Little Sister (23 page)

Beth shook her head. “I don’t want to be the boring older sister. Besides, I don’t think she’s all that interested in my life.”

“So you censor everything you want to say. You’re cautious. You worry about what she will think. But the best thing about family is that you’re entitled to be yourself, even if you’re being a jerk. And they’re entitled to tell you to stuff it. The whole idea is that in your family you are free.”

“Your family must have been different from mine,” said Beth. “It must have been fun.”

“Just the way our family is going to be,” he said. “But let’s start with you and your sister.”

Beth sighed, and stood up. She paced the living room while Mike drained his coffee, waiting for her to speak. Finally she stopped pacing and looked at him.

“Do you know, something so odd happened last night?”

“What?”

“I was in bed, getting ready to go to sleep, and she had her door open down the hall. I was going to close my door, the way I usually do. And then I decided to leave it open.”

Mike nodded.

“I imagined that I could hear her breathing—you know, sleep breathing. I’m sure I couldn’t actually hear it. She was too far down the hall. But I felt this peaceful feeling. I hadn’t felt it in years. It had to do with her just being there, sleeping in that other room.”

“It’s called security,” said Mike.

“I have security with you,” said Beth.

“It’s something different. I know what you mean. I feel it whenever I stay with one of my brothers or sisters. Especially my brother Ron. Whenever I stay at his place or he stays at mine, it’s like we’re safe, being there together. I’m not sure what it is we’re safe from. Maybe it’s like going back to childhood and not knowing the things that grown-ups know and worry about.”

Beth nodded and looked at him in genuine surprise. “Yes,” she said. “That’s it. Safe. Isn’t that odd?” She walked to the foot of the stairs and looked up toward the rooms above. “I hardly know her.”

“I’m telling you,” said Mike. “It’s in the blood.”

Beth turned and looked at him with an eyebrow raised. “In the blood. I see. That’s a very scientific way for a doctor to talk.”

“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

“Thank you, Will Shakespeare,” said Beth wryly.

Mike shrugged. “I believe it.”

But Beth was not listening. She stared up the empty stairwell, hugging the newel-post. The expression in her eyes was at once intent and perplexed as if she had sent a question up into the darkness and were waiting there, patiently, for her answer.

HE WAITED UNTIL SIX O’CLOCK,
when the darkness outside was complete and almost everyone would be home from work, huddling inside to avoid the cold, probably eating supper. Then he began.

First he went downstairs and opened the door that connected the garage to the basement. Using a flashlight, he located his old bike and tried walking it around the perimeter of the car. The steady click and whir assured him that the chain was not broken, and the tires still had spring to them as they moved, so they clearly were not flat. He had not used the bike in a long time, and he congratulated himself on his luck. Having leaned the bike against the side of the car, he unlocked the trunk and then folded the bike inside. It was also lucky that it was an old car, with such a deep well in the trunk.

It was true, he thought as he lowered the trunk hood and locked it, that the plan involved a major sacrifice. He hated to give up the car. But it was a brilliant plan, all the same, better than any in all the books of the decimater series that he had read. What made him think of it finally was Francie’s mother. She had been snuffed in a car accident. The car had just flipped over on her on an icy highway. It was neat and simple. The roads were steep and dangerous around here. It could easily happen. Someday, when they were far away and it was long in the past, he’d have to tell Francie how she had inspired him with that story about her mother. She’d be proud of him, he thought.

Andrew tried the trunk lid for security and found it locked tight.

That was good. He didn’t need it springing open on him while he was driving. Then he opened the car doors and went back into the house.

Now came the hard part. He had to drag it down to the garage and then hoist it into the front seat. He went into the living room and looked down at the body. He had gotten used to seeing it there. That didn’t bother him. But the idea of touching it, lifting it up was repulsive. The flesh was cold now. He tried not to touch it as he squatted down and lifted it up under the armpits. For a moment, as he hoisted up the dead weight, he had a sudden image of his mother’s lifting his father’s body this same way. He could not tell if he had actually seen it happen or just imagined it. There was blood all over both of them. His teeth started to chatter at the thought, and he felt weak in his extremities. He felt the body slipping down and willed the thought from his mind, rearranging his grip on the corpse and starting to pull.

