Sis Boom Bah

by Jane Heller

  “Maybe she’s hiding her light under a bushel too,” I offered, “although she’s an only child; no older sister to outshine.”

  “Yes, but she’s got a mother.” Aunt Harriet nodded toward Aunt Shirley, who was thin and beautiful and tastefully outfitted, everything her daughter wasn’t. “Sometimes that’s worse.”

  At one-thirty, Sharon, from whom I had successfully kept my distance until then, announced that lunch was served. I went into the dining room where I spotted my mother, admiring the sumptuous offerings Sharon had not only arranged attractively but prepared herself, with her own two hands. Yes, she had put the entire meal together without a caterer. She did it all, my sister.

  “Deborah. There you are, dear,” said my mother, motioning for me to join her.

  We sampled the buffet together. She oohed and aahed at the overabundance of food (while I kept thinking about the starving people in China), and then oohed and aahed at the spectacularly decorated chocolate cake that Sharon and Paula carried in from the kitchen. They set it down on the table and everybody sang “Happy Birthday.”

  “Okay, Mom,” said Sharon. “Time to blow out the candles—seventy-five of them.”

  My mother demurred, said she couldn’t believe she was old enough for seventy-five candles, and asked her “two girls” to help her blow them out. I peeked over at Sharon. I could tell she hated the idea of being lumped together with her no-good younger sister, who was too busy writing for a soap opera to attend her son’s graduation. Still, she forced a smile and the three of us blew. It was a beautiful thing.

  The party lasted for another couple of hours or so. By four-thirty, my mother and I were standing outside, in front of Sharon’s McMansion, waiting for the gangster-valet parking attendant to bring the car around. Sharon was there too, checking my mother’s shopping bags to make sure she hadn’t forgotten any of the presents people had brought her. I watched my sister as she kept busying herself, anything so as not to have to interact with me.

  “Sharon,” I said when I couldn’t take it anymore. “The party was a big success. And to think you pulled it off by yourself.”

  She glared at me. “What choice did I have? You were too consumed with your life in New York to pitch in.”

  I sighed. “I didn’t even know about the party until Mom told me about it.”

  We both looked over at our mother, who was chatting animatedly with Sharon’s assistant and paying no attention to us.

  “And what happened after she told you about it?” my sister demanded. “Did you pick up the phone and call me? Did you offer to help?”

  “How could I call you?” I said, immediately on the defensive. “You weren’t speaking to me.”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you? You were the one who wasn’t speaking to me,” she insisted. “Two years ago you made a remark that was incredibly demeaning to me and then you slammed down the phone in my ear.”

  “No, Sharon. That wasn’t the way it was at all. You made a remark that was incredibly demeaning to me and then you slammed down the phone in my ear. I remember it very clearly. Every word. I’ve been replaying the incident in my mind ever since.”

  “Every word? Gee, Deborah. It sounds like you should get a life.”

  “I should get a life?” I said hotly. “I’m not the one who can’t go fifteen minutes without marrying somebody.”

  “No. You’re the one who’s gone fifteen years without marrying somebody.”

  “There. That’s the same demeaning remark you made two years ago. Maybe you need new material, Sharon.”

  She flared her nostrils and tossed back her brassy head. I could tell she was gearing up for the Big insult, the Knock-out Punch, the Grand Finale. I didn’t want to hear it.

  “Timeout,” I said before she could utter another word. “The party may be over, but it’s still Mom’s birthday. We should at least make an attempt to get along. For her sake. It doesn’t matter which of us was wrong two years ago, it really doesn’t. What matters is that we’re adults and, regardless of who did what to whom, we should move on, forget the past. How about it, Sharon?”

  Just then, I caught a glimpse of my mother’s Delta 88 lumbering into the driveway. I looked expectantly at my sister, hoping she would grab the olive branch I’d extended to her in time to show my mother that all was well between us, but she turned away in a huff.

