Bearded Women (18 page)

I need to get out of the house and suggest a walk to the park. My sister slumps on the couch and crosses her arms.

“Once you get outside you’ll feel better,” I say as I sit beside her and ready her socks and shoes. “Now give me your foot.”

She refuses to move, so I bend down and grab her ankle and rest it on my lap. I tug her sock over her toes, then slide on her shoe. She knows my fingers ache in the morning, but she’s decided that if I’m going to torture her, she’s going to torture me back.

“I’m not trying upset you,” I say, though she’d accuse me of that if she could talk. I can see it in her eyes and hear it in the voice she used to have.

“I know what you’re saying so you don’t have to look at me so loud,” I say as I pull the second sock over her foot.

My sister grimaces. She thinks I’m making fun, but I’m being honest. All her gestures come with words. Sometimes we talk through raised eyebrows, finger-points, and nods.

I think about saying something to her about assisted living facilities. There’s a nice one on the other end of town. I called them yesterday to inquire about rates, but I don’t want her to accuse me of making threats. In the past week, putting my sister in an assisted living facility has become more of a serious consideration. I hate to say that I’m getting too old for this, but I am.

Once her feet have been properly attired, I drag my sister out the door to the park.

“The sun will do us both good,” I say.

My sister glances back and forth as we walk the two blocks. She doesn’t like being with me in public places because of my short-sleeved shirts and short skirts.

“Really,” I mutter. “What good are those lovely pictures if they’re hidden?”

On my right arm is Aphrodite. There’s a snake curling around my left arm, ending on an apple at my wrist. A female angel wields a sword on my right leg, and on my left leg Eve demurely covers her intimate areas with her hands. I like that my tattoos have been distorted by cellulite—Eve and the angel have gained weight and wrinkled along with me. They are meant to be seen. I am meant to be seen. And I am old enough not to care what other people think.

At the park my sister eases down on a bench. It’s been a year since her stroke. When she was released from the hospital I moved in to care for her. She didn’t want to go to a facility. Too expensive, she wrote on the pad of paper that had become her mouth. She wanted to stay in her apartment. But I know that all day long she thinks intelligent things that she can’t say. It drives her crazy. She was a teacher after all, is used to giving instructions and being obeyed.

While I am sympathetic, I get frustrated with her moods. If she had an assisted living apartment, she’d have her own bed, her own space, and wear a little alert device with a button she could press if she needed help. The nurses and other residents would probably be more patient with her than me. But my sister doesn’t want to move. The process is more complicated since she has her wits about her. It’s easier to put family members in a home when they don’t know what’s going on.

A fat woman puffing by on a morning jog stares at us.

I smile and wave. My sister glances over to me and bites her lip.

When we were children we lived above our mother’s tattoo shop. Mother wore skirts that covered her ankles and blouses with sleeves to the wrist, but everyone in town knew that her skin, save her hands and feet and face, sang with colour. Mother tattooed soldiers from a nearby military base during the day, but at night women came wrapped in shawls and darkness. They wanted roses on the small of their backs, said their husbands found the markings erotic.

When we walked to the bank or grocery store my sister strode several paces ahead of us, pretending she wasn’t related. Later, when she was in high school, we couldn’t get her to accompany us on any outing. She said she had to stay home to study. Even then she was planning her escape. Mother must have known. But she also knew we were always being watched. That was why she walked with the light grace of a dancer, and made sure my sister and I were angels in public. If we acted out she’d spank us so hard we couldn’t sit down all evening.

In the tattoo shop I sat beside Mother as she drew designs on arms and legs and backs with a template. She stretched the skin tight and switched on the tattooing machine, sponged away ink and blood as she worked. My sister curled herself tight as a cat in a living room chair and shut out the din of the tattoo needle. She went to college. I studied tattooing with Mother. She started inking my skin when I was fifteen, and I continued working on myself when I was old enough to learn the art.

After she’d moved out of Mother's apartment, my sister turned and walked in the other direction when she saw Mother and me on the street. Mother was demure, didn’t say anything about my sister’s rebuffs, but at home while listening to her usual radio programs she kept a handkerchief at the ready. I hated to see her mourn the person my sister had become, but she’d always worried about appearances.

