Little Sister (3 page)

Michael stood up and, taking Beth by the arm, led her from where she was pacing on the rug to the edge of the bed. He sat her down beside him, and she did not resist his efforts. She stared out in front of her, her mouth slack with apparent exhaustion.

“I’ll water the plants; I’ll look after the house; I’ll pick up the mail. Anything you need. Don’t worry about it. And Maxine will look out for everything at the office. The world will not fall apart while you are gone,” he said.

“I know. I know. I appreciate it, really.” Her eyes were blank.

“What I’m worried about, though, is you. Are you sure you’re going to be all right about this? I mean, I know it’s a shock, but you shouldn’t deny your feelings. Whatever they are.”

“Please don’t try to shrink me, Michael. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, okay. Why don’t you take a hot bath and we’ll crawl into bed? You need the rest.”

“I’m not tired now. I don’t think I could sleep. You go to bed.”

“Well, then I’ll stay up with you.”

“No, really. I just want to sit up for a while. By myself.”

Mike started to protest and then thought better of it. She had every right to want to be alone at a time like this, he thought. He leaned over and kissed her. “Don’t worry about the house or anything else. Just take care of things and hurry back to me.”

Beth managed a smile and stood up. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come up,” she said.

“Don’t stay up too late,” he said. “Try to get some sleep.”

“I will. Promise. And thank you.”

Mike embraced her again, but Beth was wooden to his touch. Once he had released her, Beth left the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She could hear him opening the closet door as she went down the hallway toward the staircase. For a moment she thought of going back into the bedroom and crawling into bed beside him. But there was something hardening inside her that would not let any feeling, even for him, in or out. She thought suddenly of Brewster Wingate, beaming proudly at her, as if she were the best little girl in the world. It was funny sometimes how other people perceived you. He should see me now, she thought bitterly.

Beth descended the stairs in the quiet house. As she reached the bottom step, she felt a sudden chill run through her. She walked across the room and checked the thermostat, but the heat was at its normal level. She walked to the hall closet and reached inside for a sweater. As she closed the closet door, she could hear the sounds of water running in the upstairs bathroom while Mike got ready for bed.

Well, she thought, I’m sure he’s got a lot to think about The girl that he thought he wanted to marry turns out to have an ice-cube tray for a heart. Her own father dies, and she cannot manage even to fake a tear.

The idea of something warm in her stomach suddenly seemed very appealing. Beth went into the kitchen and turned the burner on under the teakettle. She stood with her back to the stove and stared out across the gleaming modem kitchen. He might as well know the truth now, she thought. Get it out in the open. This is not the Brady Bunch he wants to marry into.

The kettle whistled, and Beth turned and rubbed her fingers over the escaping steam. She poured the water into the teacup and then added a splash of brandy to it. The teacup shook in her hand as she began to shiver. Beth carried the rattling teacup into the living room and set it down on the coffee table. Then she walked over to the front windows to be sure they were closed. All three windows were shut tight. Outside, the tree branches snapped gently against them.

Beth was shivering continuously now. She walked to the hall closet again and dragged out a coat. She pulled it on over her clothes and her sweater, but the chills continued. Then she walked over and sank down into the comer of the sofa. She tried to pick up the teacup, but her hands were trembling so violently that she could not lift the cup to her lips, so she dropped it back onto the saucer.

As she pushed the saucer away from the edge of the table, her teeth began to chatter. For a few moments Beth stared blankly at the afghan, which was draped over the far arm of the sofa. Her mother had made it long ago, for Beth’s hope chest, she had said. And Beth had always treasured it, even when the hope of a happy marriage had begun to seem as remote to Beth as the possibility of a walk on Mars. She leaned across the cushions, pulled the afghan to her, and bunched the heavy handmade blanket around her shoulders.

