Sister of Mine

by Laurie Petrou

  The change rang through the register, the sun sank, and soon it was time to close up the shop. I was more tired than I wanted to admit. I flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED and turned the lock on the door with great satisfaction, while Joseph tallied up the till.

  “Thank you, Penelope. It was so nice to have some company.”

  “My pleasure. Thank you. I needed that, too.”

  He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Reached under the counter and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “I hope you don’t mind if I smoke. Would you like one?”

  I declined but inhaled longingly while Joseph lit his. I smelled his aftershave and felt that cozy comfort of daughters and fathers, and something inside me sighed. Joseph smiled, watching me kindly. He was taller than I thought at first, and strong, but so much more, so many other things. He was the last of his kind.

  “Do you have children, Joseph?”

  “Yep. Two daughters. Both in their thirties, but they’re still my little girls. You know how it is. I’m sure your dad feels the same.”

  “Yes. Well. My father left when I was young, and my mother died a number of years ago.”

  Joseph bowed his head and said how sorry he was, like someone who says that kind of thing often. I figured that Joseph had lost a lot of people in his life. Or maybe he just was really good at being sympathetic. I thanked him. Changed the subject.

  “So.” I looked around the store. “So I’m, uh, I’m pregnant.” I chuckled like this was a funny thing. A funny thing; not a scary, sticky, troublesome thing to me, and a possibly wonderful blessing to my sister. “Ha ha. You must think I’m a real fuckup. Sorry, excuse my French.”

  Joseph ashed his cigarette in a bean can in front of us.

  “Wow. That is a pretty big deal, darlin’. Lots of questions, none of them my business. But the number one question is, are you okay? Want to sit down? You’ve been standing for hours.” He pulled out a stool and wiped his hand over it, sawdust clouding his arm hair.

  I laughed. “Thanks, Joseph.” I sat down, felt the relief immediately. “I’m only barely pregnant. Like, this thing is microscopic, it’s just a dot. I don’t even, you know,” I looked out the window at a man walking a tiny dog, “know if I’m going to keep it.” I looked quickly at him. “I’m sorry if that offends your moral or religious views. Please don’t kick me out.” I smiled sheepishly.

  “Are you kidding? I may be old, Penelope, but I’m not old-fashioned. Now, do you want a beer? No judgment here. I happen to have a small fridge here under the counter for just this sort of emergency.” And he rooted around under there, pulling out two cans of beer. God, I loved him. I heard a phone ringing somewhere and realized it was probably mine from upstairs. Hattie, undoubtedly. I had no friends who would call. I sighed loudly and opened my beer, hand cold around it.

  “What about siblings, Joseph? Do you have any of those?”

  “Sure. I had four, but my sister died. She was the oldest and she got sick. It was very sad. My three brothers and me now. It’s not the same. She really looked after all of us. We’re all old men now, but I miss her.” He paused and drank. “What about your sister, Penelope? Can she help you out? Does she come visit? She’s very welcome.”

  “Are you new to St. Margaret’s?”

  He smiled. “I moved here after my wife passed away. Four years ago. I know it looks like longer by the state of the store.”

  “No, not at all. I love it here,” I said, looking around the shop I’d grown so fond of. And I told him about my mum, about that bee that stung us out of adolescence, and about my husband dying in a fire, about living with Hattie, about my barn. I left out Jameson, which is what I had planned to do from now on. And I left out the part I played in Buddy’s death. I worried he would be able to tell, anyway. But Joseph saw only the good in me. He squeezed my hand and said, “So, what, the whole town knows about you girls, except me? Is that what you’re saying?” He produced some peanuts from under the counter. “What a crap time you’ve had, darlin’. That’s no joke. And now this?” He sipped and pointed in the area of my stomach. “Well, I’m happy for this place to be your hideout, whatever you decide.”

  “Joseph, I thank you.” I raised my can and clanged beers with my friend.

