The Sisters Hemingway

by Annie England Noblin

  “Now, Hadley’s kitchen,” Martha said, wiping the dirt from her hands onto her jeans. “That’s a kitchen.”

  Pfeiffer had to agree. The one time she’d seen Hadley’s kitchen, nearly five years ago, she’d wanted to buy a sleeping bag and move into one of the cupboards. It was three times the size of her entire apartment. It wasn’t as modern-looking as Martha’s, but its French country feel was the perfect place for a glass of wine and gossip.

  “I wonder if she ever even uses it,” Pfeiffer said. “You know, the last time I was there . . . well, which I guess was the same time you were, I don’t think I ever saw Mark. Not even at night.”

  “Well, he does work a lot,” Martha said.

  “He’s a United States congressman,” Pfeiffer scoffed. “He doesn’t even work half as many days as we do.”

  “They’ve always had a strange relationship,” Martha agreed.

  “I don’t think they even like each other,” Pfeiffer continued. “And have you noticed how weird she’s being about him right now?”

  “Maybe she just doesn’t want to talk to you about Mark, because she knows you hate him,” Martha said.

  “I don’t hate him,” Pfeiffer replied. “I just think, as I’ve always thought, that Hadley could do better.”

  Martha raised a dust-smudged eyebrow. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about Hadley.”

  “Shut up.”

  “No,” Martha said. “It’s true. Maybe you should say nice things to her sometimes.”

  “I don’t think she’d like it if I told her that her husband wasn’t good enough,” Pfeiffer replied. “You know how she is. She wants everything to be perfect.”

  “Brody was perfect,” Martha said.

  “He was.”

  The screen door slammed, and Hadley huffed in, her arms full of plastic bags. “I honked the horn,” she said, out of breath. “Did you not hear me?”

  Pfeiffer and Martha looked at each other. “No,” they said in unison.

  Hadley plopped the sacks down onto the kitchen table and looked around the room. “Well, at least it’s clean in here.”

  “The stove works,” Martha said.

  “So does the microwave, miraculously,” Pfeiffer added.

  “It was probably more dusty than dirty,” Hadley said. “I mean, it’s pretty clear Aunt Bea didn’t come down here much, but I think she tried to keep up.”

  “This old place got to be too much,” Martha agreed.

  “She should have sold the place and moved out,” Hadley continued. “It would have been better than letting it fall into disrepair.”

  “I don’t understand why she didn’t sell it,” Pfeiffer said.

  “She must have liked it at least a little bit, to stay here even after we all left,” Hadley said.

  “I guess so,” Pfeiffer agreed. Her thoughts strayed back to the journal, and she wondered if she ought to tell her sisters. They had the right to know, yet still, something held her back.

  “I still can’t believe we’re all that’s left of the family,” Martha said, pulling hamburger buns and ketchup out of the plastic bags. “And seriously, who uses plastic bags anymore?”

  “Cold River,” Hadley replied. “I didn’t think I’d be here long enough to go shopping, so I didn’t bring any of my shopping bags with me.”

  “There’s a whole drawer full of plastic bags,” Pfeiffer said. She motioned to one of the cabinets behind her. “I guess Aunt Bea thought she’d use them again or something.”

  “Remember how Mama used to take cloth bags with her when she went shopping?” Martha asked. “Everybody looked at her like she was nuts.”

  “She was ahead of her time,” Hadley agreed.

  “I always thought Mama would have done better in a city,” Pfeiffer replied. “She never really fit in here.”

  “Who knows where Mom would live now . . .” Hadley said, turning her back to her sisters and lighting the propane stove. “If she were still alive.”

  Pfeiffer glanced over at Martha, who was pretending to rummage through the plastic bag drawer. Although Hadley never spoke ill of their mother, sometimes she said things that reminded Pfeiffer of the fight Hadley and their mother had the night their mother and little sister were killed. Hadley never spoke about it, and Pfeiffer and Martha knew better than to ask. The memories of that time were so difficult for all of them, Pfeiffer didn’t see any reason to dredge up a long-ago disagreement that probably had more to do with Hadley’s short skirts than anything else. That was one subject Pfeiffer would never broach with her sister—there was a difference between irritating Hadley and being flat-out cruel.

  “You bought ginger ale?” Martha asked, sorting through the bags.