The image of her mother’s face rose vividly to Beth’s mind despite the years that had passed since her death. It was a soundless image, for the memory of the voice was much harder to recapture as time passed. But the mild, wistful eyes were there, looking fondly at her. For a minute she stopped shaking. Then, gradually, her mother’s face was supplanted by the gloomy visage of her father, the young man on whom her mother had pinned her hopes for happiness, long ago on her wedding day. Beth snorted in disgust and huddled inside the folds of the afghan, clutching it around her with fingers that felt stiff and icy. She realized suddenly, in recalling her family, that she had not even spoken to her sister. She wondered if Francie was with Aunt May. She had not even thought to ask. She must be, Beth thought. Where else could she be? Beth glanced at the antique gold clock on the mantel. It was much too late to call now. Besides, what would she say? It was just too late. “He’s dead now,” she said aloud. “It’s too late.”

Her teeth began to bang together with fearful force, as if her jaws were in an uncontrollable jerking spasm. Chills rushed through her body in waves. “I’m so cold,” she muttered in amazement, and her chattering teeth clamped down in the inside of her mouth. A rush of warm blood spilled across her tongue. She wanted to reach up and stem the flow, but she found that her fingers were frozen to the blanket.

THE BUS FROM THE AIRPORT
bounced along the narrow highway, which was scarred and pitted from a succession of brutal Maine winters. It wound through the harsh, rugged countryside, stopping in each of the scattered small towns along its tedious route. The bus was nearly empty of passengers, although it had held about two dozen when it began its milk run from Portland.

Beth gripped the seat in front of her and absorbed the jolts as they came, accustomed to them after the long ride. Occasionally she looked up to make sure her suitcase was secure on the rack above. Then she resumed staring out the window at the bleak, familiar landscape of her childhood.

It has its beauty, she thought. No doubt about it. But it was a desolate beauty for the most part. You got those days in winter that were dazzling with brilliant blue sky and snow-covered evergreens. And in the summer it could be heavenly when the wildflowers bloomed and the rivers sparkled in the welcome sun. But most often this was how she remembered it: gray and forbidding, with sharp-edged boulders covered by patches of snow and trees the color of lead against dank clouds that drifted like smoke through the mountains.

Beth sighed and checked her watch again, impatient with the plodding bus. It was nearly five o’clock, and she had already had a day of unending frustration. Everything had been late. Heavy fog in Philadelphia had delayed her departure. Then because of a snowstorm in Boston, she had missed two connecting flights. It was nearly four when she finally arrived in the Portland airport. The snow had turned to icy rain and then back to fog. She bought a ham sandwich wrapped in plastic and ate it at the airport bus stop. She had been tempted to rent a car at the airport, but she knew it would be treacherous driving on the icy roads, and besides, she didn’t really need it. She could use her father’s car when she arrived. There was no point in having two cars.

“Oldham next,” the bus driver called out.

A woman with tightly curled hair and glasses and a cloth coat with a tiny fur collar jumped up and pulled her suitcases down from the rack above. Then she sat at the edge of her seat, eagerly craning her neck to catch a first glimpse of the town through the bus window.

Beth lifted her dark glasses and started to rub her eyes, but then she remembered her mascara and settled for massaging her forehead. She didn’t really need dark glasses in the gloom of the late afternoon, but she felt as if they gave her some privacy and covered the weariness in her eyes. It had been nearly dawn when she had crept into bed beside Mike. Although she had applied her makeup with a little extra blush on her cheeks, she figured that by now her skin color was as gray as the landscape.

Up ahead she could see the few farmhouses getting closer together as they approached the town. The old houses looked shabby, unshielded by the bare trees. Each house boasted a barn on the surrounding land, and most of the barns were crumbling, their roofs sagging from the weight of snow and neglect. Hulks of rusting, broken-down cars without tires littered the rutted driveways. Beth shivered and gave a nervous tug to the belt of her wrap coat. Then she got up and pulled her suitcase down off the rack with shaking hands. Not the chills again, she thought. She edged down the bus aisle to where the woman in the fur collar was standing, exchanging pleasantries with the driver. She can’t wait to get there, Beth thought. We can’t arrive soon enough to suit her.

The bus turned off the road, rolled down the street past a garage and filling station, and pulled up in front of a convenience store on the other side. The woman in front of Beth stepped down, and Beth followed her out. She glanced around, getting her bearings. The filling station across the street had long been there, as Beth recalled, but the convenience store was new. At least the building was new. An old shed had once stood on this spot. The new building looked like a plastic shoebox with chrome borders and a lot of plate glass. Progress, thought Beth. The woman with the fur collar looked around at Beth as if to start a conversation, but Beth put her head down and avoided her bright glance. The last thing I want to do is compare notes on how good it is to be back in Oldham, Beth thought.

