The Good Sister

by Drusilla Campbell

  “I know what love is now, but back then… Lust. Love. I got them confused. I thought love was doing whatever I wanted and not making excuses to anyone. And lots of sex. I loved him that way.”

  Roxanne did not think she had ever been as young as the girl her mother was describing. She knew she’d never been in blinding love that way and never wanted to be.

  The majolica clock on Ellen’s dresser chimed the half hour. Roxanne rested her head on the edge of the bed. Simone and Johnny would be home soon. She should go back to the main house. Ellen’s hand touched her head and stroked her hair. Memory had long nails that caught and held.

  Sometimes there was still music and gambling in the house when the sun came up. After a long night and if he’d won enough, Roxanne’s father was in a jokey mood and made his special huevos rancheros and foamy, fruity vodka drinks in the blender. Sometimes the guests stayed to watch football. Whenever they left, Dale and Ellen went to bed and slept the rest of the day.

  Many nights her mother and father crossed the busy street to a bar called the Royal Flush. They left Roxanne alone in the house because they didn’t have money for a babysitter; and besides, her mother said, what could happen when they were right across the street?

  One night she begged them not to leave her alone. She had an earache and the whole left side of her head hurt, from her jaw way up under her hair. Her father told her to stop making a racket and get the heating pad from under the sink in the bathroom.

  Everyone gets earaches.

  You’ll survive.

  Standing on a chair at the front window she watched them run across the busy street and walk in under the bar’s neon sign, a splayed hand of face cards. She went looking for the heating pad, but it was useless to her because the cord wouldn’t stretch from the enclosed porch where she slept to the outlet in the living room. In the garage she used a yardstick to turn on the light switch and eventually found an old extension cord on a hook over the workbench her father never used. In the living room she plugged it in and connected it to the heating pad and put the pad on her pillow. She lay on her side and set the regulator to a cautious low. It didn’t warm so she turned it to high and scorched her ear. She got out of bed and found a clean dish towel in the plastic laundry basket. She folded it into fourths and laid it over the heating pad. At its highest setting, the pad soothed her throbbing ear and soon she fell asleep.

  She woke to the smell of burning. She thought about getting up to check but she was very sleepy. When she opened her eyes again the smell was stronger. She got up and in the living room she saw smoke coming from the wall socket. She stood with her hand over her ear and watched and waited to see what would happen next. She tried to pull the plug from the outlet, but it burned her fingers; and now she was frightened. Roxanne had seen a movie on television about a fire that burned down a house and all the kids inside were killed and the dog too.

  At the Royal Flush her mother and father were with their friends, drinking and playing pool. She knew her father made money playing pool and tonight when they left the house they had been talking about scoring big. He would get mad if she interrupted him. The lights at Mrs. Edison’s house were all out and there was no car in the driveway.

  A serpent of smoke arose from the electric outlet, and the room smelled bad.

  Roxanne dug around under her bed and found her yellow plastic flip-flops. She ran down the front path to the sidewalk. In the street, cars and trucks and motorcycles sped by in three lanes, honking their horns and playing their car stereos with all the windows open. Her ear ached with reverberation. To the right and left the pedestrian crosswalks looked far away; and even if she ran to the end of the block, there wasn’t time to wait for a light. In half a minute there might be flames. Fire trucks would come but too late to save the house from burning to the ground.

  She saw a break in the traffic and dashed, getting only as far as the middle lane, where she stood in her yellow flip-flops and shorty pajamas while cars sped by and drivers yelled at her and hooted and blasted her with their horns. A car full of jeering boys in a sharky sedan veered into the middle lane as if they meant to run her down. She turned and looked back at the house. She couldn’t remember if she’d turned a light on in the living room. The window glowed yellow.

  At the next traffic break she ran, her sandals slapping her heels with a sound like applause.

