Little Sister

by MacDonald, Patricia

  “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.

  “Hey,” said the clerk, “don’t throw that in there full like that.”

  “I replaced the top,” said Beth.

  “That don’t matter,” he said.

  Beth felt her patience drain away. She dropped the garbage can lid and walked over to the counter. She set the bottle down on the counter with a bang. “There,” she said sweetly. “Why don’t you finish it?”

  The boy with the guitar started to smile, but he tried to cover the smile with his hand. The counterman glared at him. Suddenly the boy with the guitar said, “Uh-oh, here comes Temple.”

  The door to the store swung open, and a heavyset red-faced man, wearing a bow tie and a 7-Eleven jacket came striding in. “How we doin’ today?” he called out. “How’s business?”

  I’m surprised he has any business at all with this creep working here, Beth thought. Turning her back on both the boys at the counter, she adjusted her suitcase strap on her shoulder, muttered a chilly “Excuse me” to the store manager as she squeezed past him, and left the store.

  Time to face the music, she thought as she stepped out onto the chilly pavement. Maybe the walk will clear your head. She heard the door open behind her, and the boy with the guitar scurried out and across the parking lot toward the garage across the street. The boss came back and spoiled all their fun, she th
ought. Serves them right. She started off down the road toward the center of town. Great to be back, she thought. Great. The high-heeled boots were difficult to walk in, but they were the only black boots she had, and she’d worn them because she figured that she needed them for the funeral.

  A couple of schoolgirls passed Beth on their bikes, chattering as they stood up on the pedals. They were bundled up in parkas and rubber boots, although Beth noted with rueful amusement that they were wearing Sergio Valente jeans. One of them could be Francie, Beth thought. She realized that she wouldn’t even recognize her sister if it were she. One of the girls was pudgy, with a green knit hat squashing down her hair. Beth felt a little pang as she watched the girl ride by. That was me, she thought. All over. Plain, awkward, and out of it, even by this town’s standards. Good in school and a social flop. What was it that her father used to call her? The dowdy dumpling.

  Her father. Beth had been trying not to think about the reason she was here. As she made her way along in her designer coat, high boots, and expensive haircut, which looked like something from a magazine, she suddenly felt dull, inept, and ugly. All of her life in Philadelphia—the business she’d built, the home she’d made, the wonderful man who loved her—seemed insubstantial. And it was just because she was here, on his turf again.

  “Hey, there,” a voice called out. Beth looked around and saw a station wagon with the 7-Eleven logo on the door slowing beside her. The driver was the counterman from the convenience store. “Do you need a ride?” he asked.

  Recalling the scene at the store, Beth just frowned and waved him away.

  “Hey, don’t be mad,” he said, “I was just in a bad mood ’cause Noah was driving me crazy with that guitar of his, and I was trying to finish my book before my boss got back.”

  For a minute she felt like saying, “Get lost,” but she was tired, and the boy was obviously trying to be neighborly. Refusing the ride seemed like rather a childish, spiteful gesture. Beth nodded and forced a thin smile.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll take it.”

  The boy leaned over and opened the passenger door. Beth threw her bag in the back and slid into the front seat.

  “It’s getting dark,” said the boy. “You have to be careful on this road. The other drivers can’t see you.”

  “I hadn’t realized it,” said Beth, taking off her dark glasses and slipped them into her purse. “Which way are you heading?” Beth asked.

  “Oh, I have to make a few deliveries. All over.”

  “The Seven-Eleven delivers?” Beth asked incredulously.

  “Well, yeah. Here we do.”

  Beth peered into the back of the car and saw that the flatbed of the wagon had several boxes of groceries packed in it. Turning back, she caught the boy’s eye in the rearview mirror, and he quickly looked away. She found something faintly charming about the way he nervously avoided her glance. She had a sudden sense of how exotic she must seem to him—a glamorous “older woman,” visiting from some far-off place where the 7-Elevens didn’t deliver. And here he was, looking as if he were just about old enough to have his license.

  “Where can I drop you?” he asked.

  Beth sighed. “Sullivan’s Funeral Home.”

  “Oh,” said the boy with polite concern in his voice, “who died?”

  “My father.” Beth felt a fleeting sense of embarrassment as she said it, and her voice caught for a second in her throat, even though she did not feel sad. She was here to bury her father. It did not seem real to her at all.

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” There was a silence between them. He’s an all right kid, Beth thought for a second. Then she looked out the window.

  They drove along Main Street, passing the library, the laundry, the stationery store, and the luncheonette. The local doctor’s office was at the end of the street, and Beth was surprised to see that Dr. Morris’s name was still out front on the shingle.

  “Dr. Morris is still alive,” she said. “He must be a hundred by now.” She wondered if he had been with her father when he died, trying to revive him with those strong, bony hands she recalled from childhood.

  “Yeah, sure is. Are you from here originally?”

  “I grew up here,” said Beth. “My father was Martin Pearson. He worked for the electric company over in Harrison.” As she said it, she realized what a feeble epitaph it was. But she did not know how else to describe him to this stranger without sounding strange and bitter. “I have a sister who lives here too,” she added quickly. “You might know her, although she’s probably a little younger than you. Francie Pearson.”

