Little Sister

by MacDonald, Patricia

  She stood back from the mirror and examined her made-up face. For some reason she had felt the need to wear her makeup for this discussion. She hadn’t worn it since the funeral. But it made her face look sharper, more definite. She held her head up and looked sideways into the glass. You just explain to her that this is not going to fly. And that’s it.

  The sound of a door slamming downstairs startled her, and then she glanced at her watch. Just about the time she’d be getting home from school. Taking a deep breath, Beth went downstairs and into the kitchen. Francie was sitting at the kitchen table, holding an apple. She was in her stocking feet but was still wearing her parka. Her glasses were fogged from the heat of the house.

  “Still snowing?” Beth asked.

  “It’s letting up.”

  “That’s good.”

  Francie took a bite of the apple and chewed without enthusiasm.

  “How was school?” Beth asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Oh,” said Beth, turning her back to the girl to pour a glass of water from the faucet. “How would you know?”

  Francie lowered the apple to the tabletop and looked up at Beth without speaking.

  Beth turned around and smiled brightly at her. “I happen to know that you weren’t in school today, that you were off somewhere with your friend Andrew.”

  Francie grunted and got up from the table. Dropping her parka on the chair, she headed for the living room.

  “Hey, hold it,” said Beth. “Get back here.”

  “Okay,” said Francie. “So I cut school.”

  “Cutting school is not the issue. Everybody cuts school now and then. That doesn’t bother me.”

  “I don’t care what bothers you.”

  “It’s Andrew that’s the problem here, Francie.”

  “What about Andrew?” Francie put her hand on her hip and leaned against a chair.

  “Francie, look, I know all about him. I know he’s much too old for you. That he’s got a pretty bad reputation—”

  “I’ll tell you something,” said Francie. “I couldn’t care less what you heard. Or what you think.”

  Beth pressed her lips together and then spoke as calmly as she could. “You have no business with a boy that age.”

  “You don’t tell me what to do. Period.” Francie turned and started to walk out again.

  Beth bolted from the sink and grabbed Francie by the arm. The girl gave her hand a withering look, and Beth released her and pointed a finger at her.

  “Now you listen to me,” said Beth. “You do not have license to do whatever you please. That means you do not skip school and go running around with some guy who should have friends his own age instead of putting the make on little girls.”

  “Go back where you came from, will you?” said Francie, curling her lip at her sister. “Butt out of my life.”

  “Francie, this is not a suggestion I’m making. I’m telling you that this is the way it’s going to be. I’m your legal guardian, and I’m telling you that you aren’t going to see that boy anymore.”

  “You’re not telling me anything,” Francie cried, picking up the chair an inch or two and smashing it back down on the floor. “I do what I want. Legal guardian. Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” Beth yelled back at her. She could feel her temper rising at the girl’s defiance. With a struggle she reined it in. “As a matter of fact, I’ve made sure you won’t. I went and saw his mother today, and you can bet she’ll have something to say about this to him.”

  Francie took a step back and stared at Beth. Her eyes were wide with disbelief behind her glasses.

  “You did what?”

  Seeing that she had finally trumped her sister, Beth gave her a thin, satisfied smile. “I found out you were skipping school, so I asked Noah where Andrew lives, and I went over there to see if you were there. His mother was home, so I told her all about it.”

  “You stupid asshole. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  Beth clenched her fist, resisting the urge to smack her sister. “This is my business,” she said grimly.

  “It is not,” Francie shouted.

  “Well, it gave my father a heart attack,” said Beth coldly. “I’d say that makes it my business.”

  It was a low blow, and Beth knew it. She hadn’t meant to say it, surely not that way, but now the words were out. All right, she thought. Let the chips fall. She reassured herself with the memory of what Cindy had said about her father. He had been upset. Furious. It was the truth.