  * * *

  Later, I lay on my back and weighed my options. I could terminate the pregnancy and move on, like it had never happened. I knew that would be, without a doubt, to punish them, even if they never learned of it. On the other hand, there was something here that I was relishing. This thing, this tiny achievement—having nothing to do with any skills of mine—at which I had bested Hattie.

  I did not want a baby, not to hold and feed and nurture. I was not torn about giving this child, should I let it come to that, over to Hattie under the pretense of generosity and to undo the ropes of debt that were wrapped so tightly around us. I didn’t fear that I would grow attached to whoever this was. Foolish, perhaps, but this thinking propelled me to accept the terms and conditions of the deal Hattie had set in motion so long ago. Tit for tat. I imagined the pair, in Hattie’s house, turning my room into a baby’s nursery, becoming Mom and Dad while I was able to step out of the role I had been forced into. I thought that as a mother, Hattie would no longer be a liability, she would be stable and calm and I could bury the bee and the fire once and for all. I could be free. And so, when I think of it now, I realize that must have been it: I was drawn to the chance of a real private life, the one I had wanted so long ago, the possibility of secrets that could be, again, my very own. I could leave town, even, and I could put a real distance between Hattie and me. That was when I decided I would carry this child to the end, that I would let it occupy my body, so that I could pass it on like currency: the exchange of services rendered. To even the score.

  I called home when I knew Hattie would be out, but Jameson would be in.

  “I want to tell Hattie that we’ll try her idea,” I said, when he answered.

  “What? Are you—first of all, hi. I mean, it’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve talked. How are you? How’s the new place?”

  “I’m pregnant. So try that on for size.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I let it hang there.

  “So, you want to go through with Hattie’s plan to cover it up, is that it?”

  “I am happy to just abort it, Jameson, so let’s not quibble over who’s going to benefit here, since I don’t think it’ll be you doing the pushing.”

  “I know. I just …” I heard him exhale, and I relished making him weigh it all. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

  “You fucked her sister.”

  “Yeah, I know, Penny. I have been dying inside. I can’t believe we did that. Look—I know I’ve—I’ve been a coward. I’ve avoided you, I avoided it to myself even. I can hardly look at myself. It was a mistake. The biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

  That stung, and I said nothing. I let the pause stretch out. “If you want a baby, I can help you out.”

  “Jesus. I don’t know.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  * * *

  Hattie was bizarrely happy when I told her the following day that we would try. In her strange, toxic mind, this was the ultimate gesture, the means to a beautiful end. I balked at her thanks, felt nauseous, the betrayal kept at bay by the affection. She thought I was paying her back for her loyalty and devotion and love, and I let her think that, because I needed her, too. And there was a thread of love there, but it was not my love for Hattie that wove itself through the tangle of flesh.

  Hattie planned it for that very night. The curator of our catastrophe, she needed a role, needed to be the director of this epic tale of familial love and fucked-up priorities. She wanted Jameson and me to increase the chances of success by having it all happen within minutes, if the baster was, so to speak, fresh. She decided she would go out with her friends for a “girls’ night” and leave us and a turkey baster in the house together. She planned to do h
er hair, dress up, booze up, flirt, distract, and stumble home, celebrating the planting of a poisonous seed that was really already a sprout.

  Jameson and I made dinner. We sat on opposite sides of the table. I put on a record. We opened a bottle of wine and hardly touched it. We refused to ignite the electric current between us, and so we played Battleship and talked. It was worse than a fuck; it was a date. I couldn’t help myself: I felt alive around him, and something in me died because of that.

  “So …” he said, awkwardly. “Kind of hard to get back into the swing of things, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it’s a bit weird,” I agreed. “But it’s good to be here. I’ve got to admit: I’ve missed you.”

  He smiled kindly, like a brother.

  “We’ve missed you, too, Penny.”

  15

  I told Hattie that I was pregnant as soon as would be reasonably possible. She wanted to move me back in immediately. I hadn’t accounted for the fact that she would feel entitled to me again, now in a new way.

