“They aren’t errors,” Bean said, but her voice caught on the last word, so she cleared her throat and tried again, louder. “They aren’t errors.” She folded her hands in her lap.
The managing partner looked unsurprised, but disappointed. Bean wondered why they’d chosen him for this particular dirty work—he was practically emeritus, holding on to this corner office for no good reason other than to have a place to escape from his wife and while away the hours until he died. She considered trying to sleep with him, but he was looking at her with such grandfatherly concern the idea withered on the vine before she could even fully imagine it. Truthfully, she felt something that could only be described as gratitude that it was him, not one of the other partners whose desperation to push themselves to the top had made their tongues sharp as teeth, whose bellows of frustration came coursing down the hallways like a swelling tide when things dared not go their way.
“Are you well?” he asked, and the kindness in his voice made her heart twist. She bit her tongue hard, blinked back tears. She would not cry. Not in front of him, anyway. Not here. “It’s a great deal of money, Bianca. Was there some reason . . . ?” His question trailed off hopefully.
She could have lied. Maybe she should have been picturing this scene all along, planning for it. She was good at the theater of life, our Bean, she could have played any part she wanted. But lying seemed desperate and weak, and she was suddenly exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep for days.
“No,” she said. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “No good reason.”
He sighed at that, a long, slow exhale that seemed to make the air move differently in the room. “We could call the police, you know.”
Bean’s eyes widened. She’d never thought about that. Why had she never thought about that? She’d known stealing from her employers was wrong, but somehow she’d never let herself think that it was actually criminal (criminal! How had it come to that?). God, she could go to jail. She saw herself in a cell, in an orange jumpsuit, stripped of her bracelet and her makeup and all the armor that living in the city required of her. She was speechless.
“But I don’t think that’s entirely necessary. You’ve done good work for us. And I know what it’s like to be young in this city. And it’s so unpleasant, involving the police. I’d imagine that your resignation will be enough. And, of course, you’ll repay your debt.”
“Of course,” Bean said. She was still frozen, wondering how she’d managed to miscalculate so badly, wondering if she really was going to squeak out of here with nothing but a slap on the wrist, or if she’d be nabbed halfway out of the lobby, handcuffs on her wrists, her box of personal effects scattering on the marble floor while everyone looked on at the spectacle.
“It might be worthwhile for you to take a little time. Go home for a bit. You’re from Kentucky, aren’t you?”
“Ohio,” Bean said, and it was only a whisper.
“Right. Go back to the Buckeye State. Spend a little time. Reevaluate your priorities.”
Bean forced back the tears that were, again, welling out of control. “Thank you,” she said, looking up at him. He was, miraculously, smiling.
“We’ve all done foolish, foolish things, dear. In my experience, good people punish themselves far more than any external body can manage. And I believe you are a good person. You may have lost your way more than a little bit, but I believe you can find your way back. That’s the trick. Finding your way back.”
“Sure,” Bean said, and her tongue was thick with shame. It might have been easier if he had been angry, if he’d taken her to task the way he really should have, called the police, started legal proceedings, done something that equaled the horrible way she’d betrayed their trust and pissed on everything she knew to be good and right in the service of nothing more than a lot of expensive clothes and late-night cab rides. She wanted him to yell, but his voice remained steady and quiet.
“I don’t recommend you mention your employment here when you do seek another job.”
“Of course not,” Bean said. He was about to continue, but she pushed her hair back and interrupted him. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
His hands were steepled in front of him. He looked at her, the way her makeup was smudging around her eyes, despite her impressive ability to hold back the tears. “I know,” he said. “You have fifteen minutes to get out of the building.”
Bean fled.
She took nothing from work. She cared about nothing there anyway, had never bothered to make the place her own. She went home and called a friend with a car he’d been trying to sell for junk, though even that would take nearly the last of her ill-gotten gains, and while he drove over, she packed up her clothes, and she wondered how she could have spent all that money and have nothing but clothes and accessories and a long list of men she never wanted to see again to show for it, and the thought made her so ill she had to go into the bathroom and vomit until she could bring up nothing but blood and yellow bile, and she took as much money as she could from the ATM and threw everything she owned into that beater of a car and she left right then, without even so much as a fare-thee-well to the city that had given her . . . well, nothing.
Because Cordelia was the last to find out, she was the last to arrive, though we understand this was neither her intention nor her fault. It was simply her habit. Cordy, last born, came a month later than expected, lazily sweeping her way out of our mother’s womb, putting a lie to the idea that labor gets shorter every time. She has been late to everything since then, and is fond of saying she will be late to her own funeral, haw haw haw.
We forgive her for her tardiness, but not for the joke.
Would we all have chosen to come back, knowing that it would be the three of us again, that all those secrets squeezed into one house would be impossible to keep? The answer is irrelevant—it was some kind of sick fate. We were destined to be sisters at birth, and apparently we were destined to be sisters now, when we thought we had put all that behind us.