  At the entrance to the bar she pushed the door open with her shoulder. Inside it was dark and it smelled of beer and cigarettes like her parents’ bedroom. No one noticed her standing near the door, her eyes searching for a familiar face. She moved a little further into the long, narrow bar, taking short careful steps. From the back she heard the clack of a cue stick hitting a ball and her mother’s laugh. Roxanne screamed their names. Not Mommy or Daddy but Dale, Ellen.

  Fire!

  * * *

  Ellen held to a precarious equilibrium, neither asleep nor awake: aware, but disconnected, and unable to wrap her concentration around anything for long. She opened her eyes enough to see through the fringe of her eyelashes and there beside the bed was Roxanne—her difficult, grown-up daughter. And then she saw the other Roxanne, scarecrow-thin with ragged hair, wearing pink-and-yellow-striped shorty pajamas.

  All Ellen had wanted was to have a good time, and for this to happen Dale had to be happy and eager to come home to her. A baby she never wanted to begin with, a full-time job, a husband who demanded attention: she couldn’t manage it all.

  Memory came at her through the moonlight, a streak of bullet light she could not duck.

  Someone from the Royal Flush had brought Roxanne back across the street to the house. It wasn’t much of a fire, a few sizzled wires and a section of smoldering carpet, but the fire truck came down the street with its sirens wailing; and while their friends from the bar gawked, Ellen and Dale were questioned by the police. They were made to feel like bad children and told not to leave Roxanne alone again. Eventually they drove off, and the fire truck did a U-turn in front of the house; Ellen’s and Dale’s friends returned to the bar, but because of Roxanne, they had to stay home. They drank beer while they watched The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.

  Roxanne complained about her ear and whimpered in bed and they yelled at her.

  Shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about.

  Back then Ellen would do anything Dale wanted if it made him happy to be with her.

  Goddamn you, Roxanne.

  She wanted her heart to beat in time to his. If she could have synchronized her breath with his, she would have done it.

  I’ve had about enough of you.

  Who moved first? Ellen had never been sure. One of them turned the volume on the television up as high as it would go. Maybe he walked ahead or she went first onto the porch. Ellen only had to look at Dale to know what he was thinking and wanting. She got down on her knees and reached under the chaise for one of Roxanne’s flip-flops.

  Now I’ll give you a real earache.

  The roots of Ellen’s hair were on fire.

  Roxanne said, “You’re going to be thirsty in the morning, Mom. I’ll get you some water so you’ll have it when you wake up.”

  “Stay—About your question…”

  “You didn’t want me. I get it.”

  “No—yes, but…” Ellen shook her head and her stomach lurched. “I was alone then too. And afraid.” She wanted to fall through cold forever until her memories were iced out. “… I was afraid… if you stayed… I’d… hurt you.”

  * * *

  Ty had fallen asleep reading. Roxanne stood a moment looking down at him, loving him. Her mother was right, time with this man was too precious to waste.

  Simone and Johnny had gotten home by ten-thirty. Simone went up to bed immediately, saying nothing to Roxanne; but words weren’t necessary when she carried her mood around her like an enveloping black cape. Johnny asked how the children had been and thanked her perfunctorily. Roxanne watched him stand in the kitchen and pou
r a jigger of vodka from a freezer bottle.

  “Is she all right?”

  “No. She’s pretty low. Which makes two of us.” He threw back a second jigger of icy vodka. “You said it this afternoon, Roxanne. You’ve got a life of your own. Go on home.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “I’ll call.”

  Chowder, curled at Ty’s feet, lifted his head and thumped his tail. Gently, she walked over to Ty, removed his glasses, and closed his book, marking his place with a Post-it.

  “You!” He pulled her down on top of him. He kissed her, a peck that became slow and warm and deep. “You came back.”

  “I couldn’t wait to get away.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Merell’s got the idea they might all get sent into foster care. Where do you suppose that came from?”

  “Who knows? Harry Potter?” He slipped his hand up under her shirt. “Are you planning to come to bed or are we going to talk about the Durans all night?”