She looked at her watch again, wondering what time the wake was set to start. She had hoped to get in early enough to change clothes and take a nap, but now she doubted she would have the chance. I’d better call, she thought. Stuffing her suitcase under one arm, Beth crossed the narrow parking lot to the door of the convenience store and let herself in.

Leaning against the counter in a set of grimy coveralls was a stout young man with long, unkempt hair and a scraggly little beard. He was strumming on a guitar which was strapped over his shoulder, studying the positioning of his grease-stained fingers on the frets. Behind the counter a boy with dark hair and freckles scattered over his narrow features sat reading a paperback book which he had propped open on the counter in front of him. He was leaning on his elbows, his hands covering his ears, as if to shut out the sound of the guitar player’s pickings. Both of them looked up and stared at Beth as she came in. The mechanic’s strumming stopped abruptly.

“Do you have a phone?” Beth asked.

“Over there.” The counterman pointed past a revolving rack of softcover books to a wall phone situated next to a display of potato chips and cheese snacks.

“Thanks,” said Beth. She was conscious that they were watching her as she walked to the phone, and she was aware, with a wry sense of satisfaction, that she did not look as if she belonged in this town. From her sleek haircut to her fashionable black leather boots, she looked like a city person, born and bred.

She picked up the phone and dialed the house. The number rang and rang, but no one picked it up. “Damn,” she whispered, feeling at once irritable yet oddly relieved. She realized that she was in no hurry to talk to Francie. Rummaging in her large leather pouch purse, Beth found her phone book and looked up the number of the parsonage. From behind her dark glasses she could see that the lady in the fur-collared coat had stepped up to the counter to pay for a box of candy and that the clerk was reluctantly distracted from his narrow-eyed scrutiny of her to wait on his customer. The guitarist, however, continued to gaze at her unabashedly.

Beth turned her back to them both and dialed the parsonage. Her aunt picked up the phone.

“Aunt May,” said Beth, “I’m here.”

“Oh, Beth,” said her aunt. “How are you, dear?”

“I’m okay. I just got here. There was no answer at the house when I called. I’m wondering when the wake starts tonight.”

“Well, dear,” said May, “it starts in about forty-five minutes. Your uncle James and I are on our way to go. We’re just about ready. Where are you? Are you at the Seven-Eleven?” May asked. “We’ll come get you.”

“Never mind,” said Beth, knowing how long it took her uncle James to get organized. “Sullivan’s isn’t far from here. I’ll walk over and meet you there.”

“But, dear, you’re tired. Let us come get you.”

“No, really,” said Beth, thinking that she would rather walk than hang around this store and wait. “I’ll see you shortly. Yes. Bye.”

Beth replaced the phone on the hook and put her address book back in her purse. She felt grubby and weary, and there was a headache starting to build at the base of her neck. She hesitated for a minute and then walked up to the counter. She picked out a pocket-size tin of aspirin from the display beside the cash register and asked the clerk for the price.

The boy finished the page of the book he was reading and then turned to the next. Beth noted the title. Shoot-out in San Diego, with a slight curl to her lip. On the cover was a guy in a safari suit, holding a blazing gun. “Excuse me,” she said, rapping the tin on the counter.

“Fifty cents. Like it says,” he told her, without looking up from his book.

Beth put two quarters down on the counter and picked up the aspirin.

“Do you have a water fountain here by any chance?” Beth asked.

The boy finally looked up from his book. “Nope.”

Beth stifled a sigh and walked over to where the soda was stocked. She picked up a bottle of warm club soda and brought it back to the counter.

The counterman stared at her.

“How much?” she asked.

“Forty-five.”

Beth tossed down the change and twisted the bottle top off with a snap of her wrist. She popped two aspirin in her mouth and swallowed them with the club soda. Then she started for the door. Beside the door was a large plastic garbage can with a swinging lid. Beth gave the lid a push and held the bottle over it.