Wrath of the Sister

by Shannon Heuston

  “It smells like he sucks on shit,” was Agnes’s no-frills assessment.

  At first, I thought this was merely a new improved complaint, but after getting a whiff, I had to agree. Not only was John’s hygiene questionable, he referred to women as broads, which irritated me.

  It was painful to be in his company. Yet Laurel was obsessed with him and dragged him to every family function, although he didn’t want to come, and we didn’t want him there.

  Last Thanksgiving, Agnes insisted he stole six hundred dollars out of her purse. “Why did you have six hundred dollars in your purse?” I asked.

  She glared at me. “What kind of question is that? Since you must know, he pays me in cash.” He was her client’s son. Until her death, my mother worked as a home health aide.

  “Oh,” I said. “Are you sure you didn’t spend it at the grocery store buying food for Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “Why, do you think I’m a crazy old woman who spends six hundred dollars at the store then accuses everyone of stealing it?”

  Yes, as a matter of fact. “Sometimes I spend more than I realize, that’s all I’m saying,” I told her.

  “Hmph,” was Agnes’s last word on the subject.

  I didn’t believe John stole her money. He was shady, sure, but he wasn’t a thief. Even so, I never left my purse unattended around him. Better safe than sorry.

  I wish Agnes could have seen her favorite daughter, the chosen one, planning to sell the house before her body was even cold. Agnes died without a will, so Laurel’s lawful share of the house was much larger than mine. My sister behaved as if she was unaware that Agnes wanted us to split the house. Instead, she planned to take what was legally hers. In Laurel’s mind, it was fair because she needed the money more than I did.

  My biggest regret was not the money, but the lost opportunity to say I told you so to Agnes. She fucked me over one last time by dying.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I didn’t realize Agnes’s death would leave such a gaping hole in my life. I was alone in the world, and the realization hit me full force.

  This was eating a TV dinner on Christmas kind of alone. Being the sad single coworker at someone else’s Thanksgiving table alone. Buying your own birthday cake alone.

  It was terrifying. Agnes and I may have had a stormy relationship, but she was still my mother. She was always there for me, even if she said the wrong thing. She cared when I was sick. She worried when I was late. She waited up when I went on a date. She remembered my birthday and noticed when I cut my hair.

  It was a startling revelation after her death to realize no one cared about me anymore. I was alone.

  Well, not completely alone. I had Laurel. Not the greatest sister, no, but at least she’d invite me over for the holidays and buy me a birthday card.

  Laurel and I never had a “call each other up and chat” kind of relationship. It was more of a “stiff exchange of pleasantries in forced holiday encounters” kind of relationship, but neither of us made much of an effort.I resented her golden child status, and no doubt she didn’t want to risk that by aligning with me. But that could change. I vowed to reach out more, take an interest in her life, get to know oddball John and perhaps slip him a breath mint.

  As part of my new resolve, I called her one day after work. It went straight to voicemail so quickly I knew she declined the call. I bit the inside of my cheek as I listened to her cheery greeting, then after the beep said, “It’s Melody. Give me a call when you get a chance.”

  I watched TV with the phone in my hand. I just wanted to hear a familiar voice on the line, to listen to words that came from someone who cared.

  The phone finally buzzed with a text. Sorry, John and I are out to dinner. Call you later?

  Laurel didn’t call me later.

  I truly was alone. The worst thing about it was the neediness. Interactions that once held zero importance became meaningful. I tried to chat up the girl who made my coffee each morning at Dunkin Donuts, feeling like one of those people who keep telemarketers on the phone because they’re lonely. I became more active on Facebook, trying to invent excuses to hang out with former high school classmates. I started a book club, then cried in the middle of Panera Bread when no one showed up to our first meeting.

  I wanted to turn to Laurel in our shared grief, but the funny thing was, Laurel didn’t seem to be grieving. “We need to sell this house,” she declared whenever she stopped by to pick up her mail. “You can’t afford to keep coming up with the mortgage, and I can’t help you out.”

