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“It was just lying there behind the books. He probably didn’t even—”
“Gilly, you stole it. Don’t put no fancy name on it. It was his, and you took it, right?”
“I guess so.”
“How much?”
“Uh, for—thir—”
“Don’t fool with me. How much?”
“Forty-four dollars,” Gilly said miserably.
“Well, you gotta take it back.”
“I can’t.” Trotter stood there, hand on hip, staring at her until Gilly continued, “I gave five dollars to Agnes Stokes.”
“You did, huh?”
Gilly nodded.
“Well”—a great sigh—“I’ll lend you the five to pay Mr. Randolph back, and you can work it off.”
Giving back Mr. Randolph’s money was not as bad as it might have been. The old man apparently had no idea that there had been any money behind his books. Either he’d forgotten, or it had been put there by his wife, dead long before Trotter’s Melvin. At any rate, when Gilly gave the forty-four dollars to him, Trotter looming behind her like a mighty army, he accepted her mumbled explana
tion without showing shock or undue curiosity, but with a strange little dignity.
“Thank you,” he said, for once not doubling the phrase. He put the money in his pocket, rubbed his hands together briefly, and then put out his hand to be led to supper.
Gilly hesitated for a moment, waiting for the sermon that was bound to pour forth, if not from him, surely from Trotter. But neither spoke, so she took Mr. Randolph’s hand, instead of his elbow as she usually did, as a kind of thank you.
Trotter had obviously never heard of either the minimum-wage or the child-labor laws. She posted the following sign in the kitchen:
Washing dishes and cleaning kitchen 10¢
Vacuuming downstairs 10¢
Cleaning both bathrooms including floors 10¢
Dusting 10¢
Helping William Ernest with schoolwork,
one hour 25¢
Gilly began to spend a lot of time with W.E. She discovered several things. One was that the boy was not as dumb as he looked. If you held back and didn’t press him, he could often figure out things for himself, but when you crowded him, he would choke right up, and if you laughed at him, he’d throw his hands up as if to protect his head from a blow. It finally occurred to Gilly that he really thought she would smack him every time he made a mistake.
Which was why, of course, Trotter tiptoed around the boy as though he would shatter at the least commotion, and why she was death on anyone she caught fooling around with him.
But it wasn’t going to work. W.E. wasn’t a fluted antique cup in Mrs. Nevins’s china cupboard. He was a kid—a foster kid. And if he didn’t toughen up, what would happen to him when there was no Trotter to look after him?
So Gilly asked him, “What do you do when somebody socks you?”
His squinty little eyes went wild behind the glasses.
“I’m not going to hit you. I was just wondering what you do.”
He stuck his right index finger into his mouth and began to tug at the nail.