  Francie seemed stunned by her words for a moment. She staggered back a step and leaned against the table, her eyes lowered to the floor, staring, as if she were looking into a pit full of demons. Watching Francie slump over, Beth felt a little ping of elation, as if a voice inside were crowing, “Bull’s-eye,” but a stab of guilt pierced it like a pin in a bubble. She thought of apologizing and opened her mouth to speak.

  But Francie had collected herself and drawn herself up, and she met her sister’s guilty gaze with scorn in her eyes. “Oh, really?” she said. “You’re so concerned about our father? You’re so worried about how he got a heart attack? Don’t make me sick. All these years you never cared one shit about him. You never came home, or called him, or bothered with us. And now you’re so involved, right? Give me a break.”

  Beth glared at her. “Don’t change the subject,” she said in a brittle voice. “I happen to know he was furious about Andrew.”

  “It did not give him a heart attack,” Francie screamed. “He would have had one anyway. The doctor told me himself. He said it was coming for years. He was tired a lot of the time. And sick. But how would you know? You wouldn’t even call him. That made him sick more than anything. How many days do you think he spent worrying about that and suffering over you—”

  Beth tried to drown out the words with her own voice, to protect her ears by shouting. “Admit it, Francie. Just admit it. He was so mad about Andrew that it killed him.”

  “Stop it,” Francie growled at her. “Stop trying to make it that I hurt him. I didn’t. You can’t lay it on me.”

  “No, no,” said Beth. “You’re never to blame. You just happen to be there when the damage is done. First Mother. Now him.”

  At this Francie stopped dead, her face white as paper. “Mother?” she whispered.

  Beth was shaking from head to foot. She could not meet Francie’s eyes.

  “I was only six years old,” said Francie. “The steering failed on the car. Are you saying now that I caused that?”

  Beth could not stop herself. The words were like a handful of knives that had been goring her for years. She was ripping them out, hurling them at her sister. “You knew she was hurt, but you just sat there by the car. If you had only gone for help, called to somebody. She didn’t have to die. You were old enough to get help. You knew enough to do that.”

  “I was afraid to,” Francie screamed. “I was afraid to leave her. I was afraid of the dark.”

  But Beth was not listening. There were tears in her eyes as she ranted at Francie. “And Daddy never said one word to you. His little pet. You’d think he was glad it was Mother, and not you, who got killed. And if he hadn’t been so fucking cheap and seen to it that the car was fixed, but no—”

  “Oh, God,” Francie moaned.

  “Well, it’s true,” Beth cried. “He sent her out on the worst night in that piece of crap—” She remembered, as she said it, having this same argument with him and being met with the same defiant stubbornness. He refused to take responsibility or to chastise Francie for letting their mother bleed to death while she sat there. He told Beth she was out of line, and he warned her never to speak about it again or to get out. She had left and never come back. Not until now.

  “So that’s why you’re so rotten,” said Francie.

  Beth wiped the angry tears off her face and answered in a shaky voice, “Shut up.”

  “Like you were the only one who ever lost an
ything. You really don’t care about anybody but yourself. You make me sick.”

  Beth turned on her, but she was almost too drained to reply. The ringing of the phone startled them both, and their eyes met for a moment. Then Francie stamped over to it and picked it up.

  “Hello,” she said angrily. Then, more softly, she said, “Hi.”

  Beth knew instantly who it was.

  Francie was silent for a few minutes. Then she said suddenly, “Look, I’d better warn you. Something happened. My sister talked to your mother.” She hissed on the word sister. “Yes. I don’t know how. Oh, I guess Noah told her. Yes, I can come.” Francie’s eyes met Beth’s defiantly as she spoke. She listened again and then nodded. “I’ll meet you in a few minutes.” She hung up the phone and walked over to the door. She pulled on her boots with a violent jerk.

  Beth opened her mouth to speak, but Francie had the last words as she opened the back door. “You bitch,” she said. And she was gone.

