When I asked Mr. Becker about commissions, he said they were for salespeople and I was just an assistant. The next day, when Mr. Becker went off to the Mountaineer, I opened the display case and took out the four-band watch. I slipped it into my handbag and rearranged the remaining watches to cover the gap. I had made plenty of sales on my own when Mr. Becker was busy. Since he hadn't paid me any commissions, I was only taking what I was owed.
When Mr. Becker came back from lunch, he studied the diamond-ring display like he always did, but he didn't even glance at the watches. Walking home that evening with the watch hidden in my purse, I felt light and giddy. After dinner, I climbed into my bunk bed, where no one could see me, and tried on the watch with each of the bands, gesturing the way I figured rich people did.
Wearing the watch to work was out of the question, of course. I also realized that I could run into Mr. Becker in town at any time, so I decided that until school started, I'd put the watch on only at home. Then I began to wonder how I'd explain the watch to Brian and Lori and Mom and Dad. I also worried that Mr. Becker might see something thieflike in my expression. Sooner or later, he'd discover the missing watch and would question me, and I'd have to lie convincingly, which I wasn't very good at. If I wasn't convincing, I'd be sent off to a reform school with people like Billy Deel, and Mr. Becker would have the satisfaction of knowing he'd been right all along not to trust me.
I wasn't about to give him that satisfaction. The next morning I took the watch out of the wooden box where I kept my geode, put it in my purse, and brought it back to the store. All morning I nervously waited for Mr. Becker to leave for lunch. When he was finally gone, I opened the display case, slipped the watch inside, and rearranged the other watches around it. I moved fast. The week before, I had stolen the watch without breaking a sweat. But now I was terrified that someone would catch me putting it back.
IN LATE AUGUST, I was washing clothes in the tin pan in the living room when I heard someone coming up the stairs singing. It was Lori. She burst into the living room, duffel bag over her shoulder, laughing and belting out one of those goofy summer-camp songs kids sing at night around the fire. I'd never heard Lori cut loose like this before. She positively glowed as she told me about the hot meals and the hot showers and all the friends she'd made. She'd even had a boyfriend who kissed her. "Everyone assumed I was a normal person," she said. "It was weird." Then she told me that it had occurred to her that if she got out of Welch, and away from the family, she might have a shot at a happy life. From then on, she began looking forward to the day she'd leave Little Hobart Street and be on her own.
A few days later, Mom came home. She seemed different, too. She had lived in a dorm on the university campus, without four kids to take care of, and she had loved it. She'd attended lectures and she'd painted. She'd read stacks of self-help books, and they had made her realize that she'd been living her life for other people. She intended to quit her teaching job and devote herself to her art. "It's time I did something for myself," she said. "It's time I started living my life for me."
"Mom, you spent the whole summer renewing your certificate."
"If I hadn't done that, I never would have had this breakthrough."
"You can't quit your job," I said. "We need the money."
"Why do I always have to be the one who earns the money?" Mom asked. "You have a job. You can earn money. Lori can earn money, too. I've got more important things to do."
*
I thought Mom was having another tantrum. I assumed that come opening day, she'd be off in Lucy Jo's Dart to Davy Elementary, even if we had to cajole her. But on that first day of school, Mom refused to get out of bed. Lori, Brian, and I pulled back the covers and tried to drag her out, but she wouldn't budge.
I told her she had responsibilities. I told her child welfare might come down on us again if she wasn't working. She folded her arms across her chest and stared us down. "I'm not going to school," she said.
"Why not?" I asked.
"I'm sick."
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"My mucus is yellow," Mom said.
"If everyone who had yellow mucus stayed home, the schools would be pretty empty," I told her.
Mom's head snapped up. "You can't talk to me like that," she said. "I'm your mother."
"If you want to be treated like a mother," I said, "you should act like one."
Mom rarely got angry. She was usually either singing or crying, but now her face twisted up with fury. We both knew I had crossed a line, but I didn't care. I'd also changed over the summer.
"How dare you?" she shouted. "You're in trouble nowbig trouble. I'm telling your dad. Just you wait until he comes home."
*
Mom's threat didn't worry me. The way I saw it, Dad owed me. I'd looked after his kids all summer, I'd kept him in beer and cigarette money, and I'd helped him fleece that miner Robbie. I figured I had Dad in my back pocket.
When I got home from school that afternoon, Mom was still curled up on the sofa bed, a small pile of paperbacks next to her. Dad was sitting at the drafting table, rolling a cigarette. He beckoned to me to follow him into the kitchen. Mom watched us go.
Dad closed the door and looked at me gravely. "Your mother claims you back-talked her."
"Yes," I said. "It's true."
"Yes, sir," he corrected me, but I didn't say anything.
"I'm disappointed in you," he went on. "You know damn good and well that you are to respect your parents."
"Dad, Mom's not sick, she's playing hooky," I said. "She has to take her obligations more seriously. She has to grow up a little."
"Who do you think you are?" he asked. "She's your mother."
"Then why doesn't she act like one?" I looked at Dad for what felt like a very long moment. Then I blurted out. "And why don't you act like a dad?"
I could see the blood surge into his face. He grabbed me by the arm. "You apologize for that comment!"
"Or what?" I asked.
Dad shoved me up against the wall. "Or by God I'll show you who's boss around here."
His face was inches from mine. "What are you going to do to punish me?" I asked. "Stop taking me to bars?"
Dad drew back his hand as if to smack me. "You watch your mouth, young lady. I can still whip your butt, and don't think I won't."
"You can't be serious," I said.
Dad dropped his hand. He pulled his belt out of the loops on his work pants and wrapped it a couple of times around his knuckles.
"Apologize to me and to your mother," he said.
"No."
Dad raised the belt. "Apologize."
"No."
"Then bend over."
Dad was standing between me and the door. There was no way out except through him. But it never occurred to me to either run or fight. The way I saw it, he was in a tighter spot than I was. He had to back down, because if he sided with Mom and gave me a whipping, he would lose me forever.
We stared at each other. Dad seemed to be waiting for me to drop my eyes, to apologize and tell him I was wrong so we could go back to being like we were, but I kept holding his gaze. Finally, to call his bluff, I turned around, bent over slightly, and rested my hands on my knees.