Sins Out of School by Jeanne M. Dams

in your kitchen, and act as if everything is normal. I’m sure you must be terribly shocked and worried over what’s happened, and I’m upset that you seem to have no help in your time of trouble. I don’t know either of you well, but if there’s anything I can do, please tell me. I’d be glad to go to the store for milk, for instance. Or if you’re afraid to stay here alone, I could easily—”
    â€œThank you, but we’ll manage.” Mrs. Doyle took a sip of tea and then set her mug down carefully. It clattered against the tabletop; a little tea slopped out. “Mrs. Martin, you’ve talked to Ruth Beecham. There’s no need to pretend a grief I don’t feel. You know that my husband was not an easy man to live with.”
    â€œHe was wicked,” said Miriam in the cool, precise way of a polite English child. “Everyone thought he was a righteous man, but he wasn’t.” She took a bite of her sandwich. “He pretended to be good, but he was a Judas.”
    Mrs. Doyle gasped, swallowed the wrong way, and coughed. I could understand why. I tried not to react, but I suppose my mobile face betrayed me. The woman across the table clasped her hands, hard, and leaned forward, looking at me with an expression of such intensity that I moved back involuntarily.
    â€œYou are shocked by what Miriam says. She is simply repeating what she has heard me say. You are surprised that no one has come to help us. I don’t know that it’s any of your business, to be frank, but since you’ve wondered, I’ll tell you. It’s because John made enemies of all our neighbors. He would complain to the police about barking dogs, and parties, and rubbish fallen out of the bins. He once stayed awake for three nights in a row to catch a neighbor dealing drugs. He enjoyed that sort of thing, showing up other people, making them pay for their wrongdoing.”
    â€œYour family—”
    â€œI have no family,” she said flatly.
    â€œWell, then, surely your church—”
    â€œJohn’s church. Not mine. They will stay away because John convinced them that I was an unrepentant sinner, a worldly woman, an unfit mother for Miriam. No, we’ll get no help from them, nor would I want any.”
    â€œThen I insist on doing what I can. I’ll go pick up some milk right now, and any other food you might—”
    Mrs. Doyle pushed herself back from the table and stood. “Mrs. Martin, you will help us most by leaving us alone. Since you ask what help we want, that is my answer. I instructed Miriam to let no one in because we prefer not to talk about John. Nor do we need anything from anyone.” She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
    Miriam finished her sandwich and leaned against her mother. “Daddy was a wicked man,” she said again in her precise manner. “He deserved to die. I’m glad he did. We’ll get on much better without him.”
    Mrs. Doyle looked down at Miriam, but not before I got a good look at the mother’s face. All the blood seemed to have drained from it, and her eyes held the hunted look of sheer, stark terror.

7
    I MUTTERED something about being sorry I had intruded and got out of there as fast as I could. Driving heedlessly, my knuckles white on the wheel, my mind racing, I found myself presently in a cul-de-sac somewhere in some development. I pulled up to a curb, turned off the ignition, and sat there shaking for a while.
    I could not accept what I had seen back there in the Doyles’ kitchen. It was impossible. Surely I was mistaken.
    Did Mrs. Doyle really think Miriam had killed her father?
    Think? Or know?
    Miriam. Polite little Miriam, product of a strict Christian home and a strict Christian school. Miriam who thought cats were dirty and anything pretty was “vanity.” Miriam who rejected her father but appeared to embrace his cold, harsh religion. Miriam who hated