  “It was the closest I could find to what you wanted,” Hadley said. “And then I ran into Brody and forgot about it. I’m sorry.”

  “You saw Brody?” Martha stopped her rummaging. “Who cares about the stupid ginger ale? Tell us all about it!”

  Hadley shrugged. “There’s not much to tell, really.”

  “Bullshit,” Martha replied.

  Hadley turned around to look at Martha, the look on her face frozen between shock and amusement. “Really, we just exchanged pleasantries and then I met his daughter.”

  “Wait,” Pfeiffer said. “He has a daughter?”

  “Yes,” Hadley replied, turning back to the stove. “Her name is Lucy.”

  “So he’s married?” Pfeiffer asked.

  “Not anymore,” Hadley said.

  “Who’s Lucy’s mom?” Martha asked.

  “Melissa Mitchell.”

  Hadley’s back was turned, but Pfeiffer could tell that her sister was gritting her teeth as she said the woman’s name. They’d not been friends in school. In fact, if Pfeiffer remembered correctly, Melissa did everything she could to make Brody and Hadley break it off with each other. It had been all Pfeiffer could do not to knock her teeth out during home economics when they’d been made partners during the Valentine’s Day bake sale.

  “Really?” Martha asked. “Melissa Mitchell?”

  “Yes,” Hadley replied, her back still turned and her teeth still gritted. “But their daughter seems sweet enough. And she’s apparently your biggest fan. She wants to meet you.”

  “Who does she look like?” Pfeiffer interrupted. “Brody or Melissa?”

  “I don’t see why that matters,” Hadley said. “But I guess she looks like Melissa. She has Brody’s eyes, though.”

  “I’d love to meet her,” Martha said, shooting a look at Pfeiffer. “Maybe one day this week, you know, before we leave.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Hadley replied. “She seemed really exci . . .” Hadley trailed off at the sound of loud scratching at the screen door.

  All three of the sisters’ heads swiveled around, listening.

  “What was that?” Martha asked.

  “I don’t know,” Hadley replied, holding up her spatula. “It sounds like someone is tearing the door apart.”

  “Or something,” Pfeiffer said.

  “Maybe it’s Old Crow,” Martha said, her voice hopeful. “Maybe he’s just come by to check on us.”

  “Why would he be scratching at the door like a maniac?” Pfeiffer replied. “He doesn’t have hooks for hands.”

  Martha’s eyes widened, and Pfeiffer knew she was recalling the story their mother used to tell them on camping trips about the man with the hook for the hand who terrorized a couple in their parked car. The story, aptly titled “The Hook,” was their favorite, but it also scared them senseless.

  “That story isn’t true,” Pfeiffer said. “It’s just an urban legend, Martha.”

  As the scratching continued, Martha said, “Maybe we better turn on the news. Just in case there’s an escaped murderer on the loose.”

  “I patched the raccoon door,” Pfeiffer said, pointing to the now-boarded-up opening. “At least no hooks are going to be coming through there.”

  Martha cast a terri
fied glance at Pfeiffer. “Oh my God. We’re all going to die.”

  Hadley put a finger up to her lips and motioned at them with the spatula to follow her. They tiptoed to the front door and listened for a long moment.

  “Do you still hear it?” Martha asked, lingering by the kitchen behind Pfeiffer.

  “No,” Martha said, releasing a relieved sigh. “Maybe it was just the wind or something.”

  “Look at us,” Pfeiffer scoffed, stepping around Hadley to open the front door. “What would our parents say about us, skulking around here like we’re from the city.”

  “We are from the city,” Martha protested.

  “No, we live in the city,” Pfeiffer replied. “We aren’t from the city.”

  Just then, the scratching started up again, this time more furiously than before, eliciting a scream from Martha. She tumbled back into the kitchen and landed with a hard thump as Pfeiffer jerked open the door.

  “Is it a hook?” Martha asked, lying flat on her back.

  “There’s nobody here,” Pfeiffer said, peering out into the darkness from behind the screen door. “Nobody that I can see, anyway.”

  “Uh, Pfeiffer,” Hadley said from behind her. “I think you need to look down.”

  Pfeiffer did as she was told, and there, on the other side of the now-shredded bottom half of the door, sat a dog. The same dog, she realized, that she’d found sleeping beside the couch earlier that morning.