  I shrugged and walked toward the car. I waited while my mother kissed Sharon goodbye. When she was ready to leave, I offered to drive us back to Stuart. She said she wasn’t tired and wanted to take the wheel herself. We got into the car.

  As she was positioning herself atop her telephone book, I stuck my head out the window, waved to Sharon, and thanked her again for having the party. She responded by mouthing the words “Fuck you.”

  “Can I ask you something, Mom?” I said as she was releasing the emergency brake and placing her foot on the accelerator.

  “Of course, dear.”

  “Was Sharon a colicky baby?”

  Chapter Four

  As soon as we got back to the house, my mother toddled off to her bedroom to take a nap. When I tiptoed in an hour later, she was still out cold and slept straight through until the next morning.

  “I don’t know what hit me,” she said when I came down for breakfast. “I didn’t persuade you to spend the weekend with me so I could poop out on you.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” I asked. My mother had never been one for naps, especially those that lasted twelve hours.

  “I’m fine,” she said, waving off my concern. “It must have been the excitement of the party. What’s bothering me is that I wasn’t very good company for you last night. I left you all by yourself.”

  “I’m used to being by myself,” I assured her. “When I saw you were sound asleep, I went out on the deck, read a book, looked at the water, listened to the breeze. It was the first relaxing evening I’ve had in ages.”

  “You remind me so much of your father,” she laughed ruefully. “He used to call this spot his Shangri-la, remember?”

  “I do,” I said, picturing my father outside the house, down by the river, nestled in the hammock he had strung between two palms and announcing to nobody in particular, “This is my Shangri-la.” Back in Connecticut, he was the very important Dr. Henry Peltz, always working late, always getting up in the middle of the night to rescue a patient, always on the run—a dedicated physician who was worshiped by the sick and the infirm and hardly ever home. But when he was in Florida, he was just plain laid-back Dad, swimming in the ocean, picking bananas and mangos and avocados from the trees on the property, going fishing with the man who lived next door, snoozing in the hammock. In Sewall’s Point, his rhythm slowed to a nice, easy crawl. In Sewall’s Point, Sharon and I finally had a crack at getting his attention.

  “Would you like it if I moved here, Mom?” I asked, wondering if she was lonely without my father around, even though she rarely spoke of her true feelings.

  “The important thing is whether moving here would make you happy. Would it?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I’ve been going on and on about all the stress I’m under in New York. But what if my problems have nothing to do with geography? Sharon lives down here and she’s not happy.”

  “Sure she is, dear.”

  “How can you tell with her?”

  “Deborah. You can see that she’s made a full life for herself here. She has a loving son, lots of friends, a beautiful home, a successful business. She’s so competent, such a go-getter.”

  So competent. Such a go-getter. As opposed to me, did she mean? I wasn’t exactly an underachiever by anyone’s standards. I had a career in the glamorous world of daytime television, with a six-figure income to match. And yet, if I was such a go-getter, why wasn’t I going or getting anywhere? I’d spent over ten years working for From This Day Forward—the first four in the production department, the last six as a breakdown writer. Why then, with my vast experience, hadn’t I even been co
nsidered as Woody’s replacement after the network decided to dump him? Why was it assumed that Deborah Peltz was fine where she was? Why did I have the sense that my star wasn’t on the rise anymore, that my life was stalled, that my arrow wasn’t pointing up?

  Maybe I’ve been hiding my light under a bushel both professionally and personally, I thought, recalling my conversation with Aunt Harriet. Maybe I really was afraid of outshining Sharon. And maybe it was time to snap out of it.

  “If you like, dear, I could try to reach Melinda Carr at home today, about the job with the Historical Society,” said my mother. “Talking to her now would give you a head start if you decide you do want to relocate here at some point.”

  “Why not? It would be great if you could call her, Mom.”

  She patted my shoulder. “You eat your breakfast and I’ll go into the bedroom and find Melinda’s number. This will all work out, you’ll see.”