“They’re not staring at you,” I whisper to her in the park.

My sister looks normally old. There’s nothing odd about her at first glance, though she spends long minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, turning her head this way and that, trying to push wrinkles off her face with her good hand. Sitting beside me makes her even less conspicuous. She doesn’t believe me when I say this, and slides to the other side of the bench. I shrug and chat with passers-by, particularly the older gentlemen. Wilson pauses to say hello.

“You’re looking fresh as spring daisies,” he says to us.

I thank him. My sister looks away.

Wilson and I talk about his dog and his grandchildren and the pleasant weather.

“We need to get coffee together,” he says. “Make a date of it.”

I say that would be lovely. My sister hunches lower on the bench. Wilson tips his ball cap and wishes us both a good day.

“Who else is going to flirt with old men except for waitresses who want bigger tips?” I mutter to my sister after Wilson leaves. “They deserve a good flirt with no strings attached.”

My sister never believed in flirting. When she could talk, she said it was disingenuous.

“I’m not going to bring someone home,” I say. “We’re just playing.”

My sister sighs and crosses her good arm over the limp one. She once dated a man for two years before she discovered he was married, so she’s very concerned about who’s genuine and who’s not. While I understand that, I won't deny myself an enjoyable experience because of silly fears. I’ve had men friends, shared a bed with a few of them, and wouldn’t mind doing it again, but my sister would never agree to such a thing in our apartment. I try to be considerate of her needs, though she doesn't appreciate how my life changed when I moved in with her. No more boyfriends. No more nights with guests. No more casual chatter over meals.

My sister glances from side to side and then down at her stomach.

“What’s the matter?” I say. I have learned to be keen to her movements. “Hungry? You didn’t have much breakfast.”

She glances sideways at me, shrugs.

“I’ll get us some ice cream,” I say as I stand and stretch.

As I walk to a vendor the tattooed snake twists lazily around my arm and Eve’s hips jiggle. I love my whole body except for my hands. They’re wrinkled and knobbed and never stop aching. Sometimes I want to be a starfish, chop off my fingers and grow new ones. I forgot to take my pain medication after the muffin debacle because my sister was weeping.

When I come back with the ice cream cones, my sister holds out her good hand but looks nervous, like she wishes she hadn’t admitted she was hungry. She has a hard time keeping up with ice cream drips, gets one down the front of her lavender blouse and starts sniffling.

“Don’t worry,” I say, daubing her with a napkin and tucking another one into her collar.

She cringes, hates bibs, but it’s the best way to catch the ice cream drips.

I eat my ice cream and enjoy the sun for a few minutes.

My sister tugs on my arm. She’s dropped her ice cream on the sidewalk (intentionally) and wants to leave.

“Honey,” I say, “we cleaned the ice cream off your blouse.”

She tugs my arm again.

“We haven’t even been here twenty minutes,” I say. “I’m not ready to leave. Relax. Close your eyes. Breathe the air. Feel the sun.”

She whimpers, stands up and pulls my arm again. She wants to say how embarrassed she is. I wrest free of her grasp and stand beside her.

“Sit.” I push down on her shoulder. She never wants to be in the park very long. It’s irritating. “I’m sick of making allowances for you. For once we’re going to stay when I want to.”

My sister pouts. She’s gotten very good at that in the past year. In desperate moments I wish she’d have another stroke. It wouldn’t be a great shame if she lost her capacity for pride. Being old embarrasses her. Old people embarrass her.

I finish my ice cream. My sister is stone still. Fuming. I don’t want to treat her like she’s seven, but she acts that age when she doesn’t get her way. I resent that she resents me. It’s not easy to care for someone who does not want care. I worry that if I put her in assisted living she’ll despise me, but if I don’t put her in assisted living we’ll hate each other even more.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you,” I say.

She stares at her right arm, the lifeless one.

I sigh but notice Stuart doing the daily crossword and glancing at us from two benches over. We see often him at the park in the morning. He lives in the retirement complex nearby. He’s a kind man, sometimes brings us coffee or a pastry from the bakery. We have shared details. I know his wife had a stroke five years ago and died of a second stroke two years ago. He knows I operated my mother’s tattoo shop for decades but sold it seven years ago.

