Sister of the Bride

by Beverly Cleary

  “Someone must have liked decals,” murmured Barbara, wondering how Rosemary would reconcile Klee and flirtatious goldfish in one small apartment.

  Rosemary snapped off the light and stepped back into the living room. “Oh yes, a feature I forgot.” She pulled a sliding door across the entrance to the kitchen. “See. Greg can study in the kitchen and I can study in the living room and, with a door shut between us, we can’t disturb one another.”

  A bride and groom with a door shut between them. It didn’t seem right to Barbara.

  “That was the hardest thing about living in a dormitory,” Rosemary chattered on. “Having to study in the same room with Millie. She always chewed her hangnails when she had to memorize something.”

  Barbara was curious to know where Rosemary and Greg were going to sleep, but she did not like to ask. It seemed like such a personal question.

  “And now the bedroom,” said Rosemary, as if in answer to her sister’s thoughts. She swung open a heavy door on one side of the living room. Folded against the back of the door was a bed, the coils of its springs pressing against a blue-and-white striped mattress. Greg’s raincoat was hanging on a hook in the closet behind the bed. “Meet the Murphy bed,” said Rosemary. “We’ll only have to move the couch two feet every night to get it down.”

  Barbara was embarrassed to be standing there staring at the lumpy-looking mattress clamped to the springs. She thought of her sister’s single bed at home and of her narrow bed in the dormitory, and tried to think of something to say.

  Rosemary was oblivious to Barbara’s embarrassment. “And since it’s out of sight during the daytime, we won’t even need a bedspread. That’s a saving right there.”

  Rosemary swung the door shut, flopped down on the couch, looked around at her future home, and said with a happy sigh, “And it’s all free for taking care of the yard and the halls, listening to the complaints of the tenants, and collecting the rents.”

  Barbara wanted to protest, but knew it was not her place to do so. “Isn’t it a little—shabby?” she asked mildly, while words like dingy and falling apart went through her mind. How could Rosemary bring herself to leave her neat room in the dormitory for this?

  “That’s because it is going to be torn down in a couple of years,” explained Rosemary. “The owner isn’t doing anything to fix the place up, because the university is going to tear it down to make a parking lot. But long before that, Greg will have his credential and we’ll be out of here.”

  Any time at all in this place seemed like a long time to Barbara. Embarrassed, she looked at the Klee leaning against the end of the couch and found she liked it better now that she was growing accustomed to it. It was interesting to look at, even if she did not understand it.

  “And that isn’t all,” said Rosemary, as happily as if she were pointing out a beautiful view from a window. “The refrigerator is connected to the owner’s electric meter and not ours. That’s another saving.”

  Barbara perched on the arm of the one armchair and looked thoughtfully at her sister, resting on the couch in her faded shorts and old shirt. Even to Barbara she looked young, too young to be thinking about rent and the electric bill and having to clean the dreary halls of this run-down building. But there she was, fairly gloating over the owner’s having to pay for the electricity to run that little built-in refrigerator, which would defrost every Monday night and melt any ice cream that was not eaten up.

  Rosemary sat up. “Let’s get to work. At least we can put the canned goods away.”

  Barbara leaned over and picked up a small can from one of the cartons on the floor. “What do you suppose this is? Tomato sauce maybe?”

  “I don’t think it would be anything that ordinary,” said Rosemary. “The girls said they tried to get things we could never guess. It might be mandarin oranges. People don’t buy those every day, and they come in small cans.”

  Barbara shook the can beside her ear. “It might be chocolate sauce, except it has a wetter sound. Do you think artichoke hearts would sound wet? They are packed in brine or something.”

  Rosemary laughed. “I don’t know. I never listened to an artichoke heart. Or felt its pulse either.”

  Barbara dropped the can back into the carton. “What are you going to do with all this stuff? Open every can that’s the size of whatever you need, hoping you’ll find what you want and then ending up with a lot of open cans of things you don’t want?”

