McClure Farm had been in Elise’s family for three generations, and had always been an extended-family affair. Every Midwest McClure lived there at one time or another, and it was once a writhing, buzzing hub of auntie and uncle business, cousin encounters, and backbreaking chores, with Elise’s grandmother McClure overseeing it all with her tough stare and hard, calloused hands. There was always enough bacon for everyone, always fresh-baked biscuits on the stove, always babies squalling and crawling after grasshoppers through elbow-high patches of clover. But make no mistake—there was also always work to be done.
And, God, that farm—that vibrant, living farm that she’d grown up on—had been gone for so long. Robert had retired, had let everything go to weed, and as with everything else that he’d ruined over the years, she’d simply let it happen, no matter how much it meant to her. How many years had she been pining to get the farm back in running order? How many years had she been miserable? Enough to let the wall of the chicken coop, where she’d spent so many summer mornings gathering the breakfast eggs, a bandanna over her nose and mouth, fall into ruin. Had that been Robert’s fault? Or hers? She was having a hard time deciding what was whose fault these days.
“So I was telling Tai that you’ll probably want to come stay with us sometimes. He’s okay with it,” Julia was saying.
Maybe a Barnevelder, Elise thought. Weren’t those the ones that laid the dark brown eggs? Or was she thinking of a Jersey Giant? Now, those were some hardy chickens. No matter, but something fancy would be nice. Maybe one of those chickens with the poufy feathers around their heads. What were they called again? Those would delight the grandkids.
“Mom.”
Elise startled, whirled so that the small of her back was pressed to the sink.
Julia’s eyes were as wide and steady as ever.
“I’m sorry, I was thinking about the chickens,” Elise said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“What chickens?”
Elise paused, gathered her thoughts. What chickens, indeed? They were only in her mind and she knew that. Of course she did. She waved her hand. “Nothing. Never mind. I’ve been distracted lately.”
Julia leaned back in her chair, her eyes so enormous that Elise wondered how anyone could not feel her stare from a hundred yards away. Something about that gaze had always made Elise feel small and lacking, even when it was prodding at her from inside a bassinet. “Well, of course you are, Mom. That’s why Tai and I think you need to spend some time with us. You don’t need all this space to yourself. We can talk about options.”
“It’s really not that much space.”
“It’s a hundred acres. All that area behind the tree line? The pond? The fields? You and Dad together were barely able to take care of it as it was. How can you keep up with all of that by yourself?”
Elise set her cup down and pressed her fingers to her temple. “I don’t know, Julia. The man’s only been dead for a day. I have plans, but no time. There’s never time. I don’t need people telling me what to do and how to do it. I got enough of that from him.” She winced when she heard her own voice, realized the harshness of it. Julia’s mouth was frozen open in surprise, and immediately Elise wanted to stuff the words back into her mouth. This visit was supposed to be different, was supposed to be light and loving. She was supposed to be bonding with her daughters, now that she could. She was not going to lose her control.
But . . . she only just needed a few minutes to think about hens. Get her thoughts straight.
“Queenie!” she heard from behind her, and let out a gust of air as Claire shuffled into the room, yawning and looking puffy with sleep.
Julia’s mouth clamped shut and she visibly straightened her spine. “Hello,” she said, her voice not altogether warm but not icy, either. Just hesitant.
“God, you look old. Where’s your kid?”
“Thank you. So sweet of you to point that out. And Eli is outside.”
Claire padded to the storm door, her furry boots replaced by woolen socks, and peered outside. “Shit, he got big.”
“That’s because he’s fourteen now.”
Claire turned, her face bemused. “It’s been that long?”
Julia offered her a condescending smile. “Time flies.”
“He just had a birthday a few months ago, you know,” Elise said, ladling some steaming wine into three mugs and bringing them to the table. Claire pulled out a chair and plopped into it. Elise settled into her seat at the head of the table.
“That so?” Claire blew across the top of her mug as if she were blowing the heat off a cup of cocoa.
Elise nodded, the conversation dead-ended, and she wished that she could think of something new to say. Something not volatile. Thing was, she wasn’t sure what was not volatile between her daughters anymore. She wondered if they knew anything about chickens.
“And did Maya come to the birthday party?” Claire asked.
“She lives in Chicago,” Julia said, as if they didn’t already all know this. As if they didn’t already have her flight schedule memorized. The very moment she would arrive at the house hung over them like doom. As chilly as things were between Julia and Claire, it was nothing compared to the fracture between Maya and Claire. That fracture was a canyon.
“I just thought . . . ,” Claire said, but she sipped her wine rather than continue.
“No, I haven’t seen her since before Will was born.”
“That would be because she ran away before Will was born.”
Julia shot Claire a look. “She didn’t run away. Bradley got a job.”
“More like Bradley got a sexual harassment suit from whoever he was really boning.”
Elise stared, her eyes moving between her two daughters. “Now, nobody knows exactly what—”
“I know exactly what, Mom. Don’t get me started on what.” Claire’s eyes never left her sister’s face, even as she tipped the mug to her lips and sipped.
