"What did she pay?" Martha asked, showing the first glimmer of interest since being told of her forced departure.
"Thirty bucks is your share," Fred said, a bold-faced lie.
"Let's get some food in you first," Cynthia said. "And I want you to meet Maria."
Maria was already on the stairs, dust rag and mop in hand. After pantomimed introductions, she was back to her chores. Cynthia led Martha to the kitchen. She poured a bowl of cereal, something Martha would have done for herself on a usual day. The silence hung like a pall over the room as Cynthia wiped down the already spotless counter.
In an effort at normalcy, she broke the quiet as Martha dallied over the meal. "Don't drink from your cereal bowl, Hon," she smiled. "Use a spoon."
"Fred slurps. And he lets Mrs. Lincoln lick it afterwards."
"We're not talking about cats, or Fred. He makes his own rules."
"I only slurp it back here in the kitchen," she said, setting down the bowl and reaching for her spoon. "Rules are okay. I guess kids need 'em." Then, with her head bowed, taking small spoonfuls, she asked, "If I did something really bad-if I broke a really important rule, what would you do? Would you spank me?"
Cynthia halted her make-work scrubbing, surprised by the question. "No. I'd be disappointed and I'd come up with some form of punishment. First I'd talk to you about why you disobeyed." She added, "I don't believe in hitting children."
"If I was your real girl, instead of just somebody staying here, would you?"
"No. I wouldn't strike any child." Then she added, "We've always treated you exactly the same as if we were your natural parents. You're not 'just somebody staying here.' I thought we'd made that clear."
"How about if I did something really bad?"
"It wouldn't make any difference. I still wouldn't hit you." She looked down at the child. "What's this all about, Martha?"
Martha ignored the question. "Didn't you get spanked when you were a kid?" She spooned up the remaining flakes of cereal one at a time, swishing them around in her spoon.
Cynthia thought a second or two, careful with her answer. "Yes. I was spanked. One time. But that doesn't mean I believe in it as punishment."
"Did you spank Randy?" Randy Byrne was Cynthia's twenty year-old son from her first marriage. He was attending Bucknell University on a baseball scholarship and working in a New Jersey camp for the summer.
"No," Cynthia answered. "Maybe I gave him a swat on his diaper when he was a toddler, but I never really hit him. Nor did his father."