While Bean and Cordy were dragging their baggage (literal and metaphorical) across the country, Rose was already safely ensconced in our childhood home. Unlike Bean and Cordy, Rose had never been away for very long. For years she had been in the habit of having dinner with our parents once or twice a week, coming home on Sundays. Someone, after all, had to keep an eye on them. They were getting older, Rose told Bean on the phone, with exactly the right amount of sighing to convey that she felt she was doing Bean and Cordy’s duty as well as her own. And usually her visits to our house for Sunday dinner felt like duty, equal parts frustration and triumph as she reminded our father that he had to mow the lawn before the neighbors complained, as she bustled around the living room putting bookmarks in books left open, their spines straining under the weight, as she reminded our mother that she actually had to open the mail, not just bring it inside. It was a good thing, Rose invariably told herself when she left (with not a little satisfaction on her face) that she was here. Who knows what kind of disarray they’d fall into without her?
But moving home? At the advanced age of thirty-three? Like, for permanent, as Cordy might say?
She should have been living in the city with her fiancé, Jonathan, having recently signed her first contract as a tenured professor, waving her engagement ring around wildly whenever she came back to Barnwell just to show that she was, in fact, not just the smart one, that Bean was not the only one who could land a man, and our father was not the only professorial genius in the family. This is how it should have been. This is how it was:
ACT I
Setting: Airport interior, and Jonathan’s apartment, just after winter break
Characters: Jonathan, Rose, travelers
Rose had changed positions a dozen times as the passengers on Jonathan’s flight came streaming through the airport gates. She was looking for the right position for him to catch her in; the right balance of careless inattention and casual beauty, neither of which wou
ld betray how much she had missed him.
But when he finally did emerge, cresting over the gentle grade of the ramp that led from the gate, when she could see his rumpled hair bobbing above the heads of the other passengers, the graceful way his tall, reedy shoulders were bent forward as though he were walking into an insistent wind, she forgot her artifice and stood, dropping her book by her side and smoothing her clothes and her hair until he was in front of her and she was in his arms, his mouth warm against her own.
“I missed you,” she said, running her hand down his cheek, marveling at the fact of his presence. Light stubble brushed against her palm as he moved his chin against her touch, catlike. “Don’t ever go away again.”
He laughed, tipping his head back slightly, and then dropped a kiss on her forehead, shifting his bag over his shoulder to keep it from slipping. “I’ve come back,” he said.
“Yes, and you are never allowed to leave again,” Rose said. She’d think back on that later and wonder if his expression had changed, but at the time she didn’t notice a thing. She picked up her book and slipped her hand into his as they headed to pick up his luggage.
“Was it that awful? Your sisters didn’t come home when they got your father’s letter?” He turned to face her so he was standing backward on the escalator, his hands spread over the rails.
“No, they didn’t come home, and thank heavens, because that would have been even worse. It’s just been me and Mom and Dad.”
“Lonely?” He turned back and stepped off the escalator, holding his hand out to help her step off. Swoon-worthy, as Cordy would have said.
“Ugh. I don’t want to talk about it. How was your trip?”
Jonathan had been gone for two weeks, nearly the entire break, presenting at a conference in Germany and stopping on the way back to visit friends in England. Rose had carefully crossed each passing day off in her day planner, feeling like a ridiculous schoolgirl with a crush but unable to stop herself. Ridiculous, she knew. When they had been a couple for only a few months, she’d been the one to utter the magical four-letter word first, breathless and laughing as they lay on his bed and he alternated between kissing her neck and tickling her mercilessly. She’d been thinking that this was love for weeks, but she couldn’t say it first, and then the words slipped out in a rush of giddiness. She’d frozen, horrified at her own lack of control, but then he’d whispered back that he loved her, too, and her relief and happiness made her feel faint. Being without him had felt like a cruel amputation, and she reached out for his hand to remind herself that he was there, after all.
He took her hand in his and lifted it to his mouth, kissing her fingertips. “You look lovely,” he said. “I’d forgotten how beautiful you are.”
Rose blushed and shook her head, smoothing her clothes again with her free hand. “I look awful. I didn’t have time to change and—”
Jonathan cut her off with another kiss, this time in the center of her palm. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes,” he said softly. “My vision is better.”
She drove them back to his apartment and they hauled his suitcase inside. She hadn’t been here since he’d left—he had no pets, no plants, and there was no reason for her to visit unless he was there—and the air was thick and stale. She opened the windows and turned on the fan, and they sat together on the sofa, fingers entwined, until he cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’ve got a little news.”
“Good or bad?” Rose wasn’t quite listening. She reached out with her free hand and stroked a wayward lock of hair behind his ear. It had gotten long—she’d have to make an appointment for him to have it cut.
“Excellent, actually. While I was in Oxford with Paul and Shari—”
“How are they, by the way?” Paul had been Jonathan’s roommate in their doctoral program, and many of Jonathan’s best stories revolved around their misadventures.
“Great—sleep-deprived, you know, but head over heels with the baby, and they seem happy. I’ve got pictures. They’d love to meet you.”
Rose laughed. “Not likely, unless they’re considering a transatlantic flight with a newborn.”