  The boy shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “Where do you live now?”

  “Philadelphia.”

  “You came a long way.”

  “Yes. I had a hell of a time getting up here today.”

  The boy fell silent, and Beth wondered fleetingly if her mild oath had offended him. It didn’t seem like something that would bother a teenager, but he could be really religious or something. “By the way,” she said, “I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Beth.”

  The boy looked a little startled, for he seemed to have been carefully thinking about the little Beth had said. “Nice to meet you,” he murmured.

  Beth waited for him to introduce himself. “This is it,” the boy said suddenly. “Short trip.”

  He pulled the car up in front of the old, well-kept house which was the local funeral parlor. Beth had always thought it was one of the few handsome houses in town, except for the discreet signpost out front which reminded you that this was not a house for the living.

  Beth reached into the back seat and retrieved her bag, “Thanks for the lift,” she said.

  “Anytime,” said the boy, who waved to her as he steered the old Ford wagon away from the curb.

  Beth’s headache, which had abated somewhat in the car, now came back full force as she stood at the foot of Sullivan’s steps. She marshaled her strength as if it were a mountain she had to climb, rather than the six steps to the porch. It had been years since she stood here last, that terrible time when it had been her mother laid out in this house. Well, she thought, nothing could be as bad as that.

  Taking a deep breath, Beth climbed the steps and opened the door to the funeral home. The foyer was quiet and carpeted, the dark green of the walls faintly illuminated by lamps which resembled gaslights. The air felt stifling and had an antiseptic smell perfumed by flowers, like the smell of a hospital without hope. The walls were lined with pictures of woodland scenes in dark wooden frames. They were the kinds of pictures you would never really look at.

  Ahead of Beth were two sets of closed French doors curtained in white voile. Beside the doors on the left was a brass plaquette beneath a cross. The name Pearson was lettered neatly on a white card in the plaquette. Beside it was a lectern with a thin book for guests to sign lying open atop it. A bunch of white flowers in a permanent vase was attached to the lectern. The room was very quiet. The discreet strains of recorded organ music had not yet begun.

  Beth heard footsteps coming up behind her and turned to see Mr. Sullivan in his old but impeccable dark suit, white shirt, and tie approaching her, his freckled hands extended in greeting. He’s probably the only man in town, besides Dr. Morris, who wears a suit to work, Beth thought. She mustered a polite smile as Mr. Sullivan shook her hand.

  “It’s Beth, isn’t it? My, how you’ve grown up. So sorry about your dad,” he said in his kindly whisper.

  “Thank you,” said Beth.

  “I spoke to your aunt awhile ago, and they should be along any minute with your sister.”

  Beth nodded.

  “Here, let me take your bag. I can put it in the office if you’d like. Do you want a glass of water or something?”

  Beth shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  “Perhaps you would like to have a few minutes alone with your dad before the others come,” Mr. Sullivan suggested in a soothing tone.

  Beth hesi
tated and then looked over toward the closed doors, feeling a mixture of duty and revulsion. The funeral director took her silence for assent. He walked over to the doors and opened them, motioning to Beth to come with him. Reluctantly she followed him into the room.

  Several dozen folding chairs were set up in rows for the wake. What do they need all these chairs for, Beth thought. He didn’t have very many friends. At the end of the dimly lit room the coffin rested amid a sparse array of flower arrangements that were banked on either side of it, like the winners’ circle in a penny-ante horse race. The lid of the coffin was open, and Beth lowered her eyes to avoid looking at the familiar profile as she approached. Her mother’s coffin had been closed because of the damage done by the accident. Beth felt a deep dread of looking at the body. For a second she felt faint. She steeled herself and followed Sullivan closer to the casket with leaden feet.

  The undertaker nodded admiringly toward the taffeta-lined box. “He looks very well,” he said.

  Sullivan patted her arm and withdrew as Beth thanked him, leaving her alone beside the casket. Reluctantly she looked in.

  People are always outraged by those words, Beth thought. “He looks well. “And in fact, there was something absurd about them. But what was a person supposed to say? The truth? she thought. He looks awful. His skin is so white, and it looks as cold and dense and rubbery as an eraser. There is no light from within. Not even the dark, scowling nimbus that often clouded Martin Pearson’s unyielding features. He had never looked like that, not even in sleep. All his demands, and his moods, and his intelligence and his opinions and his sarcasm and his occasional begrudging kindnesses were gone. There must be such a thing as a soul, she realized with a jolt of surprise. This man’s being has fled, and that which was left behind looked amazingly unthreatening to Beth. Her fear ebbed away as she stared at the body. She wished that she could miss him, feel sorrow, but she felt only a blank space inside herself.

  She had never been able to satisfy him, never been good enough to please him, much as she had wanted to. Even when she had been a small child, he would stride along ahead of her, impatiently barking at her to hurry and catch up. She knew, as she looked down at the body, that his soul would be a restless one. So she did something that she rarely did. She prayed. Her prayer was for her father’s soul, that it would find peace, if peace was what it craved.