The Third Sister

by Sara Blaedel

  “I heard them yelling a little while ago. They meet over behind Mudville. It’s a bar a little ways down the street.”

  He nodded to the side.

  She still had beer in her glass and money in the machine when she stood up and walked out to find her father.

  5

  Ilka saw the sign when she stepped out on the sidewalk. Mudville was down where the homes with the broad wooden porches were set back from the street, like small oases, amid palms, green lawns, and densely crowned trees. It all looked lush, even though winter was just around the corner.

  A bell rang somewhere, followed by loud cheering, but she couldn’t see anyone close by. Finally, she realized the noise was coming from the bar. It was dim and empty when she stepped in, so she walked to the open back door, where a broad-shouldered man stood with his back to her.

  She excused herself and squeezed past him. A group of old men were gathered around a low fence, jawing excitedly among themselves as a voice began counting down. The bell rang again. A new game was starting up.

  Ilka stepped forward and peeked in between and over the shoulders of the men circling the fence. Small numbered squares had been drawn on the cement. The only differences from the first time she’d seen a chicken-shitting contest was that there were fewer squares here, and they were drawn with chalk instead of paint. They were also betting on a rooster, not a hen. Ilka hadn’t known before that roosters held some sort of special significance in Key West, but she’d caught on after seeing figures of them everywhere.

  She recognized her father at first glance. He was the one ringing the bell, leaning forward as he sat on a wooden box. He wore a white shirt open at the collar, and his straw hat shaded part of his tanned face, but she knew it was him. Not so much because of his face, but everything about him. Ilka reached back and supported herself against the doorframe. He was following the action enthusiastically as a new rooster was lowered into the circle. Unlike a horse race, the betting was on the squares and not the animal.

  Her father leaned his head back and laughed at something one of the men said. For a second their eyes met, but he didn’t react. He held a small glass and pointed at the rooster in the circle while the babble around him continued. Another guy walked around taking the bettors’ money, jotting down on a notepad which squares were being played. The man who had been standing at the door earlier came out with a new round of refreshments.

  Ilka had first seen this bizarre contest a few years after she’d met her late husband, Flemming. They had planned to bicycle around the island of Bornholm, and had ridden from where the ferry docked in Rønne to the town of Svaneke about twenty miles to the east, but that’s as far as they got. It had been so laid-back and fun, so hyggeligt, that they stayed there the entire week. In a small square in the middle of town, people crowded around to watch the hens shit; it had been right up Flemming’s alley, at least until he saw that Ilka had put money on thirty of the one hundred squares.

  He was scared she was having a relapse, even though she insisted she wasn’t. She kept trying to convince him, but he didn’t buy it. He claimed she couldn’t control her addiction. So she quit every form of gambling, just as she steered away from alcohol. Not that she’d ever drunk very much, but she knew that after downing a few, not only could she not stop drinking, but her decision-making abilities took a hit. Which meant that then she couldn’t stop gambling either.

  She called over the man holding the notepad and was told that each square cost five dollars. She kept an eye on her father as she handed him ten dollars and told him she wanted squares number two and twenty-three. One was on the edge, the other right in the middle.

  She felt totally adrift, overwhelmed, and frightened. Her father’s hair, visible from underneath his straw hat, had turned white, but she recognized the shape of his face. He seemed exuberant, alive. He was sitting practically right in front of her, and she kept staring at his hands and sinewy arms. He wore a gold ring on his right hand and held his glass close to the rim.

  Memories began popping up. She’d been five, maybe six, and he and her mother had invited friends over for dinner. Ilka had been allowed to take her plate into her room so she didn’t need to sit and listen to the grown-ups talk. But after the table was cleared and her mother made coffee, she went into the living room, nestled on the sofa under a blanket, and fell asleep to the sound of their voices. Before nodding off she’d watched her father at the end of the table, holding his glass exactly the same way as he did now. She’d completely forgotten those evenings, the cigarette smoke, the wine, the voices rising in their Brønshøj home. Her mother’s laughter.

  She felt someone’s eyes on her, and she looked over at the man standing just behind her father. He’d been watching her since she arrived, and now he leaned over to him and pointed her out.

  The moment he looked up at her, Ilka instinctively wanted to pull back. She wished she’d had more time to study him, to consign to memory everything about him she hadn’t managed to catch before he left them.

  A shock wave swept through her from head to toe, and more than anything she wanted to delay meeting him, but she couldn’t move. Several of the men standing around now glanced at her, and she straightened up a bit when her father took off his hat and wiped his brow, staring at her all the while. At first his expression was open and friendly, but soon it became more intense. He held his hat in both hands and studied her thoroughly.

  Someone called out that the rooster had shit in square number two, and the bell rang.

  Ilka didn’t move a muscle, even though the men began clapping and yelling, as if she personally had done the deed on square number two. She couldn’t hear her father’s voice in all the noise, but she saw his mouth forming her name. He rose from the wooden box a bit feebly and reached out for his cane, which he’d leaned against the fence. Ilka’s throat clogged up; she felt close to sobbing.