  “I think it wants to come in,” Pfeiffer said finally.

  “Don’t let it in!” Martha shrieked.

  “You don’t even know what it is!” Pfeiffer replied.

  “What is it?” Martha pulled herself into a sitting position.

  “A dog,” Hadley and Pfeiffer said in unison.

  “What’s the deal with dogs today?” Martha asked.

  “It’s the same dog,” Pfeiffer said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Come look at it.”

  Slowly, and with effort, Martha rose to her feet. “Well, I’ll be damned,” she whispered. “It is the same dog.”

  “And it does look like it wants inside,” Hadley said.

  “Should I let it in?” Pfeiffer asked.

  Hadley shrugged. “Close the door and see what happens.”

  Pfeiffer closed the door, and sure enough, the scratching started up again. “I think I have to let it in.”

  “If we want to save the door, we do,” Hadley replied.

  Pfeiffer opened the door. Without hesitation, the basset hound waddled in, staring up at all three of them as if to say, Sure took you long enough.

  “What are we going to do with it?” Martha asked, keeping her distance.

  “Well, it’s just for the night,” Hadley said. “And I’m sure if it wants back out, it’ll let us know.”

  “She’s not wearing a collar,” Pfeiffer said. She crouched down next to the dog. “And now that I’m really looking, she’s pretty skinny.”

  “How do you know it’s a girl?” Martha wanted to know.

  “Her nipples are practically dragging along the floor.”

  “All of her is practically dragging along the floor,” Hadley replied.

  “What is that smell?” Pfeiffer asked, her eyes sliding from the dog to the kitchen. “Hadley, did you leave the stove on?”

  “Oh my God!” Hadley dropped the spatula and ran into the kitchen, where the stove was practically on fire. “I forgot about the hamburgers!”

  Pfeiffer hurried after her, grabbed a wet cloth from the sink, and threw it over the flames, as Hadley removed the cast-iron skillet from the stove. The dog looked on serenely from the living room, as if nothing were amiss.

  “Well, there goes dinner,” Pfeiffer said, after they’d managed to put out the fire. “I was really looking forward to that burger, too.”

  “If your dog hadn’t interrupted everything,” Hadley continued, “we’d be eating by now.”

  “My dog?” Pfeiffer asked. “It’s not my dog!”

  As if in protest, the dog barked. It was a deep hound’s bark, and it startled them. They all three turned to look at her. She sat down on her haunches and stared at them, licking her jowls.

  “Well, I guess at least someone here is going to eat,” Hadley said, sighing deeply. She scraped the burned hamburger meat onto a plate and set it down in front of the dog.

  “How about I make us some tomato sandwiches instead?” Martha offered, her eyes big as saucers watching the dog devour every scrap of the food on the plate.

  “No,” Hadley replied, stepping over the dog and going to the refrigerator. “I’ll start over.”

  “Will you make me a veggie burger?” Martha called after her sister.

  Hadley turned to face Martha and Pfeiffer, then pointing down to where the dog sat, said, “Sure, but not even that dog would eat the first one.”

  Chapter 13

  Pfeiffer

  THERE WERE FEW THINGS IN LIFE THAT PFEIFFER ENJOYED more than brushing her teeth. She loved smiling into the mirror once her mouth was sparkling clean, and she loved running her tongue against the slick porcelain veneers she’d paid nearly an entire year’s salary for just after she’d become an editor.

  As a child, she’d had terrible teeth. A fluoride deficiency from their well water caused her teeth to become chalky, breaking off at the slightest pressure. She’d taken a tiny, pink fluoride pill for years, endured surgeries and braces, but even then her teeth never looked right. Now they were her pride and joy, and even after she lost her job and all of her money, she couldn’t bring herself to part with her expensive electric toothbrush and the expensive toothbrush heads it required. The one she was using now was getting a bit worn out, and the thought of living without it made her frown at her reflection.

  From the hallway, there was a loud knock on the bathroom door. “What are you doing in there?” Martha demanded, her voice still groggy with sleep. “Finding a cure for cancer?”

  “Brushing my teeth,” Pfeiffer said, closing the cap on the whitening toothpaste. “I’ll be right out.”

  “You and your teeth,” Martha said when Pfeiffer finally opened the door. “You’d think they were solid gold or something.”

