Little Sister

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “Wear what you want,” said Beth.

  “I’m going to,” said Francie, staring back at her.

  Downstairs a door slammed, and Beth let out a gasp.

  “How come you’re so jumpy?” said Francie.

  “What was that?”

  “Probably the screen door out front. That always happens in a storm like this. The hook is broken.”

  “Screen door?” said Beth. “It’s January. Didn’t he even put the storm doors up? God.”

  “He didn’t feel good a lot of times. There was too much that needed fixing.”

  Beth thought of her own house and the constant maintenance chores it required. And she had Mike to help her and no teenage girl to worry about. Somewhat chastened, she said, “I’ll look at it.” Francie did not reply.

  Beth left the room and trudged down the stairs. She laid her dress on the banister and went to the front door. Maybe I can wedge the screen shut, she thought, opening the door. I don’t feel like trying to fix it tonight.

  Beth threw open the door, and as she did, dried needles from the brown wreath hanging there showered the front hallway. The red bow tied to it had faded to pink from the exposure to the weather. “We need this like a hole in the head,” she said.

  The screen door flapped and banged as Beth reached behind the wreath and struggled to untwist the wire that secured it to the nail in the door. Needles scattered and clung to her sweater as she attacked the twisted wire with a ferocity it did not warrant. Finally she freed the wreath, and pushing the screen door out, she tossed the wreath into the bushes beside the door.

  That done, she turned her attention to the screen door latch. She flicked it back and forth with her finger, but it was clearly broken. “Didn’t he do anything around here?” she said aloud.

  But even as she said it, she thought again of the sweatshirt dress, and she felt as if something were rising inside of her, closing off her throat. He had made Francie a dress.

  Beth rattled and shook the door latch as if willing it to fix itself. The handle flapped helplessly in her throttling grip. She glared down at the useless catch in disgust.

  The wind moaned around her and the rain spattered her shoulders as she let go of the latch and looked around the doorway for something to use to wedge the door shut.

  At the foot of the stone steps was the day’s newspaper, still rolled up and secured with a rubber band. It’s all wet anyway, Beth thought, spotting it there. /’// tear off a page and fold it up. Clutching her sweater around her, she skipped down the steps and bent over to pick the paper up. As she reached for it her gaze fell on the feet and then the bent legs of a shadowy figure, crouching in the bushes beside the steps.

  Beth screamed and scrambled up, stifling her cry with her fist.

  The figure jerked back, as if ready to run.

  “Show yourself,” Beth demanded in a shaky voice. “I’ll call the cops.”

  The person hesitated and then stood up and edged forward into the arc of the porch light. Beth felt the scowl on her face turn into a blush as she recognized the young man from the convenience store, the one who had driven her to the funeral home. His clean, disheveled dark hair shone in the lamplight. He met her gaze with a wary, slightly sheepish look. His thin shoulders were tensely hunched up in his threadbare overcoat, his hands stuffed in the pockets.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “What are you doing,” Beth demanded, “creeping around here?”

  The boy shrugged. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She was about to protest again when it suddenly occurred to her what he might be doing there. It hardly seemed likely, but she couldn’t think of any other explanation. The boy had tracked her down. She peered at him more closely. He was staring shyly down at his own feet.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said.

  “Surprised you, I guess.”

  This is silly, Beth told herself. But at the same time she could not help feeling a little flattered. She tried to sound stern, but there was a trace of warmth in her tone, and she felt a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, for heaven’s sake, do you always go lurking around in bushes like this?”

  The boy laughed nervously and shrugged again.

  “I don’t remember telling you where to find me,” said Beth.

  “It wasn’t hard. I figured you’d be here,” he said.

  Beth raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Aha, a sleuth.” She tried to keep her tone brisk so as not to appear flustered by this obvious, unexpected display of interest. “Well, I’m flattered that you went to the trouble, but next time I think you’d be better off knocking on the door rather than skulking around like that—”

  Just then a voice behind her cried out, “Andrew,” and Francie came out of the house in her stocking feet, bounded down the steps, and threw herself at the young man. She hugged him around the neck and then quickly let him loose. She grabbed his hand and looked at him with shining eyes.

  “Hey, babe,” he said, giving her a sly smile and squeezing her hand.

  For a moment Beth blinked at them in confusion, and then she felt the color rise to her cheeks.

  “Come inside,” Francie pleaded, dragging him by the hand toward the house. “It’s wet out here. Oh, I’m so glad to see you.” She pulled him to the step and then seemed to recall that Beth was there.

  “Andrew,” she said, “this is my sister, Beth.”

  “I know,” said the boy, grinning and winking at Beth. “I already met her.”

  “You did. When?” asked Francie suspiciously.

  “At the store today,” he said. “I gave her a ride to Sullivan’s.”

  “You did?” Francie frowned at Andrew and then looked at Beth.

  Beth nodded, but her lips were pressed tightly together, and she stared at the boy with narrowed eyes. Andrew avoided looking at her.

  “Well, that was nice of you,” said Francie.

  “Why did you say you didn’t know who I was? Or Francie, for that matter?” asked Beth in a harsh voice.