  The men were too focused on catching another rooster and getting ready for the next round to notice him wobbling on his feet. Ilka quickly elbowed her way through the crowd and grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

  The man holding the notebook called out behind her, “You won forty-five dollars.”

  “Is it really you?” her father whispered. Ilka could barely hear him, but she immediately recognized his voice, even though she hadn’t heard it since she was a little girl.

  “When I saw you standing over there, this feeling hit me; it’s what I always feel when I see somebody I think is you. If you only knew how many times I’ve believed it was you.”

  Ilka gripped his arm, and they walked away from all the noise.

  Her father turned to look at her face. He must have noticed her skepticism, Ilka thought, because he said no more. After all, he was the one who’d left. The one who hadn’t answered her letters, even though she now knew he’d received them. He’d even written letters meant for her, but they’d never been sent. Raymond Fletcher had made sure of that. Ilka had found them in her father’s desk drawer.

  She knew exactly what he was talking about—that feeling! All the times she’d glimpsed someone and mistaken him for her father.

  He reached up and cupped her cheeks with his hands; she’d done the exact same thing, the exact same way, in the hospital with Artie.

  Another rooster had crapped, but all the yelling faded out as her memories took over. When she was young, she’d always felt safe when he’d held her face that way.

  They stood silently. The feel of his hands made her remember how he used to pull her into him. His eyes were moist, and he was about to say something, but instead he shook his head weakly and slowly lowered his hands.

  Ilka’s throat began aching; it was pain from missing him her entire life.

  “You look like your mother,” he whispered, clearly overwhelmed. He reached out for her again, only to let his hand fall before touching her. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

  “How are you?” It was the only thing Ilka could think of to say.r />
  He was looking at her now as if he was afraid she would disappear if he took his eyes off her. He nodded down at his cane and said he’d seen better days.

  “How did you find me?” His voice was barely above a whisper, as if he still could hardly believe it really was her.

  “Sister Eileen told me where you were.” She noticed all the wrinkles around his nose when he took off his glasses and blinked rapidly. “And I came down here to find you.”

  Again they fell silent as they looked each other over. The noise behind them was part of a different world.

  “I was thinking it was about time to go back,” he said.

  “Back? But you can’t go back, you’re dead!”

  “Dead! What in the world do you mean?”

  His voice was stronger now. She noticed that his face had gone slack, a serious look in his eyes.

  “I don’t blame you one bit if you gave up on me a long time ago,” he said. “And I understand if I’ve been dead to you for many years. I want to explain.” He took off his hat; the mild breeze rustled his thin white hair. “And to apologize.”

  He was tall, around six-four. Taller than she was, she noted as she took a step back, away from the look in his eyes telling her he wanted to wipe out all the years gone by with an apology.

  “I’m sure my mother would appreciate your explanation.” She turned and headed for the bar. Suddenly she needed some air, some space to catch up with the fact that he really was right there in front of her.

  He followed her. “How is your mother?”

  “Okay, as far as I know. But I haven’t seen her since being called over here to take over your funeral home business.”

  He’d begun knocking the sandy soil off his cane, but now he looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Ilka turned back to him. Why was he pretending he didn’t have the slightest idea what had brought her to the States? “Haven’t you been in contact with Sister Eileen?”

  The bartender came over and asked what they wanted to drink. Ilka shook her head and said they were about to leave.

  “Yes, of course. We talk once a week.”

  “But didn’t she tell you I’ve been in Racine?”

  Her father hesitated, as if he was trying to understand where she was going with this. Finally, he shook his head. “If I’d known that, I would’ve come home.”

  When he reached out for her again, she stepped back. She was about to yell at him, cuss him out for all the problems he and his funeral home had caused her, but she caught herself. “Haven’t you heard about Artie being in the hospital either?”

  His arm fell as he slowly shook his head. “Why? Is it serious?”

  Something in her face might have given it away, because he obviously was preparing himself for the worst. She nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s serious.”

  They sat down at a table just inside the door. She explained that Artie had hovered between life and death, but now his condition was stable, according to the doctors. “He hasn’t regained consciousness yet,” she added.

  Her father folded his hands in front of him, his eyes closed. He was clearly in pain, and Ilka feared he was about to cry, but he straightened up and gazed at her. “What happened?”

  He stretched his fingers out on the table, as if he needed support to hold himself up.

  “He was assaulted. And Sister Eileen thinks it’s the men looking for her who did it.”

  “She didn’t tell me about this.”

  Ilka studied his face. “It sounds like there’s quite a bit she hasn’t told you.” She wondered how much of the sister’s past he knew about.

  “How long have you been in Racine?”

  She stared at him. “But…I came a few weeks after you were declared dead.”

  Now it was him staring at her; it was obvious he was confused.

  “Everybody thinks you’re dead,” she said. “Even Artie.”

  Her father shook his head a moment before struggling to get to his feet. “Let’s walk home. You have to tell me what’s happened.”

  He grabbed his cane and reached out for her arm, then headed for the door.