  I smiled at my mother. “You are definitely the most positive person I know,” I told her. “Doesn’t anything ever depress you?”

  She was about to respond when she stopped herself, almost as if an invisible hand had reached out and clamped her mouth shut.

  “Mom? Were you going to say something?” I asked.

  “Only that there isn’t a moment to waste,” she said finally, and hurried out of the kitchen.

  Melinda Carr lived with her husband in a tastefully restored hundred-year-old house along the south fork of the St. Lucie River. The place was very charming in that sort of grandma-ish, doilies-and-lace way that many historic homes and B&Bs are famous for. As for Melinda herself, she was as stiff and humorless as the house’s creaky floors. I guessed she was in her fifties, a tall, thin brunette with the best posture—and vocabulary—I’d ever seen. When she opened the door to let me in, shoulders back, head erect, she spotted the gardening tools her husband had forgotten to remove from the front steps, frowned, and said apologetically, “He was endeavoring to effectuate all of his chores before shaking off the yoke of domestication and escaping to the golf course. Pardon the detritus.”

  “No problem,” I said, thinking Melinda was probably a killer at Scrabble.

  We sat next to each other on the white wicker loveseat in her sunroom, sipped tea, and got down to the business of the job at the Historical Society.

  “Your mother indicated that you’re contemplating a move to the Stuart area,” said Melinda, “and that you’ll be looking for work, if you do move here. Are you familiar with the House of Refuge?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “My father used to take me there to see the turtles they had in the aquarium back then. Afterwards, we’d go swimming at Bathtub Reef Beach, so I could check out the surfers.”

  “How nice,” said Melinda with a note of condescension. Perhaps surfers were detritus, in her opinion. Or was it the turtles? “Actually, I was inquiring whether you were familiar with the building’s historical significance, its raison d’être, if you will.”

  “Well, I know that it’s the oldest standing structure in Martin County,” I ventured, “and that it was built as a place where shipwrecked sailors could come out of bad weather.”

  “Yes. After each storm, its keeper would walk the beach to search for survivors.”

  “Is that what you’d want me to do as a keeper? Search for survivors after storms?” Maybe I wasn’t qualified for the job after all. I’d failed Junior Lifesaving in summer camp.

  “No,” said Melinda. “When we use the term keeper now, we mean a site manager or caretaker. Jody Callahan operates the museum, Betty Newcombe recruits and trains our volunteers, Linda Rubin runs the gift shop, and Doreen Keefer approaches the people in Tallahassee about grant money. What we would need you to do is live in the cottage adjacent to the House of Refuge, to keep an eye on things and to contact the county building maintenance department when there are problems. It’s a restful, undemanding job. If you’re the type of person who doesn’t mind being alone a good deal of the time.”

  “I don’t mind being alone,” I said, having just told my mother the same thing.

  “Do I assume correctly that you’re unattached?”

  “Yes.”

  “No beau in the picture?”

  “No beau.”

  “No disgruntled ex-husband who might come to town and provoke an unfortunate situation?”

  I laughed. “No. Why would you ask that?”

  “Because the Historical Society has an impeccable reputation in the community. If the keeper of the House of Refuge were to bring unwanted publicity to the building or to our organization, it would be unpleasant for everyone.”

  “Not to worry,” I said. “I lead a very quiet life.”

  “Excellent. According to your mother, you’ve been a scrivener up in New York.”

  “A what?”

  “An inditer.”

  “I don’t—”

  “A writer.”

  “Oh. Yes. I’ve been a writer for From This Day Forward. It’s a daytime drama. A soap opera.”

  Melinda’s jaw dropped.

  Well, there goes the job, I thought, figuring Melinda had pegged me for the kind of person who would bring ignominy and disgrace upon the Historical Society, because of all the sordid storylines I’d dreamed up for some low-brow television program. I was tempted to inform little Miss Priss that From This Day Forward had won numerous Emmys and that some of our most avid fans were members of the clergy. But before I could get a word out, she said, “Your mother didn’t mention that you write for that particular program. You see, I’ve been watching it since I was twenty and videotape every single episode.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief. “It’s nice to meet a loyal viewer.”