  “We decided to save them for rainy days,” explained Rosemary. “If we run out of grocery money before payday, we’ll pick out several cans of different sizes, open them, and, no matter what they are, have them for dinner.”

  This was an interesting solution, if not an appetizing one. At that moment there was a tap on the door.

  “Our first caller!” Rosemary smoothed her hair with her hands and opened the door.

  The visitor was an old lady, straight-backed and sharp-eyed, who was wearing a hat that might have been worn by Paul Revere and carrying an armful of library books. “I’m Miss Cox. Upstairs front,” she introduced herself. “Are you the new manager?”

  “Yes, I am. Won’t you come in?”

  “No, thank you. I was on my way to the library when I heard voices and thought I would stop in and tell you that the lightbulb in the front entrance has burned out.” Barbara, who was watching Miss Cox over Rosemary’s shoulder, saw at once that she did not approve of a manager who allowed a burned-out bulb to remain in its socket.

  “Oh…I didn’t know,” said Rosemary. “I’ll have my…uh…I’ll have Greg replace it today.”

  “And the garbage was collected this morning,” continued Miss Cox. “I thought perhaps you didn’t know, since the garbage cans have not been lined with paper yet.”

  “Why, no, I didn’t. Thank you for telling me.” Somehow Rosemary was being made to sound guilty. “I…I’ll take care of it right away.”

  Barbara was indignant. This was no way to welcome a new neighbor and one who was about to be a bride at that.

  “And while I am here I might as well mention those tenants in the rear apartment on the second floor,” said Miss Cox. “The ones who let that little boy run up and down the halls all day. He has been leaving his toys on the back stairs, and I very nearly tripped.”

  “I…I’ll speak to them,” faltered Rosemary, “and I’ll take care of the garbage cans right away.”

  “Good,” said Miss Cox crisply. “The former managers were inclined to let things slide.”

  “What an old biddy!” Barbara burst out when Rosemary had closed the door and Miss Cox was out of earshot.

  “I suppose she has a right to complain,” said Rosemary doubtfully. “All the things she mentioned should be taken care of.”

  “And she will complain, too.” Barbara was emphatic. “All the time. I can tell.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, I guess,” said Rosemary. “To listen to complaints and not let things slide.”

  “Oh, joy.” Barbara’s voice was flat.

  “We don’t expect to get our rent for nothing. We have to earn it, only I guess I didn’t expect to start earning it quite so soon,” she reminded her sister with a rueful laugh. “And now—off to the garbage cans!” She tried to sound gay, but her fatigue from her night of cramming had returned.

  This was too much for Barbara. A bride should not be lining garbage cans with newspapers. Neither should she have circles under her eyes. “I’ll do it,” she volunteered.

  “But it’s my job.”

  “I’ll do it just this once,” said Barbara. “To protect your lily-white hands for the wedding. You know. Pale hands I love and that sort of thing.”

  Rosemary looked at her fingers. “Hands with an ink stain on the forefinger from writing that final.”

  “Where will I find some newspaper?” asked Barbara.

  “In the laundry in the basement,” answered Rosemary, giving in. “And thanks awfully.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said B
arbara. “I’m maid of honor, aren’t I? And the maid of honor is supposed to perform little services for the bride, isn’t she?”

  Rosemary laughed. “I don’t think lining garbage cans was exactly what the author of the wedding book had in mind.”

  And neither did I, thought Barbara, as she found her way to the laundry and snatched up an armful of old newspapers.

  Her thoughts were tumbling about like laundry in a washing machine. She was shocked by the dingy apartment, bewildered by Rosemary’s happiness over such a place. Couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she see that it was small and ugly and shabby and uncomfortable? That mildew in the bathroom, that awful Murphy bed standing on its head in the closet…See? Couldn’t she smell? Didn’t she know it smelled of meals cooked and cigarettes smoked long ago? Maybe the old saying was right. Maybe love did blind people. Maybe it dulled their sense of smell, too. And their sense of hearing. Maybe, because she was in love, Rosemary didn’t even hear the child banging on the floor with a pan. How was she going to study with that going on?