Jonathan swallowed awkwardly. “Well, that’s the thing, love. When I was over there, Paul and I had lunch with his dean.” He paused, searching for the next words, and Rose felt her heart growing colder, a thin sheet of ice covering its surface like frost on a windowpane.
“He’s very interested in my research. He wants me to join the faculty there—a lab of my own, graduate students to work with me. It’s ideal. A perfect opportunity.”
Rose reached for the glass of water he’d left for her on the coffee table. Her mouth was painfully dry, her throat ached. Alone again. It seemed it was Just Her Luck to have finally found her Orlando, her perfect love, only to have him leave her. Shakespeare’s Rosalind had never had this kind of problem; she was too busy cross-dressing and frolicking around in forests with her servant. Rough life. Rose set the glass back on the table and slipped her other hand from his.
“So you’re leaving,” she said dully, when she could push her parched lips into words again.
“I’d like to,” he said softly. He reached for her hand again, but she moved so she was facing forward, away from him, her ankles crossed primly, hands folded in her lap, as though she were waiting to be served at a particularly stuffy tea party.
“But we were supposed to get married,” she whispered.
“And we will, of course we will. I’m not saying that at all. But I’d be a fool to turn this down. You can see that, can’t you?” His voice was pleading, but she turned away.
“When are you going?”
“I haven’t said I am, as of yet. But I could start at the beginning of the third term, just after Easter.”
“Your contract here goes through the end of the year, doesn’t it? You’re just going to break your contract?”
“Rose, don’t be like that. Please hear me out. I want you to come with me.”
Rose turned her head toward him and barked a short, harsh laugh. “To England? You want me to come to England with you? You have got to be kidding, Jonathan. I have a job. I have a life here. I’m not like you. I don’t get to go globe-hopping every time I get a whim.”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” he asked, recoiling from the bite. Our Rose, whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth ! He rubbed his hands quickly on his knees and stood up, rumpling his hair impatiently. “It could be good for us—for both of us. For me, yes, but for you, too. You haven’t got a job past next year, right?”
“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” Rose had been told this spring, in no uncertain terms, that her adjunct contract wouldn’t be renewed after this year. No hard feelings, nothing personal, but they hadn’t any tenure-track positions open, and it was so important to keep the department adjuncts fresh, to keep the curriculum vital, you know. Yes, Rose had thought sourly, and because you can keep milling through those brand-new Ph.D.s and never have to give them a penny more than you think you can get away with. The thought of having to find a new job paralyzed her, the thought of being without a job paralyzed her, and she was highly tempted to stick her fingers in her ears and sing until the entire thing blew over.
“I don’t know about better. But I’d hoped you’d be at least a little happy for me.”
She looked up at him, his eyes sad and wounded, and she crumbled a little. “I am. I’m sorry. But it’s so big. . . . It’s such a huge change from what we were planning.”
“We always knew we’d have to consider it, love. My position here is only temporary, you know that.”
“But I thought maybe . . .” Rose didn’t want to say what she had thought. She’d just assumed that he would give up this fancy academic jet-setting and find something nearby, something where she wouldn’t have to go anywhere. Where she wouldn’t have to change at all. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Oh, Rose, I’m sorry, too. Let’s not talk about it anymore.
Let’s just enjoy being together for a bit.”
He came over to her and put his arms around her and kissed her, and that did only a little to soothe the ache inside where her heart had been bruised. So that was it. He wouldn’t stay, and she wouldn’t—couldn’t—go. It was ridiculous to even think about it.
His hands were in her hair, slowly pulling the pins out and letting it fall down her back the way he liked it, stroking the tresses the way she liked it, the gentle pull against her scalp so soothing. She wasn’t paying attention. Bean and Cordy were sitting on her shoulders, whispering in her ears like a cartoon devil and angel. Or two devils, really. “You could go if you wanted to, Rosie,” our youngest sister said. “Just pick up and go. It’s not so hard. I do it all the time.”
“What are you afraid of?” Bean mocked. “Don’t want to leave your glamorous life behind?”
Okay, so it wasn’t a glamorous life. But it was important. She was important. We needed her. Didn’t we?
Bean and Cordy didn’t answer. Bean was adjusting her horns, and Cordy was chasing her own forked tail. You need me, Rose thought fiercely. They turned away.
“Hush,” Jonathan said, as though he could hear the busy spinning of Rose’s thoughts, and he kissed her, and we fell off her shoulders as though we’d been physically brushed aside.
ACT II
Setting: Interior, the Golden Dragon, a small Chinese restaurant a few towns over, famed more for its convenience than its cuisine. Also the site of an infamous embarrassment for Bean, aged eight, in which she devoured a sweet and sour pork entrée all by herself and then regurgitated the entire thing tidily into the mouth of a fake dragon hidden behind a plant, certain it would never be found there.
Characters: Rose, Jonathan, our father, our mother.
They sat around the table, the four of them, sharing dishes and companionable chatter. Tea steamed in tiny cups, and Rose was fumbling with her chopsticks, envying Jonathan’s easy grace with the infernal things.
The Weird Sisters Page 2