  Andrew shook his head and waved a hand as if to dismiss it. “It was just a little joke.”

  Beth glared at him. Yeah, and I was the butt of it, she thought.

  “It was easier than explaining,” he said, looking a little uncomfortable. “It was just—I don’t know. I didn’t mean anything by it.” His eyes widened, as if he were hurt by her attitude.

  Beth closed her eyes for a second and tried to stop herself from losing her temper. But she felt ridiculous, like some foolish old maid who thought every man was after her. And he knew he had embarrassed her. She was sure he did.

  “Come on in,” Francie whined. “It’s cold out here.”

  “Go get your shoes,” he said. “We’re going for a walk.”

  “But it’s raining,” Francie protested. Then she looked at Beth and back to Andrew. “Well, yeah, I guess so.”

  “Are you aware,” Beth said in a disapproving tone, “that there has been a death in this family? Do you really think this is the time to be out strolling around town?”

  “We aren’t strolling around,” said Francie in a shrill voice. “We’re just going out for a walk.”

  “Well, pardon me for saying so,” Beth said, clenching her fists, “but it seems a little tacky to me. People generally show a little restraint, you know. A little respect for the dead.”

  Francie turned on Beth indignantly. “We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

  “Never mind, babe,” said Andrew. “Your sister’s the boss. If she says it’s not cool—”

  “Who cares what she says?” said Francie.

  “No, no. I probably shouldn’t have come over. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow anyway. It’s no big deal,” said Andrew, backing away with his hands raised. “You do what your big sister says.”

  Beth looked down at Andrew as if to acknowledge his good sense and thought she saw his eyes piercing her with a look of rage so intense it made his face muscles twitch. But it was
gone in a thrice, like a lightning bolt that flashes so quickly that you cannot say for sure if it was really there.

  “Good night now,” he said, smiling politely.

  Beth looked uneasily into the bland, guileless face. “Good night,” she said, but her voice sounded shaky. She pulled her sweater tightly around her, as if to protect herself from his vicious glance, even though it was nowhere in evidence.

  Francie watched him go with a stricken look and then turned and ran into the house.

  Leaving the screen door to flap, Beth slammed the front door behind her and locked it. She pulled her dress off the banister and went into the kitchen. She tossed the dress on the rocker and leaned back against the sink, pressing her fingers to her eyelids as if she could wipe away the image of Andrew’s menacing gaze. Oh, stop imagining things, she thought. You’re so tired, you’re exaggerating this.

  She turned and began to rummage through the cabinets until she found a box of stale saltines. She reached into the box and numbly began to transfer the crackers to her mouth, shaking her head and staring vacantly out into the kitchen. She felt her face redden as she relived the encounter.

  It was embarrassing to admit to herself that she had tried to belittle Andrew in front of Francie, wanting to pay him back because she had felt humiliated by the boy. But in a way it was a relief to acknowledge it.

  She glanced over at her dress heaped on the chair and decided to hunt up the iron. With a sigh she put the saltine box on the counter and then crouched down and scanned the collection of odds and ends under the sink until she located the iron. Then Beth went to the broom closet, pulled out the ironing board, and set it up. She plugged in the iron and stood waiting for it to heat.

  If she wants to wear an old ragged dress to the funeral and run around all night with her boyfriend, what difference does it make to you? Beth thought. She’s the one who’s got to stay here, not you. And she obviously feels that she’s got nothing to prove.

  Let her be. Let her do what she wants. She’s gotten along without your interference all these years. She and your father. They did just fine without you. So butt out.

  The iron did not hiss, and Beth felt sure it must be broken. She reached down to touch it, and the hot metal burned her finger instantly. She squeezed her hand into a fist and held it to her chest, resisting the pain.

  She walked over to the sink and turned on the cold water with her other hand. Then she stuck her finger under the stream and held it there, staring out the window into the darkness. The shadows of the night moved in shifting patterns from the wind, and for a moment she had the strange feeling that there was still someone out there.

  She smiled ruefully. There is no one out there, she reminded herself. No one at all. You couldn’t be more alone.

  Rubbing her sore hand, she turned back to the ironing board. The rain spit at the windowpanes, and the storm, which had died down for a moment, resumed its restless prowling around the house.

  Chapter 4

  “COME ON, DEAR,” AUNT MAY WHISPERED, NUDGING BETH, as the sounds of the closing hymn swelled from the organ and filled the church. “We go first.”

  Beth felt drowsy and heavy-limbed, as if someone had just awakened her from a drugged sleep. She dragged herself to her feet and blinked at her aunt. May was adjusting her black hat and prodding Francie to her feet as the shining coffin, accompanied by a group of men from the church, passed by the entrance to the pew.

  Somehow Beth had managed to tune it out, not to hear more than a smattering of the words of Uncle James’s tribute from the pulpit to Martin Pearson. She had spent the time studying the familiar altar, thinking about Mike, and wondering if everything was all right at home. She knew what he had been saying. Something about the good Christian, loving father and husband, but she was able to muffle the words with her thoughts of things outside the church, far from this place. Still, the service had seemed interminable, as if she were to spend the rest of her life rooted to the cold wooden bench, captive to the sounds of her uncle’s halting voice, the isolated whimpers, the loud, harsh notes of the organ. She had thought about people in prisons and how they must cope with confinement. She had escaped through her thoughts to other places, but the tension had never left her body.

