“What’s takin’ you so long?” the little thief says from right behind me.
I gasp and jump about a foot because I was so caught up in trying to form a plan I didn’t notice that I wasn’t hearing her splashing in the tub anymore. I try to slam the dresser drawer shut so she doesn’t see the money, but one of the T-shirts I piled to the side has gotten caught in the runner, so all that’s left to do is try and shield the drawer with my body.
I very carefully wiggle around to face her, then I say, with a huge smile, “That was a great Gotcha! honey. I think you mighta even scared some poop outta me, ha . . . ha . . . ha!”
“Thank you, Tessie. I wanted to show you my bubble beard!” Birdie strikes a movie-star pose. “Do I look like Burl Ives?”
I don’t know why she loves that movie star so much, but she does. “That’s a doozy of a Burl beard, honey, but you can do better.”
“Can I?”
“Yes, lots, lots, lots, lots better. So you should hurry and get back in the tub and work on it a little more before all the bubbles are gone.”
“What are you lookin’ for in the dresser?” she asks, stepping closer and dripping all over me. She’s trying to peek over my shoulder. She’s such a shrimp that she’s never taller than I am and never will be, except for when I’m on my knees, like I am right now, so I sag over to my right side to keep her from seeing the money.
“Remember? We’re going to visit Mister McGinty tonight, so I’m lookin’ for some spy clothes.” When I’m attempting to sweet-talk her into something, I normally do my Glinda the Good Witch impression, because that gal has the nicest voice I ever heard, but I’m so off balance that I’m afraid I’m going to topple over at any second, and when I do, my sister will see what I’m trying to hide, and then I’m going to have to tell her what she did and that would be the worst thing to happen, so I end up sounding like the Wicked Witch of the West when I say, “You know how important cleanliness is next to godliness is to him. We can’t go over there to return his medal if we’re sinfully dirty, so get back into the tub right this minute or I’ll have to—”
“You found the Pagan Baby money!” Birdie joyfully shouts when she knocks me down and snatches it outta the dresser drawer. “Like you and Zorro are always sayin’,” she sticks her bare chest out and crows, “it’s okay to take from the rich and the church is very rich and give to the poor and we are very poor.” She waves the green wad in my face. “I’m gonna give it all to Mommy so . . . so we can keep our house that still smells like Daddy in the nooks and crannies and she can stop going out on dates with what’s-his-name and . . . we can buy lots of food at the Red Owl and we won’t have to run away!”
O, Dios mio, when she puts it like that, believe me, I am so mucho tempted.
Keeping this money would do everything Birdie said it would, and more, but sad to say, as wonderful as living a life of luxury on Easy St. sounds, my annoying conscience is giving me two thumbs down.
I stand and wrap my arms around my slippery sister the best I can and tell her, “I love you, Birdie Finley, and I am really, really, really, really proud of you for doin’ such a good and kind charitable act that would really help us out.” I am dying to ask how she pulled the caper off, but chances are, she’s gone foggy about the details. “More than anything, I wish we could keep the money, but we can’t.” I try to come up with the easiest explanation that someone with her limited brain power might understand. “We gotta put ourselves in those pagan babies’ shoes.”
“Don’t be so silly, Tessie,” she says with one of her great belly laughs, which, believe me, is really something to behold when she’s naked as a jaybird. “Babies don’t wear shoes.”
Poor kid.
“But those babies do live on the Dark Continent and they gotta dodge poison Pygmy darts and cannibals all day long under the sweltering sun,” I say, “while Crucifix-waving missionaries chase them through the jungle hounding them about converting to Catholic, and . . . and if their parents don’t agree to sign on the dotted line, they get rolled up in one of Missus Tate’s patchwork quilts until they do. So in the long run, that makes those babies a lot worse off than we are, don’tcha think?”
Birdie doesn’t take long to say, “Roger that,” because even the owner of a brain that moves slower than an African tree sloth immediately understands what a disgustingly hopeless situation those babies are in.