Julia stood abruptly, her chair rustling against a potted poinsettia. Maybe I went a little too far with the poinsettias, Elise thought, and wondered if she could move them around during the night a little, see if she could make it seem less like she was trying too hard when the girls woke up in the morning.
“I really don’t want to have this conversation right now,” Julia said. She scooped another ladleful of wine into her cup. “My father is dead.”
Claire laughed, a single bark. “What a coincidence! So is mine! Or is his death all about you, Queenie? You being the Sister in Charge and all.”
But before she could continue, the storm door opened, letting in a whoosh of stale green air, and Eli tromped in on untied high-top-sneakered feet. He tossed his mess of dyed blue-black hair (quite festive, actually, Elise thought), revealing one dark, brooding eye that so closely matched his mom’s, Elise felt as if she’d been transported back to the 1970s when she looked at him.
Mom, she could hear tiny Julia saying, those wide eyes brimming with tears, Daddy won’t let me bring in Mr. Claws. It’s freezing out there. And he’s sick. The coyotes will get him.
Julia, Elise heard herself say back, he’s an old barn cat. You can’t get too attached to those. You know that. Though Elise had later gone into the barn and cried her eyes out, stroking the cat’s fur, covering him with an old quilt, and wishing that just once her husband had let their oldest daughter be led by her heart. Oh, how Elise hated to see those eyes, as impossibly deep as cave pools, spill over once again.
“Eli!” Elise cried, holding out her arms in a weak invitation and taking a few steps forward, but not enough to fully close the gap between them. She hadn’t seen her oldest grandchild in what seemed like ages, hadn’t held him since he was a little boy. Perhaps it was the hug from Claire, or the emotional drain of losing Robert, or the spirit of Christmas that made her reach for him. All she knew was she wanted to fill her arms wit
h him. Wanted to feel him, young and vibrant and so utterly alive. Wanted to smell his scalp, see if it smelled like Julia’s used to when she was his age. And she didn’t know exactly how to make that happen.
The boy simply shifted his weight, gazing at the floor, his messenger bag strap looped over one arm, the bag resting on top of his shoe. “Hi,” he said, more to the tile than to her, and Elise felt her hands lower slowly, like a white flag of surrender.
“It’s so good to see you, honey,” she said, and he responded with a soft grunt that might have been a word, but Elise couldn’t tell. He swayed uncomfortably, and Elise picked something imaginary off the front of her shirt. “Well . . . ,” she said, trailing off, trying to decide what to say next that might break through the invisible barrier that seemed to always spring up between Yancey family members, and bring her grandson into her arms.
But Eli spoke first. “Car’s here,” he said in a new man-voice, changing the subject and shattering Elise’s hopes of a tender reunion moment. She noticed that the hems of his jeans were filthy and had holes, that his T-shirt was threadbare, his chin dotted with pimples, his mouth an uneven scowl.
He had been the baby who was always in a clean bib. The one in tiny designer overalls and expensive baby shoes chewing on the edges of black-and-white flash cards with images of boats and balls and shapes on them. Bred to be as well kept and as brilliant as his mother and father. Now he was a slob. What had happened? Was it simply that he’d become an indifferent teenager, or was there something more?
“Hey, sport,” Claire said, ignoring his news. She reached up and tousled his hair; he ducked away from her hand.
“Hey,” he responded, and crossed his arms.
“You remember me?”
He shook his head. Elise caught Julia rolling her eyes from across the room, the unspoken question—why would he?—floating uncomfortably over the kitchen.
“Ah, well.” Claire’s smile stuck in place, but her voice got a little tinier, and she seemed unsure how to go on from there.
“Eli,” Julia said, “why don’t you go out and see if Aunt Maya needs help with her bags?”
“She won’t.”
“Go see.”
“I don’t need to.”
“I’m asking you to go out anyway.” Julia took two steps toward her son and crossed her arms over her chest to match his posture. There was an edge in each of their voices, and both Claire and Elise froze, embarrassed and confused by whatever was passing between the two of them. “Go help your aunt with her bags.”
“Mom! God! She’s not alone! Uncle Bradley is with her.”
All three women stared at one another.
“Fabulous.” Claire sighed and pushed away from the table. “My room is calling.” She patted Eli’s shoulder on her way by, though this time he didn’t duck away from her hand. “Thanks for the warning, man.”
They could hear the front door bang open and the pounding of Maya’s children’s feet across the wooden floor in the front room, followed by jubilant cries of “Look! Presents under the tree!”
Claire stopped when she reached Julia, pulled up on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around her sister, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “It really is good to see you, Queenie,” she said. “Relax a little. This is gonna be . . .” She shrugged, then sauntered away. “Great! It’s gonna be just fucking great!” Her voice echoed from down the hall as she headed toward her room.
Elise felt the corners of her mouth twitch into a nervous grin.
It was going to be . . . something, all right.