“Sorry,” says Stuart when he sees me looking at him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I make room for Stuart on the bench and wave him over. At the moment I’d like the company of someone who isn’t my sister. Someone who isn’t terribly cross. Someone who, and I’m ashamed to admit this, can talk.

My sister stiffens, grabs my arm with her good hand and tries to pull me away from Stuart like I’m three years old. Sometimes we fight over who gets to protect who.

“You look nice today,” says Stuart to my sister.

My sister tries to smile. She hates being singled out as much as she hates my flirting. I think she sees the same coquette in me that she saw in Mother, who tended to flirt with her unmarried male clients. I don’t pretend to know what happened in Mother’s bedroom after we were asleep, but I don’t doubt she had company from time to time. I see nothing wrong with that, since I’ve done likewise.

My sister usually hated my mother in silences, but there was one time they argued at dinner and my sister yelled, “You don’t even know who our father is.”

Mother set down her fork and blotted her lips with a napkin.

“Do you want his address?” she said quietly.

“You have it?” my sister squeaked.

Mother nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” my sister said.

“You never asked,” said Mother.

“I want it,” said my sister. “Of course I want it.”

I watched Mother copy words from a small leather-bound book onto a piece of paper. A name and a street address, I imagine. Possibly someone in town. Mother had impeccable handwriting. She could have been a calligrapher.

My sister folded the paper and slipped it in her pocket. Mother asked if I wanted the address, too. I said I’d think about it, but knew my answer would be no. If this man was too embarrassed to visit us, why should I care about him? I imagined he might be watching Mother and my sister and me from street corners, monitoring our progress to the grocery store, but I assumed he had his own wife and children and was less ashamed of them.

I never asked my sister if she spoke with the man, but she wanted the paper and the opportunity. I doubt her pride would have let her chat with our father and divulge what she knew. There are many questions I keep silent when I’m around her.

I help Stuart with the crossword, correct a couple answers that don’t fit the grid. We chat about my mother’s tattoo shop. He says he’d like to see it someday, and perhaps take us out to lunch afterwards. I nod and say that would be fun. I don’t tell him that sometimes I find it difficult to visit the storefront, but that’s because I can’t work a needle like I used to.

“You should see this,” says Stuart. He begins to unbutton his shirt, showing off his wrinkled chest. My sister puts her hand over her mouth, but Stuart keeps unbuttoning until he can slide the fabric off his shoulders and reveal the tattoo of a falcon on his arm and one of a raven on his back. Their wings droop, preparing to land on some invisible perch. I appreciate the pictures as well as the other marks on Stuart’s body, patches of light and dark and scarred skin. After a certain age everyone is a novel.

Stuart buttons his shirt and we resume chatting about how it’s nearly lunchtime. He asks if we would like to join him for a sandwich. Our hands inch closer on the bench. When our fingers graze, I feel a little surge in my chest. Surprising, almost, how the sensation doesn’t change. Stuart cradles my hand in his and rubs his thumb over my fingers.

My sister screams.

Stuart and I stare at her.

“What on earth is the matter?” I say. “Why can’t you have a pleasant morning at the park like a normal person?”

“Is she right in the head?” Stuart whispers.

“I don’t know,” I say, not caring that my sister can hear me. “Goodness knows what’s working in her mind and what isn’t.”

That shuts my sister up. She gives me a good stare, stands up, and starts walking out of the park. Stuart and I watch her for a moment.

“Should she leave on her own?” he says.

“No,” I sigh. “I need to go after her.”

“It was pleasant chatting with you,” he says, squeezing my hand. His touch makes my fingers hurt, but I don’t care. I catch up with my sister at the stoplight.

“You are perfectly awful,” I yell.

She grins at me, malicious, then begins to cross when the light changes. I almost don’t go after her, but Mother would never forgive me. As I trail my sister, I remember how, when we were little and played games of pretend, she was good fairy and made me be the evil one. She got to decide because she was older, but I liked my role more than she wanted me to.