The Wages of Sin by Nancy Allen

you, Ivy,” Elsie said, keeping her voice gentle.
    â€œDon’t taste bad. Tastes like salt.” The girl had a direct quality that was unsettling.
    â€œWell, it’s really not something you want to eat. It has artificial colors. Chemicals.” With an involuntary gesture, Elsie reached out and pushed Ivy’s cat-­framed eyeglasses onto her head, adjusting them so they sat straight under her brow.
    Lodging the lump of dough in her cheek, Ivy hung her head and toyed with the blue snake. “I don’t eat it all the way. I just like how it tastes.”
    â€œWould you please spit it out? Pretty please?”
    Ivy complied. She rose from the step and spit the blue lump into the spiky bushes that lined the front of the house.
    Returning to the front step, Ivy coiled the snake in a circle on the concrete. Turning her back to Elsie, Ivy switched her attention to a battered cigar box that held broken crayons. She lifted the box from its position on the concrete step and held it in her lap. Ivy fished through the box, picking up and discarding the colored stubs.
    â€œWhere’d you get your color box?” Elsie asked.
    â€œThey’re mine. From my old house.” In a defensive voice, Ivy repeated, “They’re mine.”
    â€œWhat are your crayons doing out here? Are you going to make a picture?”
    â€œI brung them,” Ivy said, pulling out a brown crayon from the box. With care, she peeled the paper away and set the bare crayon on the step, under the bright afternoon sun. Propping her chin on her hand, Ivy sat, watching it.
    Elsie was hesitant to broach the topic of Ivy’s mother again. She decided to cover other important territory. Reaching into Ivy’s cigar box, Elsie picked up a red crayon.
    â€œI bet you know your colors, don’t you, Ivy?”
    Ivy nodded, glancing at the crayon Elsie held.
    â€œDo you know this one?”
    â€œRed.”
    â€œThat’s right! It’s red.”
    â€œWe learned colors in kindergarten.”
    â€œThat’s why you’re so smart. You’ve been to school.” Elsie rolled the crayon between her finger and thumb, keeping it before Ivy’s face. “Hey, Ivy. What if I said, ‘This crayon is green.’ ”
    â€œIt’s not,” Ivy said, a look of disapproval crossing her face.
    â€œYou’re right. So if I said it was green—­when we know it’s really red—­would that be telling the truth?”
    Ivy shook her head.
    â€œOr would it be telling a lie?”
    Ivy nodded. “Lying.”
    â€œRight! That’s right! It would be lying.” Elsie dropped the crayon back into the box. “Ivy,” she said in a conversational tone, “is it wrong to tell a lie?”
    Ivy didn’t answer for a long moment. She picked up a twig and used it to poke the naked brown crayon she’d set on the step. With the twig, she rolled the crayon, turning it over on the concrete.
    The silence made Elsie nervous. She would need to demonstrate to the court that the girl understood the meaning of the oath to tell the truth. Ivy would have to articulate to the judge’s satisfaction that she knew the difference between the truth and a lie.
    She tried again. Gently nudging Ivy’s leg with her knee Elsie asked again. “Is it wrong to tell a lie? Ivy?”
    Ivy nodded, poking the naked brown crayon with the stick.
    Elsie let out a breath. “That’s right.” Though she was hesitant to push her luck, Elsie followed up. “Why is it wrong to tell a lie?”
    â€œJesus says.”
    Elsie blinked. Though she had not formed a precise expectation as to the child’s response to her question, the reference to Jesus took her by surprise. Apparently Ivy’s deceased mother had attended to the child’s religious education.
    â€œHow’d you know that?”
    â€œChurch.” With a jab, Ivy poked at the crayon. “Look,”