of these two ——'s, whom she had come to think of as uninvited guests, spongers, ignoring the fact that this parental home was only half hers, and that Mae, in addition to her half ownership of it, worked hard, sewing at the Bittner Sisters six days a week, sharing living expenses. It was only that Mabel had conserved her share of the little estate, while Charles had dissipated hers in their year together. After all, Mabel wasn't obligated to support them with her little income.
But, despite this fear of losing their room, Mae was not spineless. Behind her soft vacant look was an iron will where Lucy was concerned. Her powdery pink marshmallow cheeks flushed as she faced her virago of a sister at breakfast the next morning, rejecting accusations against Lucy in her light high voice.
Mabel, clad in perpetual mourning for her parents and her own dead hopes, stood at the black gas stove frying her thick strips of bacon which sputtered in unison with her exasperated nasal voice. The morning sun glanced in through starched white scrim across the scrub-bleached floor and found its target in a gleam of ruby currant jelly on the square kitchen table. Clear gem red that only last summer had dripped all night long from a muslin bag hung on the sink faucet. Long calm night, lulled by crickets and flickering with fireflies lighting their flight home among the sweet peas and tomato plants in backyard gardens. Silence undisturbed by the distant warning toot of the Union Pacific as it ground down the foothills and across the plains.
"And that girl of yours," screamed Mabel, as though Mae, slicing bread at a nearby table, were a mile away. "She's no good, no good. Thirteen years old, and out until all hours with boys."
Mae buttered a slice of bread smoothly to its brown edges and pulled the jelly toward her across the white oilcloth as though the jar was too heavy to lift. Out of the sun it lost its sparkle and deepened as did her own grey eyes. She waited for the spluttering stricture to end.
"What do you take me for," demanded Mabel, "a fool?"
A ghostly smile quivered on Mae's lips. The cacophonic diatribe continued as Mae stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into milky coffee.
"She ought to be sent to Reform School—that little snot—before it's too late. All the neighbors know about her—she's an evil influence—corrupting all the boys and girls of the street. And lipstick—thirteen, and she's no better than a street woman. I never
