All for a Sister

by Allison Pittman

  “Not yet.” It was the answer she always gave, followed by, “But my father is in the business, so it’s only a matter of time.”

  If they were ever in the company of somebody who was already “in the business,” she knew to say something like “But my father is working on a colorizing process that will make it so everybody can appreciate the color of my eyes.” Then she’d stare wide and blink so that they couldn’t look away. If the inquiry came from one of his university colleagues, she said, “No, but I hope he makes a breakthrough soon so that he can bring chemistry and art together and make a colorized film of me!” That one had been more difficult to memorize, mostly because her father had given her so many different versions of the response before landing on something satisfactory.

  If she were in the company of her mother and asked the same question, she simply said, “No.”

  “Your father’s in the business, eh?” The stranger looked amused. “What’s he do?”

  Before Celeste could reply, Mother was crossing in front of her, blocking the view of the man, lingering long enough that, by the time she sat down, he’d turned back and was nothing more than the top of a hat again.

  Mother leaned close and hissed in her ear, “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”

  “I’m sorry.” Celeste knew better than to try the wide-eyed routine on Mother.

  Daddy took the seat on the other side of her, and Calvin next to Daddy, where he immediately took a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it with a match struck against the bottom of his shoe.

  Mother leaned forward. “Really, Calvin. Must you?”

  He shook the match to a glowing ember. “If I gotta sit through this mess, I mean to enjoy it.”

  A small group of musicians dressed in tuxedos that had seen far better days assembled in the small pit in front of the screen. They set their scores on the music stands and struck a single, strong note. Immediately the conversation in the theater fell to a hush, then to silence as the heavy red velvet curtain opened, revealing the silvery screen behind it.

  Celeste scrunched her face, holding her breath and closing her eyes just long enough to say the quickest prayer to God that she might be on a screen someday, and then opened her eyes to see the opening credits fade away into a scene of a small kitchen, a woman baking tarts, and a young girl walking through the door.

  That could be me.

  As if reading her mind, Daddy leaned over and whispered, “You’re a hundred times prettier than that little girl.”

  Celeste beamed in agreement. The Alice on the screen was tall and gangly, her hair not curly at all. But soon she forgot all about any sort of comparison, getting lost in the fantasy unfolding on the screen, clutching at her father’s arm in fear of the evil Queen of Hearts. When it was over, and the theater filled with light to allow a safe exit, she began an immediate recap, extolling the wonders scene by scene. The way Alice’s shadow walked away from her body, almost invisible, into dreamland?

  “How did they do that, Daddy?” But before he could answer, she’d moved on to how the rabbit’s eyes blinked and his nose twitched, the silliness of the Dodo bird, the terrifying Gryphon, and the Walrus, and the Mock-Turtle, and—

  “They’re all nothing but some two-bit actor in a costume,” Calvin said. By now they’d reached the street outside the theater, where Daddy beckoned for a taxi to take them home.

  “Must you be so unpleasant?” Mother sounded weary and distracted.

  “Off with your head!” Celeste hoped to lighten the mood but drew only a scowl from both Mother and Calvin, though several people milling around them chuckled their approval at her display.

  Daddy ignored her, stretching his hand out and shouting, “Taxi! Taxi!” His efforts were rewarded by a honking horn as an automobile approached the curb. Upon arrival, it turned out to be a topless roadster packed with four young men, one of whom hung over the side, shouting, “DuFrane!” into the already-noisy street.

  “Russel!” Calvin broke away from the family and rushed toward the car, up and over the door, and wedged into the backseat without its ever coming to a full stop. Mother called out to him, but he merely glanced over his shoulder and shouted a promise to be home sometime before dawn as the car wove itself into the pattern of automobiles on the street.

  “I don’t like those boys,” Mother said to whoever might be listening. “I don’t trust them.”