  I took a deep breath and counted to ten. I didn’t want to fight with Laurel, but she could move back into the house to help with the bills. She just didn’t want to. She and John were sharing his cramped apartment in Hartsdale, where she moved after Nathan’s high school graduation. I had a dim idea that she was in debt, because a lot of scary looking envelopes were coming to the house, some bearing the official seal of the IRS.

  “I’m the homeowner now,” she said another time. “And I say we sell. Help me pack this place up, and I’ll give you a portion of the proceeds.”

  Say what? Agnes had always been vocal about leaving the house to both of us, no matter what it said on paper. Now Laurel was acting like the house was left to her alone.

  “You’re not the homeowner,” I said. “Maybe you owned half the house, but part of it passed to me.” A small part, because by law Agnes’s remaining share had to be split between the two of us.

  “Sure,” Laurel said, tossing her head. “And I told you, I’ll give you your percentage when the house sells. This house could be worth as much as six hundred thousand if we fix it up.” She shot a look at me, letting me know this was my responsibility.

  I said nothing. These days I was keeping my mouth shut. But I had a sneaking suspicion I would wind up with a tiny portion of the proceeds from the sale of the house, if I got anything at all. And Laurel was going to manipulate me into doing all the work into fixing it up, too.

  “I don’t want to sell,” I said. “I’ll get a roommate.”

  Laurel’s face contorted in rage, then relaxed. “I understand. You need time to mourn Mom. But you’ve got to let go. Soon you’ll see.”

  Yeah, I needed to let go all right. If you asked me, Laurel had let go much too quickly. One would think she didn’t care. Which meant she didn’t care about me, either. She didn’t have my best interests at heart. Something I would do well to remember.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I need a favor,” Laurel’s breathy voice said in my ear.

  It was June. Agnes had been dead five months. In all that time, despite many attempts to reach out and touch her, Laurel never returned a single phone call. I knew she must need something when her name flashed up on my phone’s screen. She wouldn’t be calling me otherwise.

  That was another one of Agnes’s complaints towards the end, that Laurel only called when she wanted something.

  “Shoot,” I said, already planning to say no. It was only what she deserved. As she talked, I perused Craig’s List, looking for a roommate. The mortgage and other bills ate up my savings, forcing me to cash in my 401K to stay afloat. Something had to give soon. I needed to either get a roommate or a job that paid more.

  “How would you like to go on a blind date?”

  I blinked. Those were the last words I expected Laurel to say. She’d never shown the slightest interest in my love life.

  “It depends on with whom,” I said.

  “He’s a cute fireman in his mid-forties, blonde, blue eyed, with a tragic past.”

  That was intriguing. “What’s so tragic about it?”

  “His fiancée was murdered!” Laurel exclaimed.

  I rolled my eyes. “Damn. Sign me up. Seriously, Laurel?”

  “It’s not like that,” she said. “He’s not stuck on her or anything. He just never got married. But he says he wants to.” A wheedling tone entered her voice.

  “How do you know him?” I asked.

&nbs
p; “He’s John’s brother,” she said.

  Fuck. I had a weakness for blondes with tragic pasts, but not dumb ones with idiot relatives. I wondered if his breath also smelled like shit. “No,” I said. I was proud of myself. It was hard for me to say no.

  But Laurel wasn’t used to hearing the word no. She didn’t care if my refusal represented personal growth. “Oh, come on!” she whined. “Just one date! One! No one’s asking you to marry him. Give him a chance.”

  “What’s in it for you?” I asked.

  Her voice dropped. “He hangs around here a lot, and you know, three’s a crowd. I feel like we have no privacy. He’s always here. So, John had this brainstorm, that you’re lonely, and Sam’s lonely, so maybe the two of you can be less lonely together!”

  Yeah, right. I didn’t believe this was John’s idea for a single second. “Now it’s a hell no,” I said.

  “Ugh, you’re so judgmental. You’re missing out. Sam’s a nice guy.”

  “I heard Ted Bundy was, too.” This was a nod to Agnes stating John reminded her of a serial killer. “If that’s all, I’ll be going. My lonely life awaits.”

