Brother and Sister

by Edwin West

  “You mean Angie?”

  “How many sisters you got? Of course, I mean Angie.”

  “I just wasn’t sure you knew her name, that’s all.”

  Uncle James lowered his bushy eyebrows and glowered. “Are you trying to be a smart aleck, boy?”

  “Not for a minute.” Uncle James sat down on the sofa, and as soon as he was settled Paul said, “Sit down.”

  “I am sitting. Where’s Angie?”

  “Upstairs, I think. Dusting or something.”

  “Get her, will you? I want to talk to you kids about something.” ·

  Paul shrugged. He turned his head toward the stairs and bellowed, “Angie!”

  Her call came back down the stairs. “What is it?”

  “Come on down. We’ve got company.”

  “Who?”

  “Uncle James. He wants to talk to us.”

  “What about?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Angie, quit hollering and come here.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Uncle James had followed all this sourly, chewing on his cigar. He now said, “You always holler and shout like that? I figured your father would have taught you some manners. He was the man to do it, if ever there was one.”

  “You just leave him out of this,” said Paul, bristling.

  The eyebrows went up this time. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Get off the high horse.”

  Angie came in then, smiling, and said, “Hello, Uncle James.”

  Uncle James smiled around the cigar. “By God, Angie,” he said, “you’re turning into a beautiful woman, do you know that?”

  Angie blushed, pleased at the compliment, murmuring, “Thank you.” She sat demurely near Paul and said, “You wanted to talk to us?”

  “Yes.” Uncle James nodded emphatically and removed the cigar from his mouth. To Angie he said, “Have you made any plans yet about where you’re going to be living from now on? I mean, are you going to get a little apartment of your own or will you stay with one of your aunts or what?”

  Angie looked blank with surprise. “Why, I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I’m going to be staying right here.”

  “Here? In this house? All by yourself?”

  “I’ll be with her,”· said Paul sullenly. “I’m getting a discharge.” Though he wasn’t sure yet, he spoke as though it were definite.

  “Well, now,” said Uncle James. “I didn’t know about that. That changes things. Well, now.”

  Angie said, “What is it, Uncle James?”

  “Well, now,” said Uncle James, “here’s the thing. You see, actually, I’m the one who owns this house.”

  “The hell you do!” snapped Paul.

  Uncle James glowered at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You heard what I said. I went through the papers in the desk, getting things into shape, the insurance and all that, and I remember seeing the deed to this house. Dad owned it, complete, no mortgage or anything. And he left it to Angie and me.”

  “Well, now,” said Uncle James, “I guess I can tell you something you didn’t know then. You see, your father borrowed the money from me to buy this house, and he never paid a penny of that money back. So the house, when you come right down to it, is mine.”

  “He took out a mortgage with you?” asked Paul. “Let’s see the papers on it.”

  “I didn’t say a mortgage. I said a loan. He borrowed the cash from me. A verbal loan. He was supposed to pay it back but he never did. And I never pressed him on it. I knew he’d be good for it eventually.”

  “You mean you don’t have a signed loan agreement?”

  “I don’t need one,” said Uncle James. “You can just take my word for it.”

  “And you can just go to hell!” Paul told him angrily.

  “You watch your tongue, boy!”

  “You watch your own tongue!”

  “Paul!” cried Angie. “Uncle James!”

  But neither of them paid any attention to her. Paul was on his feet, his face scarlet with rage. “This is my house!” he cried. “Mine and Angie’s! It’s our home. We’ve got the papers to prove it and you can just go to hell for yourself!”

  “My boy, Teddy,” shouted Uncle James, “is getting married in three months, and he’s going to move into this house!”

  “The hell he is!”

  Uncle James leaped to his feet. “Goddamn it!” he cried. “I’m going to see my lawyer!”

  “See twenty lawyers. This is my house.”

  “We’ll see whose house it is,” cried Uncle James. He shoved the cigar into his mouth, glowered at Paul and stormed out of the house.

  Paul remained standing in the middle of the room, glaring at the front door. His chest was heaving and he felt as though he’d just run three miles. “That son-of-a bitch,” he whispered. “He thought I’d be going back to Germany. He figured you’d be going off to an apartment somewhere and he could just waltz in here and take over our house as though he owned it.”