  There were four garbage cans, and Barbara grimly set about lining them with newspaper. Rosemary, gay, frivolous Rosemary, sitting there gloating on that shabby couch with the lumpy springs, actually gloating, because the few cents it cost to run a refrigerator would be on the owner’s electric bill instead of her own. And bragging about how she would clean those halls to pay the rent! What was the matter with her anyway? Had the poetry gone out of her soul, too? Even before the wedding?

  By the time Barbara had gone to work on the second garbage can, disappointment turned to rebellion. She did not want Rosemary’s marriage to start this way. Rosemary was going to be a bride. Her life should be as bright and shining as…as a picture in a magazine in which everything matched, nothing was worn, and everyone was happy.

  Barbara held her breath and leaned into the third garbage can. She was sure nothing about Rosemary’s new life was right. It was all wrong, every bit of it. Barbara felt more and more rebellious, and there was nothing she could do about it. Rosemary had made her decision. If Barbara had been a little girl, she would have kicked a garbage can to express her feelings. But she was not a little girl. She was sixteen years old and on her way to growing up. She could not stamp her foot and say to Rosemary, “I don’t want you to live this way.” She was too old to kick a garbage can. Instead she slammed all four lids down hard and produced four satisfying clangs, like crashes of cymbals in some discordant piece of music.

  “Quiet!” yelled someone from an apartment across the way.

  When Barbara returned to the apartment she saw that Rosemary had combed her hair and renewed her lipstick. The End of the Trail had been replaced by Portrait of Moe. Books brightened the bookcase. The place looked better already. In the kitchen Rosemary had set out two unmatched cheese glasses filled with pink juice. “I shook cans until I found one that sounded good and sloshy, and took a chance that I might find some kind of juice. And it was. Have some,” she invited.

  Barbara sat down and took a cautious sip. “It’s good. What is it?”

  Rosemary tasted hers. “I don’t know, and I can’t think of any pink fruit except pink grapefruit, and it isn’t that.”

  “I think there’s a little pineapple juice in it.” Barbara tasted thoughtfully. “Maybe the pink is guava. Guava is pink, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Rosemary. “We’ll just have to call it Brand X.”

  As the sisters sat in the shabby kitchen sharing a can of strange juice, Barbara studied Rosemary, who was staring, her chin propped on her fist, at the apartment house next door, which Barbara was sure she did not even see. She was lost in some private dream, and whatever it was, it was a happy dream, because her lips were curved in a faint smile. When she spoke, she said without rancor, “It’s an awful dump, isn’t it?”

  Barbara nodded. The disappointment and resentment that had twisted into a hard knot within her began to relax. Love had not blinded Rosemary, after all. Now the emotions that had upset Barbara a short while ago seemed…well, young. Not everything about Rosemary’s life was wrong. There was Greg. And marriage was not something out of the slick and colorful pages of a magazine. It was not just parties and new clothes and flowers and a wedding veil. It was more than having all your friends envying you and wishing they had found the right man and wondering if they ever would. It was a lot of other things, too, like love and trust and living within one’s income and, in Rosemary and Greg’s case, putting their educations ahead of their immediate comfort. Why, Rosemary was prepared to do all this cheerfully, even gaily, and it had not even occurred to her that she was being brave or self-sacrificing. She was doing it because she loved Greg and had faith in his future.

  And for the first time the thought came to Barbara that Greg was lucky to be marrying her sister.

  Chapter 11

  The day after high school was out Barbara suspected that she had a broken heart. The trouble was, so many things kept happening that she could not find time to settle down and think about it and make sure. She knew that Bill Cunningham had graduated from high school the night before. She also knew that the P.T.A. had sponsored an all-night graduation party to keep the graduation class from getting into trouble. And since he had not invited her, had, in fact, not even mentioned the party at all, he must have taken someone else. That was as far as Barbara had been able to think.