  “I’m fine, Hattie. I’m going to stay where I am. I like it here.”

  She ignored me, and clapped her hands together. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it, Penny. I am so happy. Thank you so much. I will be forever grateful, we both will be. I knew we’d get our own baby somehow. See?” She shouted at Jameson, almost hysterical, “you both thought this was a crazy idea, but it worked! And it’s going to be so perfect.” Jameson smiling benignly behind her. We hugged, I breathed in the smell of her and my stomach turned. I was becoming accustomed to how certain deodorants and shampoos triggered nausea, and this was a new thing, to find Hattie, her baby-powder freshness, so off-putting. I put my hands on her small shoulders and pushed her back. I looked away and offered them tea, heading into my small kitchen. Joseph’s machinery was grinding quietly below us, and I wondered if he had seen Hattie and Jameson come in.

  I hadn’t told Joseph any more details about my pregnancy, although I had spent a great deal of time with him of late. In his quiet, calm way, Joseph offered solace that no one else could. He was, I suppose, a kind of father figure, and I needed him, and that was all. I had taken to working at the shop after coming home from the daycare, and I was learning things about basic electrical work, repairing, soldering. Joseph had tried to pay me, and I had refused, although I knew he was putting the cash in a coffee tin under the workbench, saving it there for me. We sometimes ordered dinner into the shop, and other times Joseph went into the back, where he lived, and warmed up something or other for us to eat. The building itself was one of St. Margaret’s original old brick houses on our quiet Main Street. The main drag was populated by shops and the occasional diner, a hardware store. It took five minutes to walk the length of it before you came upon houses with larger and larger plots of land, turning quickly to farms. Joseph’s place was a large and rambling thing. The shop was in the front, and he lived in the back. The front hallway and stairs had been cordoned off, making up the private entrance to my upstairs apartment. Joseph’s living space was, in some ways, an extension of the shop; he kept an overflow of gadgets and mechanical artifacts there, alongside lamps and books and pieces of his life. The effect was cozy and welcoming. I loved it there.

  “Pretty loud up here, don’t you think?” Hattie remarked, settling into one of the chairs I had brought with me from the house. There was, in actual fact, quite a racket going on from the shop, a rapid banging that stopped as abruptly as it began.

  “I don’t mind it.”

  Hattie nodded primly, sipping at her tea. “Have you been to the doctor yet?”

  “Why, is there something wrong with me?” I smiled, and Hattie did as well, tightly.

  “Okay, Penny. But when you have doctor visits, can we come?”

  “Let me think about it.” Absolutely not.

  “Hattie, let Penny be. Lay off a little, okay?” Jameson was bridging between us, and I knew he didn’t want Hattie to figure out the difference between the real conception and the one she knew about. “You do whatever makes you comfortable, Penny. Seriously. We just want you to be healthy and happy. This is a big deal. And we know,” he reached out to Hattie with his eyes, “that this isn’t easy. And that it might be harder when the baby’s born.”

  “I don’t want the baby, Jameson. I never did. And I won’t.”

  “Okay. I just want us all to be prepared for how, I guess, unpredictable these things can be.”

  Hattie nodded, and said, “And I’m sure it’ll be a little awkward with other people. I don’t think St. Margaret’s has seen too many turkey-baster babies.” She smiled and reddened. I looked anywhere but at the two of them. Into my cup. Away from thoughts of that night.

  “Oh yeah, a turkey-baster baby is plenty weird for this place,” said Jameson. “We’ll be the local science experiment.”

  The tension broken, there was a chuckle, and someone changed the subject. The sound downstairs started up again, and Jameson stood up and began thumbing through my tapes.

  Eventually they left. There were hugs from Hattie, and Jameson and I embraced, although I stiffened, and he released me, nodding formally. Hattie said goodbye, loudly, to my stomach, and I couldn’t wait to close the door behind them.

  Sometimes, when I look back at that period in my life, I cringe, my hands shaking, knowing what came later. And I would do it all again if I had to.