  She held his wrist. “I have to tell you something first.” She described Ellen’s appearance, drunk; what she confessed, and what she, Roxanne, had remembered.

  “I always thought she sent me to Gran to get rid of me, because she couldn’t be bothered anymore. What I know now… She wanted to protect me.” She lay beside him, too tired to undress. “And I think that’s why she brought me back from Gran’s and put me in charge of Simone. She was at her wit’s end with her just like she must have been with me. She wanted me to protect Simone from her.”

  “That woman’s a regular ad for Mother’s Day.”

  “She was just a kid. She didn’t really know what was going on herself. And she had the good sense to get rid of me.” She touched her ear. “There are worse things than being sent to live with your grandmother.”

  “And does this change the way things are now?”

  She sat up, letting Ty pull her shirt off over her head. “Wherever I was, whatever my life was, I always thought the good stuff was contingent. I don’t think I ever stopped believing that if I wasn’t a really good sister, Mom could still haul me off and dump me somewhere.”

  “Chow and I will protect you.”

  She pressed closer to him.

  “Aren’t you ever going to take your jeans off?” he asked, sounding plaintive.

  “If I was orderly, if I organized everything and knew where things were and got A’s in school…” And if Ellen never had to worry or be disturbed…“So long as I wasn’t any trouble to her, I was safe.”

  “Not quite. You’ve still got one really big problem and it’s getting bigger.”

  What had she done? What had she left unexplained?

  “You think too much.” Laughing, he pulled her into his arms.

  Sensing a new mood in the room, Chowder jumped off the bed, padded into the living room, and lay down, resting his head on his neatly crossed paws. Outside the moon was a small, white ball tossed too high to chase. On and off through the night he rose from his bed and walked softly from room to room, once or twice standing beside the bed, watching Ty and Roxanne as they slept. He stood guard at the windows in the living room, keeping an eye on the canyon, watching the moon, protecting those he loved.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning Johnny left for work without waking Simone; and in the middle of the morning his secretary called to say he was in Las Vegas and would be late getting home, she shouldn’t wait up. That night she lay in bed watching Conan, but his jokes and interviews couldn’t make her smile. Normally Johnny called her several times from work, but on this day, when she most yearned for the reassuring sound of his voice, the phone had been ominously silent. Even Roxanne hadn’t called and Ellen stayed in her apartment, no more company than a hermit.

  In the empty hours Simone had lined up in her mind all the things she’d said and done wrong over the past weeks and especially last night: her omissions and errors of judgment, all the multiple ways in which she had disappointed Johnny. The list was virtually endless and it wrapped around her like a shroud. She knew that if she died in their bed, if he came home and found her body, he would grieve; but in the secret corners of his heart he would be relieved to be rid of a burden and a worry, a great irritation.

  It was almost midnight when she heard the groan of the garage door rising. She switched off the television and burrowed under the bedcovers, pretending to sleep. If he was really angry he would probably wake her, but perhaps his day had been exhausting and he would choose sleep instead. Whichever, she must make sure she did the right thing and pleased him. She held her breath as he came into the bedroom and went directly to his dressing room and shut the door. The shower ran a long time and she fell into a light sleep from which she was awakened by his hand gripping her shoulder.

  “I want to talk to you. Sit up.”

  She rolled over, pushing the hair out of her eyes, and all at once the words and tears rushed out. “I’m so, so sorry, Johnny. Please say you forgive me.”

  “Don’t cry, Simone. I’m over it.”

  It wasn’t hard to say she was sorry. She knew she had behaved very badly at the Judge Roy Price Dinner. Leaving the table during dessert just as the interminable speeches were beginning, she had spent the rest of the evening in a stall in the ladies’ room. Johnny had to get her out when it was time to leave.

  “Nobody cared I was gone. Hardly anyone spoke to me all night.”

  “Why should they, Simone? You never have anything to say.”