  The silence seemed to ring once I hung up the phone. I felt a pang of regret for a moment. Would it have been that much trouble to sit through a meal with John’s brother? At least it was a night out. Instead, I was eating Ramen noodles because I couldn’t afford to buy groceries. What was wrong with me?

  As I was preparing for bed, my phone chimed with a text. It was from Laurel. There was no message, just a photo of a handsome, blonde man tanned a delectable shade of golden brown, just enough to bring out the blue in his eyes.

  I gasped, then typed, Sold.

  It was to be a double date. “We’ll meet up at my place at seven on Saturday for drinks,” Laurel told me, “then we’ll go out to dinner.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked. This was important information. I wanted to drool over the menu beforehand. When you’re so poor all you eat is peanut butter and Ramen noodles, going out to a restaurant on someone else’s dime is a treat.

  “I don’t know,” Laurel snapped. “The guys are paying, so they’ll pick the restaurant.”

  I spent hours studying Sam’s photo, like a drowning swimmer glimpsing shore. It was him, finally, after all this time. The love of my life. My destiny.

  I knew those were the delusions of an old maid. Embarrassing. But I couldn’t help myself from thinking this was it. This was my happy ending.

  Laurel was full of instructions in the days leading up to what I had begun to caption in my mind as The Date. I found this a bit insulting. She acted like I was a five-year-old, apt to blurt out whatever inappropriate thought popped into my head.

  “Don’t bring up the dead fiancée,” she ordered. “That’s a sore subject.”

  “No shit,” I said. “I’m not that socially inept. But say, since we’re on the topic, what’s the story?” I kept my voice casual, but I was dying to hear the latest version.

  “I don’t know if I ever told you, but John’s from this little town in the Lake George region, called St. Anne’s,” Laurel said. “They lived way out in the middle of nowhere, in this cabin in the woods. The girl, her name was Lucy, was their closest neighbor. They all grew up together. Lucy and Sam got engaged right after graduation. It’s what they do up there. Anyway, they decided to wait to get married. She went away to SUNY Potsdam for college, while Sam went to Hudson Valley Community College. They planned to tie the knot once they finished their education.” She paused.

  “Go on,” I pressed.

  “It happened a year or so later. It was the weekend after Thanksgiving. Lucy came home for the holiday, but she was headed back to campus. The gas station nearby had recently installed cameras at the pump, and there was footage of her gassing up for the trip. She was never seen or heard from again. Her car was found in the parking lot behind her dorm, but no one on campus saw her arrive. Her body was discovered a week or so later by two hikers on an unseasonably warm day, in the woods behind her house.”

  “How was she killed?” I asked.

  “She was strangled. She’d also been beaten and raped, but there was no sperm present. Sam has always been under suspicion for her death, although he was devastated. John said there were rumors they broke up that weekend because Lucy wanted to date a guy who lived on her hall. Fortunately, Sam had an alibi. He was at a frat house attending a party with a date. The police argued he still could have committed the murder, since St. Anne’s is only an hour from Albany. But they couldn’t explain how Lucy’s car wound up on campus, over three hours away. There were no cameras at the college back then to record who came and went. It’s still a mystery.”

  “Such an awful story,” I said.

  “Isn’t it though? That’s why John and I think you’d be perfect for each other. Sam needs an empathetic soul. Someone like you.”

  I smiled into the phone. “Someone exactly like me,” I agreed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I spent hours preparing for my date with Sam. I started getting ready at two in the afternoon, beginning with a soak in a bubble bath. Then I shaved my legs and exfoliated, after which I confronted my image in the mirror. I was red faced and sweating, not glowing and radiant. I turned to get the side view, zeroing in on the spare tire around my middle, a telltale sign of aging. At least my hair was still dark, although it was frizzy and full of knots.

  All I needed was to lose twenty pounds. And years. That wasn’t too tall an order, was it?

  I braided my hair and let it fall over one shoulder, donned an empire waist dress and ballet flats. At least I looked younger. And I still had beautiful blue eyes, shapely calves, and a nice ass, according to some men I dated in the past. Tonight, that would have to be enough.

