The Sisters (28 page)

It couldn’t be long now. Though she had memorized the directions days ago, Lynn looked again at Aunt Alma’s letter, folded down to show only the words
With warmest wishes, Alma
and the directions to Daddy’s last known address. “How many miles have we come since the last turn? It says we’re to go left on Hanging Rock Road after eight and a half miles.”

“Just keep your eyes peeled for a gas station,” Derek said.

“I think that’s where we used to stop to get bait.”

“Where? Who?”

“That store back there. Daddy and me—and a friend of his, I think.” She felt a flash of pain in her chest. “Sometimes. On the way to the lake.”

She remembered coming out of the summer heat into the damp, musty cool of the store, where she could stand beneath the slow-turning ceiling fan and sip an Orange Crush. She’d liked the thick bologna the owner cut for their sandwiches, and the way he’d keep moving his tobacco-stained finger back from the cut edge of the big bologna roll until she said
When
. What she didn’t like was how he’d fold up the bologna slices in white paper, then turn right around to a cooler behind him and scoop up a handful of night crawlers into a paper cup he’d taken from beside the soda fountain. And she didn’t like it later at the lake when Daddy would pull a fat worm out of the cup and wave it in her face, black soil still clinging to it in tiny clumps. But he was only teasing her.

“There’s one,” Derek said, and Lynn saw ahead of them another hand-painted sign in front of a whitewashed block building:
BOBBY’S GARAGE. GAS. OIL. LAST CHANCE BEER.

“Is that some local brand, do you think? Last Chance Beer?”

Lynn felt too edgy to try to decide whether Derek was serious or making a joke. “Siler’s in a dry county,” she said. “Just over the line.”

Derek steered the car into the station and a man in a blue shirt smeared with black grease met them at the pump. “Fill up?” Derek nodded and asked about a restroom. The man motioned toward the block building.

“Think I ought to get some of that Last Chance Beer?” Derek asked Lynn, unbuckling his seat belt. Then he turned to speak to the man out the open window. “How about a pay phone?” The man nodded and Derek said what he’d said at every stop since they’d left Lynn’s dorm. “You think you better call?”

“I’m going to the restroom,” she said. “I need to stretch my legs.”

When she had shown Aunt Alma’s letter to her roommates, Michelle and Julie, they had both told her she ought to call, or at least write to Daddy first. “What if he’s not there?” Julie said.

“Five hours is a pretty long drive to find out somebody’s gone on vacation or moved,” Michelle added, though neither said what all of them, including Lynn, were thinking: What if he didn’t want to see her?

Aunt Alma had provided a telephone number, and in the ten days since the letter had come, Lynn had gone three or four times to the hall phone booth, staring at the black receiver. She couldn’t very well reverse the charges like she did when she called home, so she’d have to be ready with a huge supply of coins to keep feeding the pay phone. She’d gone so far as changing a ten—her spending money for the rest of the month—but once she was in the phone booth, new doubts washed over her. If she got lucky enough for him to be home when the phone rang, would forty quarters be enough to convince him it was really her? Thirteen years was a long time, nearly two-thirds of her life. And even if she could persuade him of her identity, would there be enough quarters in all the world to stay on the line long enough to get him to agree to let her come to Siler? Best to take her chances, she decided. Just go there and face him. It was much harder to turn someone away than it was to hang up the phone or rip up a letter. Wasn’t it?

The restroom was surprisingly clean, though badly in need of paint. There were rusty stains in the toilet bowl and around the sink drain, and the mirror was pocked all over in places, its silvering dingy. Lynn leaned in to see how much her fear showed on her face.

“Your coloring is the same,” Aunt Alma had said. The same chalk white skin that turned splotchy in the sun, the same frost blue eyes and red-blond hair. Lynn wondered if his hair, like hers, curled tight in the rain. Last spring, when she’d come home for break, so proud of her new feathered cut, Mother had sneered and said, “
Farrah Fawcett
hair? Is that allowed for revolutionaries?”

Aunt Alma told her, “His face is square, too, like yours. But your nose is your mother’s.” Her nose had always been the part of her face Lynn liked the least.

Last month, on an impulse, Lynn had hitched a weekend ride with Michelle, whose family lived just forty minutes away from Aunt Alma and Uncle Gordon’s house in McAllister. She covered herself by first calling home to tell her mother that she wouldn’t be in the dorm during phone hours. “It’ll probably be an all-nighter in the library,” she said. “I have a paper due in American history.” Before calling, she had practiced reciting her excuse, but suddenly it didn’t seem enough, so she added, “And early Saturday morning I’m going with some people in my class—the professor’s going, too—to picket the building site for the nuclear plant. We’ll probably be there all day, and then I’m off to the library again.” They were half-truths—not that she minded lying to her mother. After all, she was sure Mother had lied to her plenty. There
was
a no-nukes rally that day that some of her friends were going to, and ordinarily she would have gone, but there might not be another chance for a ride for a long time. And she
did
have a paper due—in a week.

