The Wages of Sin by Nancy Allen Page A

she said, smiling down at it.
    The brown crayon was glistening in the sun, and had taken on a liquid glitter. Elsie pointed at it, saying to Ivy in a cautious tone, “You’re not going to eat that.”
    Ivy gave her a confiding look, revealing a row of baby teeth that bore signs of serious neglect. “It looks like a Tootsie Roll.”
    â€œIt looks like one. Kind of,” Elsie hedged. “But it isn’t.”
    Ivy nodded with a philosophical shrug. Elsie said, in a worried tone, “Really and truly, don’t put that in your mouth. It’s not a Tootsie Roll.”
    â€œNaw,” Ivy said. “I ate one yesterday, and it wasn’t no good.”
    Back in the front seat of Tina’s Volkswagen, Elsie scribbled notes on a legal pad, summarizing Ivy’s statements.
    She tapped the pen on the paper, pondering, and then looked over at Tina. “So who’s taken Ivy to church? How does that fit into the late Jessie Dent’s lifestyle?”
    Tina shook her head.
    â€œI think it’s a recent development. It’s the foster family. And the counselor.”
    â€œThe counselor?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œOkay, enlighten me. Why is a child psychologist reciting the New Testament in the treatment?”
    â€œThe counselor is not a psychologist.”
    Elsie frowned. “I thought you were getting her in to see one of the ­people at The Victim Center in Springfield.”
    Tina shot her an apologetic look. “The Victim Center agreed to see her. It was all set.” At an intersection, Tina hit the brake with more force than necessary, sending Elsie’s upper body against the shoulder harness. “It’s a logistics problem. The foster mother doesn’t want to transport her all the way to Springfield every week.”
    Elsie made a sound that was a cross between a snort and a raspberry. “She’s a stay-­at-­home mom. What else does she have to do?”
    Tina frowned, serving up a look of reproach. “Holly Hickman is a woman with an infant—­a new baby. Who has taken in a traumatized foster child. Don’t minimize her burden, please.”
    Abashed, Elsie backpedaled. “I didn’t mean to disrespect her.”
    â€œYou know, that’s the kind of rhetoric that keeps women from supporting each other.”
    â€œYeah. I know, it was stupid.”
    â€œWe’ll never unite as a gender—­”
    â€œJesus! I take it back, okay? She’s busy, I get it.”
    â€œYeah, there’s the baby. And her car’s a junker, barely gets her to the grocery store. So we looked for a local option.”
    â€œFor counseling?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œBut we don’t have a child psychologist in Barton,” Elsie said. In fact, the small county seat in McCown County had no practicing psychologist at all. “How about the new pediatrician?”
    â€œI tried him. He says he’s swamped. No time. Not qualified. No education or background in this kind of thing.” Tina gave Elsie a knowing look. “I think I let it slip. The word ‘Medicaid.’ ”
    â€œYeah, dirty word. Fucking greedy bastard.”
    Tina sighed. “So we can’t make arrangements out of town, because of the foster mother’s limitations. And the doctor in town isn’t interested. I had to take what I could get.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œThe senior pastor at Riverside Baptist. He does counseling.”
    â€œShit,” Elsie said in a whisper.
    â€œHey. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you try the Disciples of Christ? The pastor there is great.”
    â€œYou gotta be licensed, go through training. The Baptist dude is licensed.”
    â€œWait—­Riverside Baptist? It’s gotta be Albertson.”
    Tina nodded, keeping her eyes on the road. “Reverend Luke Albertson.”
    Elsie groaned. “Good Lord, Tina—­you are one of the