  “They’re just boys.” Having convinced a cab to take them home, Daddy held open the back door and they all three piled in—Celeste comfortable and warm in the middle—for the short ride home. “No different than I was at that age.”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to take any comfort in that.” Mother’s voice was flat, without humor or flirtation.

  “Take what you will, Marguerite. You always do.”

  He gave their address to the driver, and the rest of the ride was silent, with Mother and Daddy each staring out their own windows while Celeste stared at the driver’s shoulder. Celeste closed her eyes and let the rumble of the engine lull her into a half dream, where she imagined the transparent shadow of herself escaping this car—maybe slipping through that narrow opening at the top of the window—and into the city streets, mingling with the people and the noise and the lights. Anything but this stifling silence. She still had so many questions about the movie. How did they make the Cheshire Cat disappear? How could that old man accomplish all those acrobatics? Questions she knew her father could answer, and would do so with genuine, generous attention. But even as she inhaled, preparing to ask the first one, Mother patted her arm softly and said, “Please, darling. I’ve developed quite a nauseous stomach,” clapping and trapping them to death like the poor Mock-Turtle in his soup.

  Rather than stopping at the curb, the cabbie took the car through the rounded driveway and dropped them all right at the front door, where soft yellow light shone through the arched windows. Celeste broke free from her mother and bounded up the steps, opening the door to see Graciela waiting, arms outstretched. Celeste wanted to run into them for warmth, and would have, had her mother not been on her heels crossing the threshold.

  “How was the movie, Señora DuFrane?” Graciela’s arms became a rack across which Mother draped her coat. She took Celeste’s and did the same.

  “Delightful,” Mother said. “Celeste, I’m sure, will talk your ear off about it as you’re getting her ready for bed. Then if you’ll please send up some warm milk to my room? I’m quite tired and retiring early.”

  “Sí, señora.”

  Daddy slipped in and gave Graciela an apologetic look along with his overcoat. His hand was warm from his glove, and he laid it alongside Celeste’s cheek. “We’ll talk about the movie a little more in the morning. Maybe Graciela will make pancakes.”

  He walked off in the direction of his office. At Graciela’s prompting, Celeste followed her mother upstairs. Within just a few minutes, she’d washed her face and changed into her warmest flannel nightgown. With her feet tucked down in the sheets, she took her tattered copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and let it fall open in her lap, merging the scenes from the film with the words from the story, speaking Alice’s dialogue aloud.

  “I’m not quite myself, you see.” She held her arms dramatically akimbo, not the least self-conscious when Graciela came in. She was carrying a tray with two slices of buttered toast cut into triangles and a tall glass of milk. Celeste puffed herself up and assumed the character of the Queen of Hearts, demanding her tarts.

  Graciela didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re nothing but a deck of cards.” They’d read the book together more than once.

  Celeste tried to appear fearsome but soon collapsed into giggles. She scooted to the edge of her bed and nibbled on the toast as Graciela ran the hairbrush through her curls, slowly and steadily smoothing them against her wide palm. Between sips of milk, Celeste recounted the film in all its detail, wishing Graciela had been able to come with them and
see it for herself.

  “Maybe I will go. Jueves. Semana próxima.” She paused, giving Celeste an opportunity to translate.

  “Thursday. Next week?”

  She nodded, confirming. “My day off.”

  “Can I go with you?” Often, they’d gone to a matinee together after a lunch at a little restaurant owned by Graciela’s cousin.

  “Veremos. You have school.”

  Celeste wrinkled her nose, even though the manipulative nature of the expression would be lost on Graciela, who sat behind her. “I’ll bet Viola Savoy doesn’t have to go to school.”

  “Come on.” Graciela got up from the bed and nudged Celeste to do the same. “Let’s say prayers.”

  Side by side, they knelt, elbows propped up on the soft mattress. Eyes closed, Celeste prayed thanks for her home and asked blessings on her family and Graciela. “And please, dear heavenly Father, bring Calvin safely home.” At this, she felt Graciela’s soft touch on her back. “And, Lord, before I die, let me be in a movie.”

