Arlene James - An Old-Fashioned Love

Without doubt, she had terrified them with her sudden, stern appearance. When she’d asked what in blue blazes they thought they were doing, they’d looked at each other with undisguised apprehension, and then as if on cue, they’d turned tail and run. She had been breathless, exhausted and more than a little put out when she’d caught the first one; the other had loyally come back to stand with him. They had refused at first to tell her their names, but when she’d threatened to simply haul them down to the police and let them handle it, Max had blurted out the information, much to his brother’s chagrin. After that, they’d said hardly another word, despite her attempts to discover why they’d done what they had. Finally she’d let them go, saying she would be along shortly to speak to their parents. At that point, one of them—and she didn’t know which one—had stuck his tongue out at her and led the escape. Perhaps she should have foreseen what was to come, but she hadn’t.

Later, when she’d gone to the Gilley home to discuss the situation with a responsible adult, and the twins had pretended to be shocked by her accusations, she had been stunned. The most shocking thing of all had been the picture of innocence they had presented. She had almost believed them herself, until she’d seen the glint of satisfaction in the eyes of the one with the tiny scar in his eyebrow. Unless she was mistaken, that was Rex, but she couldn’t be certain. She had been a bit unnerved when Gilley had made the introductions at the courthouse. She was a bit unnerved now. Otherwise she’d be doing something besides staring out the window at the street. Oh, well, the worst was behind her. God had answered her prayers in a most unexpected manner. Who would have expected Wyatt Gilley to be the instrument. They say that God works in mysterious ways.

Traci shook herself out of her reverie again and began to carefully work a triangular piece of glass rom the bottom of the window frame. Having freed it, she dropped it into a bucket at her feet and began working out another piece. It broke off at the edge of the casing, requiring her to dig out the remainder with a screwdriver. That tiny sliver of glass shattered as she pried at it, spewing minuscule shards at her. She jerked back, brushing at her face and hair with her gloved hand. Great. She was going to put out an eye at this rate, but she couldn’t just quit. She had to get this done. The glazier was coming Monday, and he had given her a reduced rate because she had promised to remove the broken glass herself. Maybe if she put her left hand over the top of the channel in the casing and pried blindly with her right, she could get that last chunk free without doing damage to herself. She attempted that maneuver, only to pop the glass chunk out, feel it hit her palm, and have it drop right back into the channel. Drat. She’d have to bring some tweezers down here or maybe a vacuum. Meanwhile, she’d work on one of the larger pieces again and try very diligently not to break it.

She grasped the edges of a corner piece and began gently pulling, but to no avail. This called for yet another plan of attack. Frustrated, she backed off to think. At some point she became aware of laughter. Automatically her attention focused on the voices coming to her from outside.

“Gotcha!”

“Did not!”

“You’re it!”

“Uh-uh. You have to peg me solid first!”

“I’ll peg you then, birdbrain. How’s this?”

“Ow! My turn! Coward! I didn’t run away.”

“You can’t hit me. Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah.”

“I’ll break your head, mouth-off!”

Suddenly she knew she’d better get out there before one of them hurt the other. She burst out onto the front deck just in time to see one of them sail a sizable piece of gravel at the other. She gasped, panicked, then Bolton Charles’s astute advice from the evening before came to her.

“Be firm,” he had said, “and be honest. You’re the adult, so you’re the one in charge. Kids aren’t comfortable when adults abdicate their control, and no one can trust deceit.”

Firm it was then. She took a deep breath, saying sharply, “Stop that this minute!”

To her relief, both froze, then subsided into sulks. “We didn’t do anything.”

“You were throwing rocks at each other!”

“It was just a game.”

“A very dangerous game,” she insisted. “Why aren’t you working? You’re supposed to be picking up trash.”

“We picked up some!”

She narrowed her eyes at them, determined to be stern. “Show me.”

Reluctantly they walked to the edge of the large, side deck, their steps dragging. One of them bent and picked up a large plastic trash bag. If it contained anything, it wasn’t apparent. He handed it to his twin, who thrust it at her in turn. She took it, opened it and looked inside. The bag contained perhaps half a dozen pieces of paper of various sizes, two rusty nails, an empty soft drink bottle and a molted feather. She thrust it back at them. “That’s hardly proof of a productive afternoon. Now get busy, both of you.”

A mulish little chin went up, and above it a wide, girlishly pink mouth set in a stubborn line. “You can’t make us do anything.”

The speaker was Rex—if Rex was the one with the scar in his eyebrow. She brought her hands to her hips and glared down at him.

“Oh, no? Let’s just ask your father about that, shall we?”

The mutinous gleam in ice blue eyes died down a bit. “The judge said you couldn’t export us.”

“Exploit. The judge said I couldn’t exploit you. That means I cannot profit by your labor without suitable compensation, force you to do anything dangerous or work you more than fifteen hours a week or three hours a day. One, you haven’t been here even one hour yet. Two, I don’t think picking up litter can be deemed dangerous. Three, you’re here because you’ve already cost me plenty, not to mention the business I’m losing because I couldn’t open when I planned. In other words, you owe me, buster. Now get busy.”

Defeat turned down the corners of his mouth. He grumbled something about “the hag” but bent and scooped up a smashed paper cup, dumping it into the bag. His brother joined him, but without the grumbling. Satisfied, Traci went back inside and tackled the broken window again.

She finally removed the corner piece by carefully working her screwdriver around the edge of the glass buried in the casing, loosening it. With the treacherous piece safely deposited in the bucket, she took a moment to check on the boys. She walked to the door that opened out onto the side deck and looked around. Nothing. Suspicious, she paused to listen. Again, nothing. “Boys?” she called. “Rex? Max?”

Shaking her head, she walked out onto the deck, careful to avoid the broken and missing slats. She reached the edge before she heard the stifled giggles. So that was their game. Calmly she walked down the shallow steps, around the corner of the building and across the grass to the tiny shed resting upon skids at the back of the shop. The snickering was clearly audible at this point. She listened a moment, decided, then bent at the waist, bringing her head within inches of the ground. They were lying on their stomachs between the skids beneath the shed.

“Hey, have you guys found that snake I saw go under there?”

They practically choked her with the dust they raised getting out. She could not keep a straight face, and that gave her away.

“Very funny!” Rex cried—provided that was Rex.

“Did you really see a snake go under there?” asked the other.

“Yes, I really saw a snake go under there,” she answered, “once when I was a teenager.”

“That’s crummy!” insisted the one with the scar.