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"Let me see them please, Mrs. Stoddard," I asked. She handed the right one to me and I turned it over, thinking. "Jefferson doesn't wear these shoes anymore, Mrs. Stoddard. He's outgrown them. My mother was going to give them to the Salvation Army."
"Is that right?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, pressing my lips together and nodding with the realization of what this meant. "Richard's still doing it. He's still trying to get my brother blamed for things," I concluded. Mrs. Stoddard understood and nodded in sympathy. I took the other shoe from her and marched back into the house. I found Aunt Bet in the living room reading one of her magazines and smiling proudly down at Richard and Melanie who were demonstrating their self-taught fluency in basic French.
"You little bastard!" I cried from the doorway.
Aunt Bet's mouth gaped open. Melanie and Richard turned and mimicked her look of shock. I strutted into the room, holding the shoes out, soles up, and approached Richard. He cowered back.
"How dare you use such profanity? What are you doing?" Aunt Bet demanded.
"I'm going to rub these in his face," I said. "He dipped them into the dog dung and put it in Jefferson's closet, just the way he put that towel with honey there," I accused.
"I did not!"
"Yes you did," I said, moving closer. He pulled himself back, leaning behind Melanie for protection.
"Christie!" Aunt Bet cried. "Stop it this instant."
"He made a major mistake this time, Aunt Bet," I said. "This time your precious, perfect little angel messed up. You picked the wrong shoes, Richard," I said, turning back to him. "You should have taken more time and done better planning."
Richard flicked a glance at Aunt Bet and then at me.
"What are you talking about, Christie?" she demanded.
"These shoes, Aunt Bet. Jefferson has long grown out of them. He can't wear them anymore; they pinch his feet. Mommy was going to give them to the Salvation Army along with some other clothing he and I have outgrown, only she never got the chance. Richard didn't know that, though, did you, Richard? You took these shoes and dipped them and then planted them and complained so you could get Jefferson in trouble again."
"I can't believe . . ." Aunt Bet looked at him. "Richard?" He tried to smile and look undaunted, but I could see the fear in his eyes.
"I didn't do that, Mother,"
She shook her head at me.
"Richard couldn't . . . he wouldn't be so coarse as to go looking for dog stool and . . . oh no," she said, refusing to believe it. "He couldn't."
"He did," I said. "And this time, he got caught."
"You're a liar!" Richard screamed. He got to his feet, but backed away.
"She's making it up, Mother," Melanie said quickly and stood up to be beside him. "How do we know those shoes don't fit Jefferson?"
"Yes," Aunt Bet said, liking the possibility. "How do we know that?"
"I'm telling you, that's how," I said. "And I wouldn't lie about it."
"We'll have to see. I'm not saying you're lying, Christie, but you might be mistaken. We'll have to wait until Jefferson comes home; we'll have to see," she insisted.
"Fine, and once you see, you will owe him an apology and you will punish Richard. That's only fair. You can't just punish us," I said.
Richard's face turned more frantic—his eyes wide and wild.
"I didn't do anything," he claimed.
"Yes you did, and I think your punishment should be having your face smeared with doggy-do," I threatened.
"Christie!" Aunt Bet gasped. "Remember you're older and you're supposed to be a lady and . . ."
Before she could go on, we all heard the front door thrust open abruptly. It sounded as if someone had smashed it open. No one spoke. All eyes were on the living room doorway to see who it was.