  Beside her, Graciela made the familiar sign of the cross, saying, “En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo, amén.”

  They said amén together, though long ago Graciela had discouraged Celeste from making the sign of the cross, saying it wasn’t a practice of her family’s church, though Celeste had argued that they only had a church at Christmastime.

  Prayers said, Celeste snuggled under her covers, at ease with the darkness that settled around her, even as it was softened by a stream of light seeping through the door left open a tiny crack. Graciela kissed the top of her head, and her mother and father would likely come in to do the same later in the night.

  Most nights, after all of this, she would succumb to sweet sleep, but tonight a restlessness took root, holding her captive and awake—waiting. Though the image of what she was waiting for remained as elusive as the mysterious Cheshire Cat. Immediately, she supposed, she was waiting for her mother or her father to kiss her good night, even though Mother had certainly gone to bed herself by now and Daddy was known to work in his office until the wee hours in the morning. Calvin’s abrupt departure had cast such a pall on the evening, perhaps she was waiting for him, too, hoping there might be some sort of restoration before they all went to sleep. Not that such a scenario was anywhere near likely. She couldn’t remember the last time her older brother had apologized for anything, nor when either of her parents had compelled him to do any such thing.

  It didn’t help that there were clear signs coming from the house that the evening was progressing without her. She heard laughter coming from downstairs, traveling its echoing path, losing words but bringing mirth. Graciela’s laughter, low and warm, and her father’s, occasionally. He must have been telling her about the movie, the secrets of all the silly moments, not wanting to wait until breakfast time. It wasn’t fair. Celeste wanted to talk about the movie. Tried to, until stupid Calvin made everybody mad. More laughter—loud and then hushed.

  Imagining her shadow-self, Celeste crept out of her bed and to the door, peering through the narrow opening, seeing the empty hallway and her mother’s closed-off room. Safe from detection, she slipped silently down the hall, to the stairs, and winced at the cold tile on her feet. When faced with the choice of running back for her slippers or running down to listen to Daddy’s conversation with Graciela, curiosity won out.

  “Come on,” she whispered to herself, then made her way down, step by step, and sat on the last one. From here not only would she be able to hear them, but she could smell the unmistakable scent of Graciela’s cooking—eggs and peppers and cheese. She could hear the spatula scraping against the iron skillet, and her mind filled in the image of Graciela’s soft, rounded body swaying with the motion.

  At the moment there was a lull in conversation, and Celeste held her breath, fearing they’d detected her presence. She heard a plate being set on the counter and another rustle before her father said, softly, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Arturo. And good night. I’ll clean up the dishes in the morning.”

  Drat. She’d missed everything, until she heard her father say one more word.

  “Stay.”

  He said it like some kind of command, though he was never one to boss Graciela around. Not like Mother, who constantly barked orders from all over the house—get this at the market, clean this, do that. Never with a please or a thank-you. So to hear Daddy speak this one word already brought an uncomfortable unfamiliarity to the conversation in the kitchen. But then, a response Celeste could never have predicted from Graciela.

  “No.”

  It wasn’t much more than a whisper. A tiny breath of a word drifting away like so much smoke.

  No.

  Never, no matter what duty she’d been charged to undertake, had Graciela been defiant. Anytime Celeste had been too demanding, she’d say, “Más tarde, cariña. Maybe this afternoon when I’ve finished the laundry.” But as far as her parents were concerned, she’d been pleasantly compliant. Often indulgent. Until tonight.

  Stay.

  No.

  “Just for a little while. Until I finish eating. Keep me company.”

  “It is late.”

  “It’s not eleven o’clock. Stay with me until Calvin comes home.”

  “No.” Again, stronger this time. “I will see you in the morning, Mr. DuFrane.”