  6

  Artie was attacked a few days ago.” As they walked, she described how she’d found him, and she tried to give her father a complete account of what the doctors had said. When she told him the chances the doctors had given Artie, and that they’d put him in an induced coma, he stopped and turned to her. All the life she’d seen in his face earlier had vanished.

  “But it can’t be the same one,” he said, his voice low again. Ilka had to lean in to hear him. “The man who came after Sister Eileen that night is dead.”

  He looked away.

  “Dead?”

  “Sister Eileen shot him. That’s how she saved my life.”

  Ilka had a firm hold on his arm. She gave him a moment before starting again. Neither of them spoke as they slowly approached the milling crowd on Duval Street.

  He was limping, and he seemed tired, but his voice picked up as he told her about the night Javi Rodriguez found the nun.

  “It was almost midnight, I’d just gone to bed when I heard her scream. At first, I thought it was someone out on the street, but then I spotted them through my upstairs window. He’d dragged her out of her apartment and was hauling her over to the car. I ran down for the baseball bat I keep in my office.”

  He closed his eyes a moment. “I thought someone had broken into the apartment to rob her. I doubt he suspected anyone was in the funeral home, and either he didn’t hear me, or else he just let me get close before he turned around. He held a rifle under one arm and was towing Sister Eileen with the other. He’d wrapped a thin nylon cord around her throat, I saw. She was fighting him, but he was a lot bigger. He swung at me with the rifle, but it must have surprised him I was so quick, because I managed to smack him in the head with the bat. He fell, and I hit him again, but then he rolled away and got to his feet.”

  Every step seemed to be an effort for her father, so she helped him as best she could. “What did he look like?”

  He described the man as strong, stocky, and completely unaffected by being clobbered by a bat.

  She nodded. “So it was his brothers who attacked Artie. What happened then?”

  “He hit me with the rifle stock. I remember getting hit the first time, and I remember falling, but then I halfway blacked out. I heard shots; at first I thought he’d shot Sister Eileen. I tried to pull myself up, but there was no way—I might not even have been fully conscious, not really. I lost all sense of time, but when I came to, he was lying there a few feet away, under a blanket. We’d killed him.”

  “Sister Eileen killed him, you mean.”

  Her father shook his head. “We both did.”

  They stopped. He gazed at her a few moments.

  “She’d never told me much about her past. But I’ve always known she was putting something behind her when she came to me. And that night she finally told me about what happened down in Texas. I’m the one who said we should keep the police out of it. She may be the one who pulled the trigger, but I’m just as guilty. If we’d called the police, they would have found out who she was. And she would have spent the rest of her days on death row. She saved my life. Javi Rodriguez would have killed me without batting an eye to get hold of her.”

  Ilka could barely grasp that her father and Sister Eileen had killed a man. She listened in near-disbelief as he described getting rid of the body.

  “I wasn’t much help, but Sister Eil—Lydia—is a lot stronger than you’d think. She managed to stuff him into the coffin, and she also drove his car out of the parking lot. But then his brother showed up before she could leave with the coffin. She was wearing her nun’s habit, and she got out to talk to him. Apparently Javi hadn’t told him about her disguise, and he didn’t recognize her, he just asked about his brother.”

  Which, Ilka remembered, was also what had happened when the other Rodriguez brother showed up at the funeral home duri
ng a memorial service.

  “It turned out that Javi had sent him a message, telling him he’d found Lydia Rogers, and she was staying at the funeral home. I was lying in bed upstairs, in bad shape after the attack, but I heard the sister say it had to be some misunderstanding. That we didn’t know any Lydia Rogers. And that I hadn’t even been around lately, that I was at some coffin showcase in Massachusetts. It sounded like the man believed her, but after he left she said I had to get out of there. She was sure they’d be back looking for her, and it was way too dangerous for me.”

  “But what about your family? They think you’re dead! They’re grieving for you. We’re grieving for you.”

  He held the gate open for her, and Ilka ducked to avoid the palm leaves.

  “No one is proud of a man in rehab, but they know I’ll be getting out,” he said.

  “Rehab?” She looked questioningly at him.

  “I’ve been fighting a gambling addiction since I left Denmark. A vice, you could say.”

  Ilka closed the gate behind her. “I know.”

  “After I left Racine, Sister Eileen told my family I’d checked into a clinic in North Carolina. I’ve been in treatment there before, so we thought it would sound plausible. That way I could be gone for three months without my family starting to wonder about not hearing from me. I don’t know how much you know about that kind of clinic, but once I was in one where you have a contact person outside the family, and that person is the only connection you have to the outside world. And my contact person was Sister Eileen.”

  “But you didn’t go to that clinic!”

  “No, but it was the only explanation we could think of, so I left without telling the family what had happened. And really, I did it to protect them.”

  Ilka gaped at him. “They haven’t heard a word from Sister Eileen in all the time you’ve been gone.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “Have you met my wife, Mary Ann?”

  Ilka nodded.

  “It hasn’t always been easy, so she’s in on this, the story that I left to go through rehab, and that Artie is taking care of the business while I’m gone.”