  Chapter 11

  ANDREW HUNG UP THE PAY PHONE beside the men’s room door and walked around, past the station office and the gas pumps, to the open doors of the garage. The back of Noah’s greasy coveralls stuck out from under the hood of a battered yellow Mustang as he bent over the coughing engine.

  Andrew walked up behind him, leaned over, grabbed a wad of the coverall fabric near Noah’s shoulder, and yanked him up, banging the boy’s head on the hood as he straightened him up.

  Noah cried out in surprise, dropping the wrench that he held in his hand. The tool clanged on the cement floor, narrowly missing Andrew’s foot. Andrew shoved Noah back against the car.

  “What’s the matter, man?” Noah yelped. “Cut it out.”

  “I just talked to Francie. She says you sent that bitch to my mother.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Her sister. What did you tell her?”

  An uneasy look rose in Noah’s eyes. “Oh, her. Yeah. She came over here all pissed off. But I didn’t tell her anything. She knew all about you and Francie skipping school and all, and she asked me where you were, but I said I didn’t know.”

  “How’d she end up at my mother’s?” Andrew demanded.

  “I don’t know?” Noah whined.

  “You liar,” Andrew cried. “You told her.”

  “She would have found out anyway. She was going to look it up in the book.”

  “But she didn’t have to because you told her.”

  “I’m sorry, man.”

  “Don’t say ‘man’,” Andrew snarled. “You sound like an idiot when you say that.” Turning around, he nearly tripped over Noah’s guitar, which was propped up against a pile of snow tires. He grabbed it by the neck, raised it, and smashed it against the metal doorframe as hard as he could.

  Noah turned pale and let out a strangled cry. “Hey, goddamn you.” He lurched forward and struck out wildly with his fist, just missing Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew dropped the guitar, and it hit the floor with the crack of wood and the jangle of strings. Before Noah could strike him, Andrew sidestepped him and stalked out of the garage.

  It was dark as Andrew crossed the parking lot to his mother’s car. He had come by to fill the tank, just so that she would not know he had taken the car farther than the 7-Eleven. Provided she did not check the mileage, he would have been safe. Well, he thought, now she knows. I could have saved the gas money. She knows everything. Thanks to Noah and that fucking nosy sister. Acid flooded Andrew’s stomach at the thought, and his heart felt as if it were beating out of control. He tried to stop the waves of nausea that were coming over him, but it was no use. He bent over the side of the car and threw up in the parking lot. He felt as if his stomach were turning inside out, and all his blood seemed to have rushed to his head, which was pounding. His hand, which gripped the tail of the car, was crablike and veiny, like the hand of a very old man. He stared at it while he took deep breaths, trying to calm his stomach. But his thoughts would not stop churning. She would forbid him to see Francie now. She would cage him in. Bind him tighter. There would be new rules. He knew it.

  “Andrew?” a voice said softly. “Are you okay?”

  Andrew straightened up and saw her standing there, her ash blond hair like an angel’s halo in the lamplight of the parking lot. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses.

  “Are you sick?” Francie asked.

  “I’m okay now,” he said. “Get in.” He opened the door to the car. Francie looked worried, but she slid in.

  Noah had finished with a customer at the pump and was staring across the lot at them, his arms hanging limply at his sides. Andrew turned on the engine.

  “Where are we going?” Francie asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said dully.

  He pulled out of the lot and drove slowly along, staring blindly ahead. She waited for him to speak, but he seemed lost in his thoughts.

  “Andrew,” she said, “I can’t take any more of her. First she had a shit fit about you and me. Then she said it was my fault that my father had a heart attack. And then that wasn’t enough. It turns out that it’s my fault that my mother got killed in a car accident when I was six. She really said that,” Francie cried. “I couldn’t believe my ears. She’s sick.”

  “She told my mother,” Andrew said almost incredulously. “My mother knows where I’ve been.”