  “I would if you’d help me like you used to.”

  In the early years of their marriage Johnny had prepared her for events like last night’s dinner by giving her magazines to read about current affairs and quizzing her on the stories. He talked to her about city and state politics so she would understand the conversations of his friends. She had never found any of this remotely interesting and formed no particular opinions on the subjects others found endlessly engaging: the location of a new airport, negotiations with the pension fund, the ins and outs of city politics. Johnny said it didn’t matter if she was interested so long as she pretended to be. With his help she had become expert at pretense.

  In those early days Simone had friends, other young women married to rich and prominent men. One had studied marketing in college and another had a degree in music, but none cared to work when they didn’t need the money. They were creatively idle and engaged in good works. Simone tagged along frequently enough to be considered one of the group and became the queen of envelope-stuffing. On Tuesdays and Thursdays these women played tennis and she met them for lunch afterward on the terrace at the club. If someone asked her to make up a doubles team, she laughed and said she was a klutz, born to watch sports but never play them. That had been a happy time as Simone remembered it. The women didn’t seem to mind that she was quiet during their conversations, a lot of which went right over her head. She knew these expensive and intelligent women included her in their group because Johnny was her husband, that otherwise they would not be interested in her. But sometimes she was funny and they laughed at her jokes and she thought that in a small way they liked her.

  After Merell was born she had been too depressed to go out. Occasionally she was invited to lunch or a movie but not often and after a while not at all. When they met at dinners and benefits the women drew Simone aside to ask, their voices just above a whisper and so sympathetic, if it was true she’d had another miscarriage. She sensed how the misses one after another embarrassed and fascinated them. There was a kind of thrill in their horrified sympathy.

  Roxanne was the only real friend Simone had ever had unless she counted Shawn Hutton. When Billy Winston called Simone a dummy, Roxanne chased him, caught him, and thumped him until he begged for mercy. In first grade a girl with corn-colored hair called her a retard, but she took it back when Roxanne twisted her arm. And yesterday she had slapped Johnny, defending her. Recalling the shock on his face would make Simone smile for the rest of her life.

  “Wha
t I said about getting an abortion, you know I didn’t mean it. I’d been upset all day.”

  “You’re upset every day.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders bent, reminding Simone of his father, who had risen every morning before sunrise and carried bricks on his back for eight or ten hours. A wash of love and regret overcame her, and she laid her head against Johnny’s shoulder, feeling the damp warmth of his freshly washed skin on her cheek, the citrus fragrance of his cologne. She didn’t have fingers and toes to list all the times and ways she had let Johnny down. “You’d be happier with someone else.”

  “Leave it, Simone. I’m too tired to talk about this.”

  “I’ll try harder.” To be estranged from him in any way was unbearable. “I promise I will, Johnny.”

  “Let’s just get you into the third trimester. You’ll feel better then.”

  The late months of pregnancy were her reward, a time when she fell under the enchantment of her body’s astounding ability to stretch and shift and make room, always more room. At night the baby kicked or rolled or jabbed her with its bony elbows and her bladder was under constant pressure, but she didn’t mind being kept awake because after a day when her hips and knees and back—even her feet and toes!—ached as if the bones would shatter under the strain, lying down was a blessing for a few moments, until even being stretched out flat became uncomfortable. Mostly, during the last trimester she lived in a kind of daze, her mind clouded by the miracle that she who was unable to serve a tennis ball or properly pronounce the governor’s name could create a human life and hold it inside her for nine months, until it was more perfectly accomplished than anything Johnny built or Roxanne crossed off her endless lists. She liked that her belly grew huge and cumbersome and seemed to roll out ahead of her so that people in stores and on the street smiled when they saw her coming and moved aside to make room. Anyone looking at her could see that she wasn’t just a pretty, slow-witted girl pointlessly taking up space in the world, that she had importance, a purpose, a reason for breathing and being.