  “Paul, maybe Dad did borrow the money from him. Uncle James wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

  “It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference,” Paul told her. “He admitted he didn’t have any papers to prove it. That would make it a loan and not a mortgage. Any debt Dad owed Uncle James died with him. That makes this our house and he can just take a flying leap of a pier for himself.”

  “He’s going to cause trouble for us, Paul,” said Angie mournfully.

  “Let him try it. I’m going out, I’ll see you later.” He stormed out the front door and turned toward Joe King’s Happi-Tyme Tavern.

  ***

  Paul didn’t stay out very late that night. The sudden appearance of Uncle James, and his threat to the house, rattled Paul more than he liked to admit.

  Uncle James didn’t have a leg to stand on. Paul had the ownership papers, and Uncle James didn’t even have any notes on the loan. It was Paul’s house, no question about it. But it still scared him to have someone of Uncle James’ tenacity and stubbornness trying to take his home away from him.

  He was even quieter and gloomier that night than usual, sitting silently in a corner at the bar, neither joining in the conversation nor taking much notice of the people around him. And they, in their turn, barely took any notice of him. When he left abruptly a little after midnight, most of them didn’t even notice his departure.

  It was an eight-block walk home, and Paul strode along briskly, almost running, as though he were afraid the home would no longer be his if he didn’t get there right away.

  The first-floor lights were all out when he arrived.

  The house was dark, except for the one second-floor window which was to Angie’s room. The dimness of the glow against the window indicated that the meager light was coming from the reading lamp attached to the head of Angie’s bed.

  The poor kid, thought Paul, she’s all alone in the house.

  It was the first time he’d thought consciously of that since the day of the funeral.

  He entered the house quietly, not wanting to frighten her. Once inside, with the door closed, he could hear a faint sound from upstairs. It took him a minute to figure out what it was.

  Someone was sobbing.

  He listened. It was Angie. She was crying softly, as though she’d been doing it for a long time and was now too weary to weep with full force.

  He called out, “Angie!” and the sobbing stopped at once. There was silence for a few seconds, until her voice came to him, tremulous, saying, “Paul? Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” He hurried up the stairs and around the turn to the left. The bathroom was first on the right, his own room beyond it. His parents’ bedroom was straight ahead, and Angie’s room was to the right, beyond the attic door.

  Her bedroom door was half-open and, as he’d thought, the only light came from the reading lamp. She was in bed, wearing pale blue pajamas, covered only with the sheet. She was lying on her back now, the pillow bunched u
p beneath her head, smiling at him, incredibly young and lovely, her face framed against the pillow by her blond hair.

  He stood in the doorway, feeling sudden tenderness for his sister, a sudden protectiveness and a feeling of guilt. “Hey, kid,” he said gently. “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing.” She smiled more brightly. “Not a thing, Paul. Honest.”

  “You were crying when I came in.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Come on, Angie, what is it?”

  The smile faltered and she looked away from him. “I--I’m sorry, Paul. I just get silly sometimes, that’s all.”

  “What kind of silly? What’s the matter?”

  “The--the house. All alone here, I--”

  “Oh, Jesus!” For it suddenly came home to him what he’d been doing to her these last two weeks. He had left her alone, absolutely alone, in this house. Her parents had died, too, and while he’d been out fooling around, she’d had to stay here, day in and day out. No wonder it had gotten to her; no wonder she had to cry herself to sleep. That’s what she probably did every night and she’d never said a word to him about it. She’d never blamed him, never reproached him.

  “Angie,” he said. He went on into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took her hands in his and said, “I’m sorry, honey. Goddamn it, I’m sorry.”

  “Paul, it isn’t your fault--”

  “It is,” he said. “I’ve been wandering around, thinking about myself. I haven’t paid any attention to you at all. And you were counting on me when I came home. I remember when I first walked into the house--” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Angie, honest to God I am.”

  She sat up, putting an arm around his shoulders and leaning close to him to smile and say, “Don’t feel bad about it, Paul. We just had a very bad thing happen to us, that’s all. And we both had to fight our own way through it. You aren’t to blame for anything, Paul.” She hugged him and rumpled his hair. “Come on, big brother,” she said. “Stop looking so gloomy.”