  Now, to her amazement, it was over. It was as if someone had opened the door to her cell and walked away. She felt dazed and not certain that it wasn’t a grim prank, that if she stood up and started out, she would be rudely pushed back in her place. She could see Francie waiting in the aisle. Aunt May reached for Beth’s arm as she slid out of the pew and then took Francie’s arm and walked slowly between them behind the coffin toward the back of the church.

  Beth kept her gaze focused on the church doors in the back, never once glancing down at the coffin. She could feel the curious gazes of the mourners trained on her. She was a stranger in this town now, and she could imagine their gossip. She was not weeping. Her expression was completely blank. She knew they would talk about that. How life in the city had made her cold and indifferent, taken out her heart and replaced it with a lump of coal.

  Numbly she put one foot in front of the other. She could feel May shaking beside her, and she knew without looking that she was weeping. But there was no way that Beth could accommodate the onlookers. They might be able to point her out to their children, in a way they deemed subtle, as an example of what happened when a young person went away. For a few of those young ones, Beth knew, this would serve only to pique their curiosity. There were always those who wanted to escape.

  True to Uncle James’s prediction, the rain had stopped, although the sky now had the impenetrable, cottony look that often precedes a snowfall. Beth made her way down the steps of the church, helping her aunt along, and watched impassively as the coffin was loaded into Sullivan’s ancient hearse. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the others exiting the church and gathering behind them in a ragged horseshoe formation as the church bell tolled its doleful notes.

  The undertaker sidled up beside Beth, causing her to jump, and pressed the long stem of a red carnation into her hands. “For the grave,” he whispered, in answer to her questioning look. “To place on the casket.”

  “Oh,” said Beth. Having tucked the carnation under her arm, she reached into her handbag and pulled out her dark glasses, which she quickly put on. There was no sun in sight, but at least they offered her some shelter from curious eyes.

  The undertaker had given May and Francie each a flower and was now instructing them to pile into the old Lincoln and they would follow the hearse the short distance to the cemetery. Beth could see the black-garbed people scattering to their cars like crows in flight as she wedged herself into the back seat beside May.

  The silence in the car was oppressive as they sat waiting in the church driveway. The driver, clearly a local farmer who was moonlighting for Sullivan’s, chewed gum in a quiet, steady roll of the jaw.

  “What are we waiting for?” Beth asked impatiently.

  “Uncle James is going with us,” said May.

  Beth stared out the tinted window of the car at her uncle, whose vestments were billowing in the wind, the skin on his face and hands ruddy from the cold as he nodded in hushed conversation with stragglers, slowly making his way toward the car.

  “It was a nice service,” said May.

  Francie pushed her glasses up on her nose after wiping her eyes underneath them. “God,” she said, “I hate this.”

  Beth sighed and looked away with dull eyes, grateful again for her dark glasses. Not too much longer, she thought. She felt something slimy on her fingers and looked down. She had absentmindedly crushed and rolled the petals of the carnation in her fingers. May saw her glance. “Don’t worry,” she whispered as the car door opened and Uncle James got in. “We’ll get you another one.”

  The car started to roll slowly in the direction the hearse had already gone.

  By the time they reached the parsonage, after the cemetery, the kitchen table in Aunt
May’s house was already laden with plates and casserole dishes full of food. Beth was a little surprised to see the spread, considering that she had hardly recognized any of the people at the funeral. I’m the uncharitable one, she thought. I’m the one who is judging them, not the other way around.

  There was a buzz of quiet conversation in the house, and as Beth made her way through the crowded living room, she was greeted with handshakes and awkward, brief squeezes. She responded as courteously as she knew how.

  She went upstairs to her aunt and uncle’s bedroom and put her coat down on the bed along with all the others piled there. Then she went into the bathroom and fixed her makeup in preparation for facing the people downstairs again. When she came out of the bathroom, she saw a young women of about her own age sitting in the window seat waiting for a turn. The woman had a wide face and a short cap of curly red hair. It took Beth only a moment to place her.

  “Cindy?” she asked.

  The woman stood up and nodded, reaching out a hand to Beth. She gave Beth an apologetic smile. “So sorry about your dad,” she said.

  “Cindy Ballard,” said Beth, shaking the girl’s hand, remembering her as she had seen her last, in their high school days when they had walked home from school together and shared dateless Saturday nights. “God, it’s good to see you. It was so nice of you to come. It’s been years.”

  “I know. How are you? You look great.”

  “Thanks,” said Beth, clinging to the woman’s hand, happy to see someone who had once been a friend. She studied the other woman’s clear eyes, her neat figure in a plain navy dress. “You look good yourself. Tell you the truth, I’m so glad to see someone I really know. I hardly recognize most of these people.”

  “I don’t know. Old-timers, I guess,” she said with a bemused smile.

  “I guess some of them might have worked with my father,” Beth observed.