  “Gold would have been cheaper,” Pfeiffer quipped.

  “They were expensive, huh?” Martha asked, leaning in for a better look.

  “You coulda bought three sets of those for what these cost,” Pfeiffer said, gesturing to Martha’s chest.

  “I don’t need three sets,” Martha replied. “The one I’ve got has always worked out well enough. Pretty sure they got me my first record deal.”

  “They might’ve gotten you through the door,” Pfeiffer said. “But it’s your voice that got you the deal.”

  Martha’s face lit up. “Thanks, Pfeiffer.” She reached out to hug her sister. “That’s really nice.”

  Pfeiffer allowed herself to melt into the hug before pulling away and saying, “It’s definitely your turn to brush your teeth.”

  Martha covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh my God; I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t use my toothbrush!” Pfeiffer called over her shoulder. “I’ll know it was you!”

  Pfeiffer waited to make sure the bathroom door was closed before she crept back down the hallway to her aunt’s bedroom door. She’d been dying to read the journal. It was all she could do to wait until her sisters were occupied. She crossed the threshold, careful not to step where the lamp had been broken in case there were any pieces of glass still lodged in the floor. She didn’t need tetanus on top of black eyes and bumps and bruises from her fall the day before.

  She sat down on the bed and reached underneath the mattress to retrieve the journal. She’d made a small dog-ear on the page where she stopped reading, folding it back up as she began to immerse herself in her aunt’s words.

  Beatrice

  February 1, 1948

  It snowed all day today. I sat in the living room and, from the window, I watched it fall. It made me wis
h that I was six years old again, because Daddy would take me outside to play while Mama cooked. Winter is my favorite season, but I’m afraid if I go outside, I might catch a cold before I have a chance to see Will again.

  My birthday party was lovely. Everybody said so. I wore the brooch Will gave me. Mama and Daddy didn’t even notice, but all of my friends did. Rufus came by later to give me a present and asked about it. I don’t think he believed that it was Anna who gave it to me, but I don’t care what he thinks so long as he doesn’t say anything to Daddy. Rufus said a brooch like this had been stolen from McCallan’s Department Store in town. He acted like he thought Anna stole it! Like she or Will would ever do something so stupid. Just because he gave me penny candy instead of a real present is no reason to be so mean.

  I spent some time in the kitchen today with Mama, mostly asking questions that vexed her. Mama is such a good cook, and I’ve never been able to do anything except cause fires in the kitchen. Mama says if I want to find a husband someday, I need to learn how to cook. Today, she taught me how to make a piecrust. Now my hands and dress are covered in flour, but Mama said the pie tasted nice. I told Daddy I’d made it especially for him, but I saved the last slice for Will.

  It was nice to see everyone smiling at the table. There hasn’t been much smiling or laughing since Charlie and Maryann lost the baby a few weeks ago. I wasn’t supposed to know about it, but I overheard Mama and Daddy talking in the kitchen, and when Mama saw me, she turned about as red as a turnip and took me into her bedroom to tell me about God’s will and life being precious.

  I didn’t tell Mama, but I already know how babies are made. Anna’s mama told us all about it one night after she had too much gin and Anna’s daddy didn’t come home in time for dinner. I didn’t say anything at the time, but I filed it away for later. I keep a catalog in my head of interesting information that would make Mama pass out cold.

  What I don’t understand, not really, is how a baby can be lost. How do you lose a baby once you’ve got one inside of you? I know that what Mama and Daddy meant was that Charlie and Maryann’s baby died, but it doesn’t seem like “lost” is the right word. Lost and dead aren’t the same thing. Maryann told me later that the doctors say she might never have a baby, and that makes me feel terrible for her and Charlie. Next week Maryann is going to see some special doctor in St. Louis, but nobody is supposed to know about it. Mama says these kinds of things stay in the family, just like when Anna’s cousin Louise Parker got pregnant last summer and her mama sent her away to stay with relatives until the baby came. When she came home, she said she’d gone up there to rest, but Anna told me later that she had a baby and that the baby lives with another family in Illinois. It’s too bad Maryann and Charlie couldn’t have Louise’s baby. Of course, Mama says Louise isn’t the kind of girl Anna and I should be talking to, so I guess she wouldn’t like it if we ended up with her baby.