  “Well, that’s different,” said Francie. “At least you’re grown up and have a job and everything. You can do what you want. I can’t do anything. Now she’s saying I can’t see you anymore. It’s like she owns me, even though she hates me.”

  “I didn’t think she would find out,” Andrew said.

  “I can’t stand it,” Francie cried. “Now she’ll tell my aunt and uncle, and it will be the same thing with them. Why did she ever have to come here? I can’t believe my father ever wanted her to take care of me. She is the meanest, rottenest—”

  “Stop,” said Andrew.

  Francie turned on him with a wounded expression in her eyes.

  “I’m—I’m trying to think…“he mumbled apologetically. He didn’t like it when she talked too much. It was annoying, like something buzzing in his brain, making it impossible for him to hold on to anything in his mind. He needed her to be quiet and just to obey him. As if she could read his thoughts, she fell silent. He drove along, trying to avoid looking at his old man’s hands on the wheel. The night seemed to whisper and laugh outside the car. He thought the windows must be rolled down, but he looked, and he could see that they were closed tight. He thought he could detect the faint scent of peppermint in the car.

  “Andrew, I’ve been thinking,” said Francie in a small voice. “And I’ve decided. If you still want to, I’m ready. I’ll run away with you.”

  His head snapped around, and he looked at her with a vacant, confused stare, as if he were groggy from a dream.

  “Let’s just go,” she said. “Now. We have the car. We can go. Tonight. We can’t stay here. If we stay here, they won’t let me see you. Oh, let’s get away from here.” She turned her head and stared out the window into the night. “I hate this place.”

  Running away. How many times had he dreamed of it, imagined it? Pleaded with her to go with him. And now here was his chance. The little toy girl was looking at him with hopeful eyes, promising him that she was ready to run with him. It was too good to be true. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he looked at her, and he could feel his hands trembling on the wheel.

  “We can’t,” he said, shaking his head. His own voice sounded foggy to his ears. “We can’t. We have no money.” He had just said the first thing that came to mind, but that seemed the real reason for the fear that paralyzed him, now that the opportunity was at hand. “We can’t go anywhere without money.”

  “We could ask Noah,” she said eagerly. “He could give us some money from the drawer, and then, when we got to your father’s place and got jobs, we could send it back—”

  Andrew was shaking his head. “No, no. We can’t ask N
oah. He wouldn’t.”

  Francie fell back against the seat, silent.

  Andrew rolled down the window and tried to take a deep breath. “Why not tonight?” the trees whispered. He had a sudden image of himself as an animal, bolting through that open door of the cage. His heart rose. Then he saw the hunter, sights trained on his scampering hindquarters. Calmly taking aim. “Why not tonight?” the trees mocked him.

  “I know where we can get some money,” she said.

  Their eyes met in the darkness. He could feel a golden web enveloping him, spun from her hair and the silver glint of her glasses. “You do?”

  Francie nodded.

  “Where?” he whispered.

  On the road to Harrison Francie told him about the old man’s barn and the mason jar on the shelf. Andrew listened without replying, seemingly distracted by other thoughts. Every so often Francie pleaded with him to slow down, and then, when he did, she rolled down the window and peered around in the darkness.

  Suddenly they came upon the little restaurant where she and Beth had had lunch. “Too far,” she cried. “It’s back that way.”

  “Are you sure there is such a place?” Andrew asked peevishly.

  “Yes. But I’ve been there only once, in the daytime. And it’s hard to see from the road.”

  Andrew sighed noisily, to cover his anxiety.

  “Don’t get mad about it,” said Francie. “We’re right near it. And then we’ll have the money.”

  Andrew turned the car around and headed back in the other direction. After they had driven a short distance, Francie suddenly said, “Stop.” Andrew put on the brakes, and Francie squinted out into the darkness. “This is it,” she whispered.

  Andrew pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the lights. The pair gazed over at the old farmhouse and the barn, which stood about a hundred yards back from the road. There were several lights on in the house, but the barn was completely dark.