  Butterflies fluttered in the pit of my stomach as I mounted the stairs to Laurel and John’s apartment. She already had the door open by the time I reached the landing. “He’s not here yet,” she whispered.

  “I hope he’s going to show up,” I said. What if he saw my photo and decided he wanted nothing to do with me?

  Laurel scoffed. “He’s going to show up! I told you he’s a fireman, right?” I nodded. “He’s just getting off a twenty-four-hour shift and had to run home to shower and change.”

  I suppressed a groan when I spied John sitting on the couch, dressed in a polo shirt and clean jeans, what passed for dressing up in his universe. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  I forced a smile. “I’m going to hold off till we get to the restaurant.” Taking a deep breath, I sat down on the flowered armchair across from him. It was new. It looked like it came from Ethan Allen. Laurel probably added it to her enormous credit card debt, unable to stop herself. She liked nice things.

  “You and your brother don’t look at all alike,” I said into the silence. Thank God, I added in my head.

  “We’re adopted,” he replied. “Our mom was barren.”

  Only a man that hated women would burden his own mother with such a negative descriptor. I was trying to think of a response when the front door to the apartment burst open.

  “Yoo-hoo!” a voice called. “Anybody home?”

  My heart began to thump. It was him, after so many years of hoping, wishing, and praying. Sam.

  He strolled into the living room and looked down at me, beaming. “Melody, right?” he said with a grin. He tapped the side of his head. “I never forget a name. Particularly a pretty one like that.”

  Laurel came bustling out of the bedroom where she’d been making last-minute preparations. The synthetic eyelashes she’d applied to her eyelids looked ridiculously fake. “There she is,” she announced, pointing to me. “My sister, Melody.”

  “We’ve met,” Sam said with a grin. “No need for introductions.”

  This put her at a loss for words. “Well, great,” she said. “Do you want a drink before we head out? We made an eight o’clock reservation at this Italian place.”

  Instead of replying,
Sam looked me up and down. I blushed. There was not the slightest hint of revulsion or dismay on his handsome face, just appreciation. I might be middle aged, but I was still an attractive woman. I breathed a secret sigh of relief.

  “Did they have to twist your arm to make you go out with me?” he asked, hands on hips.

  The room exploded into laughter, John’s stupid toothbrush mustache bristling with mirth. I relaxed. “Something like that,” I said, tilting my head to the side while I regarded him through my eyelashes.

  Sam reached down to help me to my feet. “Well, let’s go then. I have this wonderful, intimate little place in mind,” he said.

  I glanced at my sister. “I don’t think Laurel’s ready yet.”

  Sam pulled a comical face. “Laurel. We ain’t waiting for Laurel, sweetie, ‘cause we’ll be waiting all night. She’s got a reservation to make, anyway. I want this to be a real date. Just you and me.”

  A real date. I gulped. “That’s good,” I said. “I mean, yes.”

  That set everyone off into peals of laughter again. I ignored it and put my hand in his. That butterfly fluttering intensified into a fierce tingling that spread from the tips of my fingers into my belly down to my toes. Every cell in my body quivered as Sam looked into my eyes. I didn’t flinch from the burning passion in that gaze. I embraced it, welcomed it, thought finally, it’s happening.

  The years fell away, leaving me a trembling schoolgirl in the blush of first love.

  I was accustomed to driving myself to meet dates outside cheap chain restaurants where I was expected to order off the two for twenty menu. Instead, Sam helped me into his truck, opening the door for me like a real gentleman and buckling my seat belt. The brush of his hand against my lower belly set every nerve ending on fire. I squirmed in my seat.

  “I’m taking you to this little French place I know,” he said. “It’s kind of a hole in the wall, but I know the owner and the food is superb.”

  I licked my lips. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, but with me it was inevitable. “Sounds great,” I said, wishing I could think up a less lame response. “Um, so, how long have you known John?” I realized my gaffe as soon as the words finished leaving my mouth and blushed bright red. God. What a moron. Way to not say the wrong thing, genius.