  She nodded, then pumped me for information about the actors on the show. When she got to Philip, I cut her off. “About the keeper’s job. I’m definitely interested. The problem is, I don’t know when I’m going to make the move to Florida. I may get cold feet once I’m back in New York. Do you have a deadline for filling the position?”

  “The current keeper is leaving at the end of this week, and we’d like to have the new keeper settled in by the beginning of March, although we’d be willing to wait for the right candidate.” She paused. “Let me be direct, Deborah. You’re exactly the sort of mature, dependable person we’re looking for. The House of Refuge would be in responsible hands if you were caring for it, I’m certain. We wouldn’t have to worry about any bacchanalia with you installed on the property.”

  “No, Melinda. I wouldn’t be having any wild parties,” I reassured her. “In any case, I’ll keep in touch with you over the next few weeks and let you know whether I’m really heading South. How’s that?”

  “Perfect.”

  We got up from the loveseat and walked to the door.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I said as we shook hands.

  “Thank you for coming—and for the soap opera gossip. I must admit that the other applicants I’ve interviewed for the position haven’t provided nearly the divertimento that you have.”

  “Divertimento?”

  “Yes. You know. Divertissement.”

  “You’re saying you had fun, is that it?”

  “Irrefragably.”

  I navigated my mother’s Delta 88 into her driveway and found her out in front of the house, weeding. She was wearing sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, and loose-fitting clothes to protect her from the midday sun, but her face was flushed and damp with perspiration and she seemed a little out of breath.

  “Tell me what happened with Melinda,” she urged, wiping her brow. “I want to hear every detail.”

  “I’ll give you a blow-by-blow account over lunch and a swim,” I suggested. “I’ll make us some sandwiches, and we can load the cooler, beach chairs, and umbrella into the car and drive over to Bathtub Beach. And while we’re in the vicinity, I’d like to pass by the House of Refuge, so I can get a look at the keeper’s cottage. What do you say?”

  “Oh,
Deborah.” She beamed. “Does that mean Melinda offered you the job?”

  “Irrefragably,” I told her.

  The keeper’s cottage, I observed as I peeked out the car window, was a little white dollhouse, perched smack atop a craggy stretch of land overlooking the Atlantic. It had seen better days and it wasn’t the first place you’d choose if you wanted to be out of harm’s way during a hurricane, but it was everybody’s idea of a romantic retreat—a picturesque, loaded-with-charm beach bungalow that screamed peace and quiet and solitude, literally a “house of refuge” for a stressed-out city girl.

  “If you decide to take up painting again, dear, I can’t imagine a more scenic spot,” said my mother.

  “Neither can I,” I agreed, recalling from my college years how beautiful the beach looked at night, when the sightseers were gone and the place was deserted. Even on a stormy night, especially on a stormy night, the sea was magical.

  “But it might be lonely living all the way out here,” said my mother.

  “Lonely? Nah. I’ll be a happy hermit, just like Glenn Ford in the movie A Stolen Life. He played a lighthouse keeper, remember?”

  “I don’t think I saw that movie.”

  “Sure you did, Mom. Bette Davis played identical twins, one nice, one bitchy.”

  “Deborah. This isn’t leading up to another discussion of your relationship with Sharon, is it?”

  “No,” I laughed. “It really was a movie. Both sisters were in love with Glenn Ford.”

  “I see. A love triangle. Did he have to choose between them in the end?”

  I shook my head. “Things got extremely complicated in that movie. There was a shocking death that spun the story in a whole different direction.”

  She chuckled. “Real life isn’t nearly as eventful as a Bette Davis movie, is it?”

  “Not usually,” I said, clueless that mine was about to be.