  Then the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping back across the floor, then something like a whimper, then a new kind of silence. Fuller, and it stirred something unfamiliar within her.

  Celeste kept her bottom glued to the step but leaned forward, stretching her neck, hoping to get a peek around the corner. But even if she’d been one of the flamingo mallets from the queen’s croquet game, she couldn’t have seen into the kitchen. She’d have to get up, walk around the corner, stand in that wide, square doorway, risking her own detection to see something she knew would be best kept hidden.

  Still, she stood and took two soft, cold steps, clinging to the banister, as if that would guarantee a quick escape.

  “What are you doing up, kid?”

  She managed to stifle her scream just in time, turning around to see Calvin, uncharacteristically disheveled, holding a warning finger to his lips. He himself had spoken barely above a whisper, his question more of a feeling than a sound, and when he took his finger away, he too gripped the banister, though clearly in an attempt to steady himself. With his free hand, he gripped Celeste’s wrist and pulled her to him and, without another word, led her back to her room.

  “Get in,” he said, gesturing half-interestedly toward her bed. Silently she obeyed. Then, for the first time in memory, he sat down heavily on its edge. “Were you getting a snack?”

  She shook her head, feeling the static against the pillow. “I was listening.”

  His sour breath let out a humorless laugh. “Dad and Graciela?”

  She nodded, and he said something that would have earned a scolding from Mother.

  “Why do you have to be so mean all of the time?”

  His dark hair was mussed from its usual sleekness, and he ran his hand through it, causing even more disruption. “Am I?”

  “Tonight you were. We were all having a lovely time and might have come home to have hot chocolate or something, but you had to go off with your stupid friends and make Mother mad and so nobody said a word.”

  “We weren’t going to have hot chocolate. When was the last time any of us ever sat around to drink hot chocolate? But if that’s what Princess Celeste wants, that’s what she’ll get. I’ve no doubt Graciela is still in the kitchen.”

  He said this last bit with a sneer that made him look diabolical in the dim light. She knew he was thinking mean, awful things, and she felt an ugliness growing beyond their usual filial dislike.

  “Just go. Get out of my room. Nobody ever really wants you around. They didn’t even care when you left. Didn’t say another word about you.”

  He laughed, and the
sound of it proved more frightening than any scowl or sneer. “Do you think I don’t know that already, little sister?”

  There was a hurt buried deep within his words, and she wished she could take her own back.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You might be surprised to learn that things were pretty good before you came along. I remember, when I was a kid, Mom and Dad and me. We used to—they used to talk to me and each other. We’d spend entire days at the park, flying kites. Having picnics . . .”

  He picked one of her dolls up out of the basket by her bed and held it loosely in his hands. “And then you died.”

  Terrified, both of his words and the eerie, tomb-like emptiness of his voice, Celeste clutched her blanket and brought it straight up to her nose.

  “Wait.” He brought the doll up and tapped his forehead against it. “You couldn’t have died, could you? But you did. I remember. That’s when Mom stopped looking at me. When I knew I’d never be enough for her. Because you died for a while. And then—”

  He stopped, looking at her as if seeing his little sister for the first time.

  “And then what?”

  “And then you came back.”

  DANA SEES STARS

  1925

  NO FEWER THAN FIFTEEN dresses lay strewn across the bed, each one a masterpiece of silk and beads and fringe. Celeste stood in front of a full-length, gilded mirror, dressed in nothing more than stockings and a garter belt, holding up yet another—this one festooned with long, black feathers—against her pale skin.

  “Too dramatic?”

  “I’m not one to judge,” Dana said. She sat on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, idly running her thumb and forefinger along the rippling velvet hem of a rich, red garment. “I’ve never been to a—what is it called again?”

  “A premiere. And neither have I, for that matter. Not as a real person, anyway.”

  “A real person?”

  “An actress. Somebody in the film. I’ve always been one of those screamers on the street hoping to grab John Gilbert’s attention.”