Three
Maya’s four-year-old son, Will, was lying on his belly on the floor under the Christmas tree, coloring, as Elise peeked into the den after washing and putting away the dinner dishes. Gray evening light pressed into the corners of the room, and the boy looked cozy and sleepy in his footed pj’s, his legs bent upward behind him, lazily kicking the bottom branches of the tree. A soft clink sounded with every kick as two ornaments butted against one another.
Nearby, seven-year-old Molly played with Elise’s granny’s porcelain Nativity set as if the pieces were dolls in a dollhouse. Her tiny, lispy voice singsonged as she moved baby Jesus up onto the thatched roof of the barn, a cow sitting sentry by his side.
Elise smiled. They were good kids. Well behaved. It broke Elise’s heart to think of their upbringing being anything like their mom’s, filled with difficulty and heartbreak. But she supposed it probably was. After all that had happened, it was impossible to pretend that things were good between Maya and Bradley. Not that marital problems couldn’t be fixed. But there were marital problems, and there were Maya and Bradley, tempestuous as the day was long, beginning the moment they met. Rather than “love at first sight” it seemed to be “distrust at first sight” with the two of them. Elise wasn’t sure if she even knew the full extent of what had happened between them, only that it had been big and shattering and had somehow involved Claire.
Of all the unanticipated things that had happened over the past two days, Elise was most surprised to see Bradley standing in her kitchen now. She’d expected Maya, of course, and even the kids, but it was rare that the whole family traveled together. Bradley usually had “business” somewhere. What “business” meant for Bradley depended on whom you asked. And you didn’t want to ask Claire.
The family had been too tired from travel to do much talking during dinner. Claire had eaten in silence and then ducked back to her room, Julia and Eli had made small talk, then bundled up and taken a walk to the creek, coming back after everyone had gotten up from the table and slipping into their room silently. Bradley had taken his laptop to the den, and Maya had dumped the kids immediately in the bathtub. Elise had heard them singing and playing while she’d cleared the table.
Which left her the chance for only the most minimal chat with her middle daughter.
How was the flight?
Okay, I suppose. Bradley slept, so it was just me and the kids. Hint of bitterness there.
Been a long time since you were down this way. Bet a lot’s changed.
Mmm—yeah, I barely recognized the strip.
We got a Target.
I saw that.
There was nodding of heads, and Maya drank her mug of wine in two long gulps. Elise had stared at her daughter’s feet, wondering how someone could travel all day in five-inch heels, and more important, why one would do such a thing.
Though she supposed she knew why. Maya’s life would always be about trying too hard. To be beautiful. To be poised. To be thin. To be smart. To be . . . everything Bradley wanted. Why someone would want to try so hard to please such a man was beyond Elise, but she supposed nobody could make sense of how and who they loved. Love just happened, even when it was bad for you. If anyone could understand that, it was Elise.
Everyone but the kids seemed to be turning in early. Nobody was in the kitchen, and the back of the house was still silent. Elise pulled her coat off the hook by the back door and stuffed her feet into the rubber boots she left there year-round, then slipped out through the sunporch. She needed something to do. Something to take the edge off her worries. Something to make the memory of what had happened with Robert go away.
The frozen grass crunched under her shoes as she headed for the little garden shed behind the honeysuckle bushes. In years past, the shed was home to powders and sprays, pesticides and plant food and trowels and hoes and muddied gloves, and its door was constantly open. Seemed like, especially during the summers, Elise was always in the shed, fumbling around for the tool she needed or the right spray or a bucket or watering can. But, like everything else on the farm, in recent years she’d just gotten too tired for the garden, and had barely been inside the shed, much less had a yearning to restock it.
She pushed the door open and, by feel, poured three big scoops from the birdseed barrel into a bucket. She couldn’
t do anything about the chickens, but she could at the very least feed the wild birds. A walk with a purpose just might do the trick to ease her mind.
She decided to go to the tree line on the north side of the pasture first. Plenty of birdhouses and feeders out there, from back when Robert and the girls went through their woodworking phase. It had been years since she’d checked on those houses, which the girls had nailed, crooked and loose, to the trunks of the trees. Elise wondered if they were even still there, or if time, weather, and the squirrels had destroyed them by now.
Robert had always been good with his hands. Could fix anything, but also had a gentle touch, almost like an artist’s. It was one of the things that had attracted her to him. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the cowlicked young man standing sheepishly before her, holding out an oiled jewelry box.
Beautiful box for the beautifullest girl in school, he’d said.
“Beautifullest” isn’t a word, she’d replied with a giggle, pressing her toes into the ground to make the wooden swing she was sitting on stop moving.
They oughta invent it, though, he’d said. Just for you.
He’d hand-carved that box. Etched an intricate little hummingbird right into the top of it, surrounded by vines and roses and tiny hearts. It looked as if it had taken hours. Hours that he could have spent working on his father’s farm or on his forward pass or on his car. But he’d used that time making a box for her. That was probably the moment that Elise first realized that he really did love her. It was the moment she realized it would be safe to marry Robert Yancey.
The memory nearly buckled her legs right in the middle of the old pasture, and she had to stop and put down the bucket of seed, lean over with her hands on her knees.
The Sister Season Page 3