  To begin with, now that Millie had moved in for what Mr. MacLane called “the duration” and had appropriated Barbara’s bed, Barbara was sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor. She spent a lot of time thinking how stiff she was from the hard floor. She would start to think about Bill and the graduation party, and then she would move a sore muscle and think ouch instead.

  Millie had also appropriated the dining-room table for sewing on her bridesmaid dress. She had not been able to sew on it before, because, as she explained, she had finals. She was so slow and so deliberate in everything she did that Barbara felt frantic just watching her. At the rate she was going she could not possibly finish the dress in time for the wedding. Hurry, hurry, Barbara thought every time she looked at Millie. Hurry up and finish it.

  Sometimes Millie, who had brought her recorder with her, tootled Sheep May Safely Graze when she should have been sewing. When she discovered that Gordy could play the guitar, she insisted they try duets. Unfortunately Gordy only knew folk songs while Millie was struggling with Bach, but with a little practice they worked out a very nice arrangement of The Old Gray Mare.

  Barbara was also distracted from thoughts of a broken heart by the wedding presents, which were arriving by parcel post, express, and United Parcel Service, and in the hands of friends, who were of course invited in and served a cup of tea or coffee. And what presents! They might have been for two entirely different brides. Rosemary’s generation sent stainless-steel platters and serving dishes, an album of Joan Baez songs on stereo, teak trays and salad bowls, and a set of shish kebab skewers. The next generation sent crystal—more than Rosemary could store in her tiny apartment—silver serving dishes that would have to be polished, a double-damask tablecloth and napkins, cake plates, and copper molds.

  “You’re collecting a lot of things, aren’t you?” Barbara could not help remarking, as she paused with her arms full of tissue paper and excelsior on her way out to the incinerator.

  Rosemary answered with a happy sigh. “But it’s such fun to open packages. I adore getting presents. After all that work I did on ‘Plato: Teacher and Theorist’ it’s like a heavenly vacation.” She went back to writing thank-you notes. She had vowed she would acknowledge all her gifts before the wedding, because after the ceremony she would be going to summer session and would have to study.

  Barbara thought this resolution admirable, but she could not help feeling a little amused at the way marriage was changing Rosemary even before she had taken her vows. She could remember when her sister had to be prodded into writing thank-you notes for her high school graduation presents.
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  “That’s one thing a college education does for you,” explained Mrs. MacLane. “It teaches organization.”

  “I guess we’re getting ready for the countdown,” was Gordy’s observation about the whole thing.

  “I’m not being launched,” Rosemary objected, as Greg arrived to take her over to Woodmont for a conference with the minister.

  “Oh yes, you are,” contradicted her father.

  When Barbara was set to polishing silver and had the kitchen to herself, she was at last alone with her own feelings instead of Rosemary’s. She unscrewed the lid of the silver polish jar and wondered about the state of her heart. Bill…she thought gingerly. Yes, it hurt even to think about Bill Cunningham. This must mean her heart was really broken because Bill had taken some other girl to the all-night party, had danced till dawn, and then eaten ham and scrambled eggs, served by the mothers of the P.T.A. Now, early in the afternoon, he was probably home in bed asleep. Heartless, fickle Bill. All those cookies, all that milk had been for nothing.

  Barbara rubbed polish into the bowl of a spoon with a piece of old flannel. Bill…ouch! A broken heart was a sensitive thing. And how sad in the midst of Rosemary’s happiness. What a contrast. The hurt was sharp when Barbara thought of Bill as he had been the day before. He had given her a ride home from school, eaten three butterscotch bars, and, with a jaunty wave, had ridden off on his Vespa without one word about seeing her during summer vacation. And in September he would be going across the bay to the university. Perhaps she would never see him again, although common sense told her that in a town the size of Bayview this was not likely.