  After Hattie and Jameson left, I went down to the shop. I decided to go out onto the street and back through the jangling shop door. A scene change. It was a chilly February, and snow had gathered and then been shoveled away from front porches and walkways. There was a fan shape carved into the sidewalk from the door opening and closing. The glass door was frosty, and a child’s hand had finger-drawn faces in the fog on the bottom half of it. I was reminded of what it had been like to tag along with our mum, on chores and errands. An endless shop-hopping of high counters and things I couldn’t touch. Going to big department stores so you could squeeze in some clothes shopping on a busy day. The dry heat of those places. Hiding inside a circular clothes rack, sitting on a dark carpet, watching the hems of skirts swish around me like deep sea waves, hearing the clack of hangers moving as women browsed the wares. Wanting to go home. Whining that I was thirsty, bored, tired. Sometimes childhood felt like an endless parade of waiting. What I wouldn’t do to wait for her now. To slow down time. To have protected her, from that tiny thief that stole her life through the palm of her hand.

  It was Sunday. Joseph kept his shop open on Sundays, claiming that it was because it was harder for people to come on a workday, although I suspected he was prone, as am I, to a kind of Sunday melancholy and needed to be surrounded by work and people. He chose Mondays as his day off.

  I could smell a roast in the oven when I entered the shop; a smell that will forever make me feel ill, but I smiled, knowing that Joseph would likely invite me to stay for supper, perhaps as well as some other folks. Maybe he had asked a couple of his friends. I had met these men on other occasions, and found a kind of lonesome solidarity with them, those hearty seniors. Sometimes they played poker and I read in a corner under a light that had been cobbled together out of an old colander and some wire. Other times I joined in, when they needed a fourth, and I knew they went easy on me. I was wondering if I had anything in my fridge that I could bring to contribute to the meal, as Joseph waved at me, then returned his attention to a woman with a temperamental alarm clock. There was music playing out of a silver ghetto blaster plugged into the end of the workbench, and a broadcaster updated us on the news of the hour. I suppressed a chill, a relic of a feeling I’d had since the fire, a fear of hearing about myself on the news. That the juicy details of my plotted revenge could be piped into homes across the nation still raised the hair on my arms.

  I looked out the window, and froze at what I saw. Officer Moore was standing on the sidewalk in front of the store, hands crossed in front of his chest, talking to Mac Williams. Mac was gesturing wildly, which wasn’t unusual, but
I felt a shiver of panic at the sight of the two of them together. The window was foggy, and I craned my neck to see the men more clearly. Suddenly Mac broke off with a dismissive wave and stormed towards the shop. I turned my back quickly and busied myself tidying a shelf.

  I heard the door jingle behind me.

  “Dirty Penny.” A chuckle. I turned to face him. A stocky man, Mac wore layers of flannel and a puffy vest, his dirty-blond hair hanging from under a deer hunter’s cap. I shuddered at the sound of his and Buddy’s old nickname for me, although sometimes it was “Lucky Penny” instead. There was a glint of furious mischief in his wild eyes today, and I felt my hands go quickly to my middle.

  “Mac. How are you?” I looked over his shoulder and saw Iain Moore peering in. He caught sight of me, and I turned my attention back to Mac, who was following my gaze.

  “You know that loser? He was in our year at school. He’s always sniffing around like a fucking choir boy.”

  This town was so small, so few pieces in the game, but they were always rolling just out of my reach. I calmed myself with the thought that after the baby was born, I could leave them all for good.

  “No, I don’t know him. Not really.”

  “ ‘Not really.’ Yeah, okay. Like I believe that shit.” He sized me up. “You look good, Penny.” His eyes lingered on my breasts. “Been a while.”

  “I know. Thank you.” I avoided his gaze. He stood beside me, fingered the steely contents of a box, picking up items and inspecting them vacantly. A look back outside told me Iain Moore had moved on.

  “Keeping that hair short, eh? I always like it long on women, myself.”