She was not light, and each backward step involved an effort that made his arms and shoulder muscles burn. As they reached the doorway, the body became hooked onto a multicolored rag throw rug. It bunched the rug up into folds that became impassable. Cursing himself for this oversight, Andrew maneuvered the body onto its side while he freed the rug from beneath it. He tossed the rug onto a chair by the door and then turned the corpse over again and pulled it through the doorway. He began to back down the hall, hauling her under the arms. The stiff hands dragged along the ground, and the feet fell open, heels scraping grooves in the wood floor. He was nearly to the top of the cellar stairs when her foot caught the cord of the phone on the table in the hallway, and the cord twisted around the table legs and pulled the table over. It fell on top of her, the phone clanging and making a harsh ring as it banged off the corpse and onto the floor. Andrew jumped and let out a yelp of anger and fright. “Goddammit,” he bellowed. Every moment’s delay seemed eternal, every sound in the house sure to attract the police. He forced himself to calm down and decided not to drop the body in order to replace the phone. If anyone was trying to call him, he didn’t want to talk to that person anyway. Except Francie, he amended the thought. But he would talk to her later. Once he had fixed everything for them.

Leaving the phone braying its off-the-hook signal on the floor, he started down the cellar stairs, pulling the corpse behind him. The body thudded down each step and then began to veer diagonally over the steps between the handrail and the stairs. At first he tried to right the direction, but then he realized that it was unnecessary. He let go of the shoulders and gave the back a shove. The body slid under the handrail and tumbled to the floor below, landing with a crack of bones breaking.

As he stared down over the rail at the crumpled corpse, shivering overtook him again. She had landed on her back, and the face, bluish and distorted, wearing the expression she sometimes wore when she had punishment in mind, seemed to be watching him. Andrew tore his eyes from her face and tried to examine the body dispassionately. There was something wrong. In a few seconds he realized what it was. He ran back up the stairs and rifled the hall closet until he found her coat. Then he ran down the hall and retrieved her purse from the kitchen counter. She wouldn’t go out without these, he reasoned, no matter what state of mind she was in. And even though he planned for there to be little more than cinders left of her when she was found, it was important to remember details.

He clattered back down the cellar steps and rolled the corpse over again, his nerve returning. He forced the stiff arms into the coat, cursing the body’s immobility as he worked, and then he buttoned up the coat and sat back on his heels, exhausted by the exertion. His stomach began to roll on him as the smell of the body permeated the cold air of the cellar. He forced himself to his feet. There was no time to waste. A great deal to be done.

After dragging the corpse across the rough concrete to the garage door, Andrew finally made it over the lintel, down the narrow step, and over to the side of the car. Holding the car door open with his body, he took a deep breath, reached down, lifted with all his strength, and stuffed the corpse into a kind of fetal squat in the front seat. He sighed with relief, his muscles trembling, to see the job done. Leaning over the body, he reached out and locked the car door on the passenger side.

It took him a few minutes to catch his breath. Then he went back into the house and checked all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked. It distressed him slightly to see the mess the house was in, but he did not have time to pick it up now. At least no one would be able to get in and find evidence of what had happened while he was gone. Turning his back on the parlor, he reached back into the hall closet and pulled out one of her old knit hats. He jammed it down on his own head. Now, if people saw him leaving, he reasoned, they would think that Leonora was driving.

Andrew hurried back down to the garage, raised the garage door, and slid into the driver’s seat of the car. The body of his mother, quiet for once and hidden from view, rested on the seat beside him. He looked several times in both mirrors as he backed down the driveway. It’s going perfectly, he reminded himself, but his breath came in short gasps, and his hands were damp on the steering wheel. He began to drive with the most exaggerated caution. If someone stops you —He could not complete the thought. He just had to keep on going.