  “I just feel like a goddamn clown,” he said. “Not even thinking about you. I hate to admit it, Angie, but it’s the truth. I wasn’t even thinking about you. I wasn’t thinking about anybody in the whole goddamn world but me. Nobody but me.”

  “Of course not, Paul,” she said. “It’s only natural. Don’t worry about it, please.”

  “Listen,” he said. “Listen, Angie, that’s all over. I’m going to quit acting like a clown. I’m going to quit running around all over the goddamn place and settle down.”

  “Paul, you don’t have to be responsible for me, honest.”

  “Sure, I do,” he said. He grinned at her. “You’re my little bitty kid sister.” His eyes moved involuntarily to her nightgown and the glow of her naked flesh through the fabric and a sudden hot knife speared through his groin. He shook his head and looked away.

  “Not so little, any more,” she said, smiling.

  “No,” he said. “I guess not.” He got up from the bed, his heart beating wildly. “Wake me up early tomorrow, okay?”

  “You don’t have to, Paul”

  “I want to. Good night, Angie.”

  “Good night, Paul.”

  In his own room, he undressed quickly and went to bed. It’s been a long time, he thought, lying in the darkness. I better find a girl pretty quick. It’s been a long time. Too long, when I start thinking that way about my own sister.

  FIVE

  When Uncle James called the following Tuesday, it was Angie who answered the phone. Paul was down in the basement, trying to get the old phonograph working again, and she could hear him whistling away down there. It was four in the afternoon--Angie was in the kitchen starting dinner. She was making something special for the two of them for tonight, and the materials were all over the kitchen table.

  When the phone rang she ran lightly to the living room, drying her hands on her apron.

  The last five days had been fine. Paul had spent most of his time around the house, doing a lot of fixing, repairing and cleaning. He seemed a lot happier than he’d been when he was spending all his time with that Danny McCann.

  And Angie was happier, too. It had been a hard and lonely time rattling around this house all by herself. But now, with Paul so near, with the two of them working together, eating their meals together, watching television together in the evenings, talking together, being together, it was a lot easier, a lot more pleasant. Life was a lot more livable. It was like old times.

  No, not really like old times. It was different now. It was a new time. The house had a new balance and flavor to it.

  It had been the same when Paul first went into the Air Force. Before that, there had always been the four of them, and their life together in the house had had a balance and a tempo and a feeling to it which had suddenly been lost. Then, quite naturally, the shift had been made--the new balance and tempo and feeling--with only three of them there, and things had gone along smoothly again.

  It was the same this time, except that the loss had been so much more tragic, so much more final and complete. Now, there were just the two of them, and after those first two bad weeks, the even flow and balance of life had been restored once more.

  And she had a job, to start Monday, as salesgirl in a clothing store in the city. That would mean another shifting of the balance, and so would the answer to Paul’s request for hardship discharge, whichever way the answer went.

  But, for now, things were fine. The two of them shared the house and each other’s lives, and the presence of Paul was doing a lot to fill the emptiness caused by the loss of her parents.

  She felt like whistling in harmony with Paul’s whistling from the basement, as she ran lightly through the house to the ringing telephone and picked it up.

  It was Uncle James. “Angie, is that you?”

  “Uncle James?”

  “That’s right. I’m glad you’re the one who answered the phone, Angie. That brother of yours is too much of a hothead. I’ve just got a message to deliver, that’s all.”

  “A message?”

  “You and Paul are to meet me tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock in Jake McDougall’s office. You know who I mean?”

  “The lawyer?”

  “That’s right. At two o’clock, got that?”

  “Is this about the house, Uncle James?”

  “It is. Rather than have everybody shout at everybody else, I think it would be better to meet with Jake and get the whole thing straightened out legal. You follow me?”

  “Maybe you should talk to Paul, Uncle James.”

  “I can talk to both of you tomorrow, at Jake’s office. I don’t have time right now. I’ve got a million things to do here at the office. I’ll see you then.”

  “But--”

  But he had hung up and the conversation was done. Wondering, Angie returned the phone to its cradle, went back through the house to the kitchen, and down the cellar stairs.