.” She raked her fingers through Jillie’s hair, painfully tugging at tangles. “And do something with that mop. Comb it, or something. You look like you’ve been pulled through a woodpile backwards.”
Margo headed downstairs, her hard-soled shoes clip-clopping on the wooden steps.
Jillie glanced at the urn. With a shiver, she shoved her unopened suitcase against the closet’s back wall. Taking care not to look at the bureau again, she leaned her backpack against the suitcase.
She’d not unpack. The thought of putting her clothes in the same drawers that had held Digger’s made her feel like hurling her lunch.
Besides, she wouldn’t be here that long. Beth would come for her as soon as she got better, and they’d go back home, back to the only home Jillie had ever known.
She spread her thick, down-filled coat on the closet floor in front of her luggage and pulled her teddy bear Mickey out of her backpack. “Your tummy’ll be a whole lot better pillow than that smelly old thing on the bed.”
Jillie stepped across the hall and into the bathroom where she washed her hands then ran damp fingers through her thick hair. Although she tried her best to smush it down, a glance in the mirror showed her seven cowlicks springing into action, returning her hair to its usual style—what Beth had called her hedgehog mode.
At the thought of her sister, Jillie teared up. She swiped the tears away then washed her face. One thing for sure, she’d not let the Elliotts see her cry.
She took a deep breath and went downstairs.
Three sets of eyes followed her progress. The expressions on Mort and Cleg’s faces were bland, but the expression on Margo’s face made Jillie want to go back upstairs.
“Mort brought pizza,” Margo said. “Enjoy it, because after tonight, you’ll be making dinner.” Her upper lip curled as she dished a piece of pizza onto a paper plate and handed it to Jillie. “One piece for you then it’s off to bed. You have an early morning.”
Chapter Four
Over the next week, life in the Elliott household settled into routine. Jillie did as she was told and took care of her chores. The rest of the time was spent either outside exploring the surrounding area or in her room reading and drawing.
Beth had always loved Jillie’s drawings. Once, when Jillie drew a picture of her favorite teacher, Beth had said it was so realistic it looked like a photo.
Other than ordering Jillie around like a slave, Margo rarely spoke to her. And she never once called her by name. It was Come here, girl, or Do that, girl.
Cooking the meals for the Elliotts turned out not to be so bad. But doing the laundry was puke-making.
Unwilling to touch any of the Elliotts’ underwear, she sneaked a pair of long-handled tongs from the kitchen. Almost giddy with relief at how well they worked, she hid them behind the washer.
Cleg and Margo hardly ever left the house, but Mort came and went at all hours. Once in a while, Mort’s cousin Toby Dinkins was mentioned, but he never made an appearance at the house.
Dinner times were always charged and tense. Margo complained about her life at the hands of her spouse, about the state of their finances, and about Mort’s lack of ambition. Cleg mostly kept his head down, eyes focused on his plate, and unless someone asked Mort a direct question, he seldom said a word.
Jillie had always been pretty good at reading people’s moods, but not Margo’s. Things would be calm for a day or two, then some little thing would set her off and she’d yell, throw stuff, and kick the furniture. A couple of times, while Jillie was washing the dishes, she recognized the familiar sounds of flesh smacking flesh followed by Cleg’s muffled whimper.
After a couple of days, Jillie’s stomach began to
ache when Margo went into one of her rages. Then she started chewing her nails—sometimes, so bad they bled.
When the social services caseworker telephoned to set up the first appointment for a home visit, Margo’s voice was warm enough to melt butter. “We’ll look forward to seeing you tomorrow at two.” But as soon as she hung up, she whirled on Jillie. “You say one negative word, just one, and Mort will pay a visit to your sister in the hospital.” Her eyelids lowered into slits. “He may not be good for much, but even he could unplug a life support machine. He’d sneak in and out of the hospital before anyone even knew he was there.” She pinched the flesh on the upper back of Jillie’s arm hard enough to leave a mark. “You hear me?”
Jillie winced and nodded her head.
The same warning was repeated before each of Jillie’s court-ordered appointments with a therapist. The kindly psychologist tried to get her to talk about Digger’s death and her life with the Elliotts, but she refused to speak.
During the times Mort ate dinner at home, Margo would hammer at him about getting a job. “You think food just magically appears on the table?” She’d shoot dart-looks between her son and spouse. “You’re a lazy bum, just like your father.”
Since Jillie had chosen breakfast and lunch as her two meals, her evenings were spent trying to ignore a growling stomach. She comforted herself with the thought that once school started, she’d get a free lunch. When that happened, she’d opt to eat breakfast and dinner at the Elliotts’. The thought of eating three meals a day again set her stomach growling.
One night, she sneaked down to the kitchen after everyone had gone to bed. But not only had Margo put a lock on the pantry door, she’d used a black permanent marker to mark the level of milk in the clear plastic carton.
And once, when Jillie’s stomach hurt so bad she couldn’t concentrate on her homework, she’d tip-toed down to the kitchen and taken a couple of slurps from a bottle of salad dressing. But it had just made her hungrier than ever, so she’d crept to the garage and drank two bottles of water from the cases stored there. That helped, but not for long.