The day had been damp and cold, and fog was now rising from the ragged, rocky hills outside Oldham. Although it made the road difficult to see, the fog suited his purposes very well. He drove north toward the mountain ridges outside town, constantly checking his rearview mirror as he went. The roads were deserted, as they often were on winter evenings. The local people eschewed all but the most necessary traveling on icy nights. Andrew drove along until he passed a sign for a scenic overlook, where he slowed and pulled off the road. Through the wooded mountainsides he could see the lights of Oldham, where he had come from. The deserted vantage point was ideal, he decided, looking hastily around. He hopped out of the car and ran around the back to unlock the trunk and dislodge the bike. He leaned the bike against a tree and then returned to the driver’s seat. He jockeyed the car around, his hands trembling on the wheel, until it was aimed right at the wooden railing that surrounded the overlook. He jerked up the emergency brake after putting the transmission into park, then got out and looked around again. Panic was rising in him with every passing moment. Someone was bound to pass this way soon, and now the situation looked suspicious, even to the most casual observer. After reaching in and grabbing her by the front of her coat, he hauled his mother’s body upright into the driver’s seat and strapped on the seat belt. Making sure that the wheels were pointed toward the fence, he put the car in gear. Then he removed the itchy knit hat from his own head and jammed it down on her hair. He placed her leaden foot, and her pocketbook for good measure, on the gas pedal, and the engine revved. Releasing the emergency brake, he jumped back, prepared to push from behind. But it was unnecessary. The car was already rolling as he slammed the door shut. The blood pounded in his ears, and he held his breath as he watched the car lurch across the road, crash through the railing, and plunge down the mountainside, gathering momentum as it sailed, then crash into the hill and roll. It came to a halt in a clump of trees, the wheels spinning. Smoke rose from the wrecked vehicle, but there was no fire.

Sweat broke out all over him as he looked down at the car sitting there. It’s no good, he thought. She’s got to burn. If she doesn’t bum…The inside of his mouth was dry as paper. He fumbled in his pockets. Maybe he had matches. He could throw one in the gas tank. But then how would he himself escape the explosion? It was a moot point, though, for he could not find a match in any pocket. Cursing himself for his forgetfulness, he stared helplessly at the car. Maybe there were matches in her purse. Why hadn’t he thought to bring some? He had to try. If she were found like this, everyone would know.

After a few seconds’ indecision, when he thought of just fleeing, he steeled himself and began to scramble down the hillside toward the car. Halfway to it he saw something bright flash under the hood. It took a second to register, and then his heart swelled as he saw a flame shoot up through the wreckage. But was it enough? he wondered. Would it catch? As if in instant answer to his question, there was a sudden deafening explosion that sent him flat against the hillside. He wanted to cheer, to cry out for joy, but there was no time. He scrabbled back up the hill like a crab, looking back once at the wonderful glowing fire, and then he jumped on his bike and started to pedal.

The route home was arduous because for every long slope there seemed to be a grade, but his heart was pumping like a champion athlete’s as he pedaled along, feeling his power, his success. It was several miles before he saw an oncoming car, and then he crashed into the woods beside the road to avoid being seen. It was the beginning of the end, though. He knew it. She would be found now, and he had to be home when it happened.

He concentrated mainly on the ride, but occasionally he repeated his story to himself, the way he had planned it during the long day. When he finally reached the old house, out of breath and sweating inside his coat, it was the one time he could ever remember feeling happy to be there. Having stashed the bike in the back of the garage, he let himself in through the cellar. As he crossed the basement he thought about the shower. It would be good for him, he thought. He could take his shower, and then he would be all cleaned off, not a trace of the deed on him. Quickly, as if of his own free choice, Andrew stripped off his clothes and stepped under the dripping shower head in the dank cellar. There was still a towel and fresh clothes set out on the enamel tabletop. He made a mental note to put more down there. Then, dressing hastily, he climbed the stairs and hung his coat in the hall. In the dim light of the foyer he saw his face in the hall mirror. At first he jumped, startled by the shadowy visage, the wary eyes. Then, realizing it was his own image, he grinned. It was a sharp-eyed, mirthless smile. Even he could see that. A killer’s smile, he thought. It made him feel good to think that. He admired himself in the mirror.