When Alma opened the door, Lynn said to her aunt’s astonished face, “I want to find my father. Mother won’t help me. Will you?”

Alma laid a cold, thin hand on her shoulder and said, “I’ve always thought it was wrong the way your mother handled all that. Rainey’s so emotional—always overreacting.”

Lynn agreed. Who wouldn’t? When Lynn was fourteen or fifteen, upset over a low grade on an English essay—a low grade she knew was unfair—Grandma Bertie had responded to her tears by saying, “Settle down, or you’ll make yourself sick. You’re so like your mother—every little thing gets you worked up.” Those words had pulled her up short, just like reins on a runaway horse, and from that moment Lynn had resolved to mistrust emotion. After all, crying over the grade in front of her teacher had done no good. The next day, she’d taken her paper in and quietly explained the reasoning behind her argument, admitting that the presentation was flawed, one or two points having been left out. The teacher had let her rewrite the paper and the grade was raised to an A, proof to Lynn that it was the mind that mattered—cool logic to arrange facts into reason.

“What did you think of him, Aunt Alma?” Lynn asked, sitting down in one of the stiff high-backed chairs, upholstered in what looked like ivory satin.

Alma drew her lips into a tight pucker. “It doesn’t matter what I thought of him.” She turned to the end table and began straightening an already straight stack of the three most recent issues of
The Ladies’ Home Journal
.

“Please.”

Alma fluffed a pillow, then picked up a crystal dish filled with translucent pink candies and held it out to Lynn. “They’re flavored with rose hips,” she said. Lynn forced a smile and shook her head.

“I can’t really offer an opinion.” Alma replaced the candy dish on its doily. “I met him only once or twice before your mother carried you off to Indianapolis. She never would tell anyone why.”

Lynn knew only the irrational fragments of that story, her mother’s words: “Something terrible happened. I had to get you away. Nobody could have made me leave my baby in that house for another minute.” If Lynn asked, “But why? What was the terrible thing?” Mother would either start sobbing or shouting. At other times, Lynn would ask why she couldn’t see her father, or at least be in touch, and Mother would try to justify the severing of his visiting rights by saying, “He never even tried to see you—not for five years.”

“But then he did ask,” Lynn would say; “I know he did.” She’d seen the letter from Daddy’s lawyer. Determined to find out what had happened—she must have been about twelve then—she had twisted Grace’s hair, threatening her little sister and forcing her to keep watch while Lynn climbed on a chair to reach the big brown envelope Mother kept on the high shelf of the closet, all the way at the back. The letter was in the envelope, along with a lot of other legal papers, but Lynn didn’t tell her mother she’d read it. “Grandma told me,” she said.

This fired her mother’s anger and she made Lynn look her in the eye. “It was all about hurting me, getting back at me. Don’t you ever imagine it had anything to do with you. He never cared for anybody but himself.”

But those weekends—those few months, years ago—Lynn had felt cared for, loved. She had been happy then, glowing under her father’s attention, nobody around to say
Isn’t Grace pretty. Isn’t Grace sweet. Look at what Grace made. Why can’t you be quiet and mind like Grace?
—no Grace around at all to claim a share and be put ahead of her. Exhilarating, it was, that time with Daddy—like being at a circus, where even if something scared you, it was part of the pleasure. Daddy liked running down hills, carrying her on his shoulders. He taught her to play football, showing her how to fall by tackling her to the ground. In the car, heading into curves, he would push the gas to the floor, shouting that he was A. J. Foyt, going for the win.

Lynn knew, even if nobody else believed her, that it had been an accident—her going into the lake. Or, if not an accident exactly, then a moment of fun gone wrong. Daddy hadn’t meant to hurt her, but nevertheless, the whole family—Mother, Grandma, and Grandpa—blamed him. And ever since then, Lynn had felt them all watching her, though they pretended not to. Yet there they were, always, calculating her moods, whispering to one another about her time in the hospital, studying her for signs of a relapse of what they called her “nervous breakdown.” “It’s all still there in the nightmares, the way she cries,” one of them might say. “That man throwing her in the lake.”

It was true that when she was small, Lynn would yank awake, drenched in sweat and arms weak from flailing, but she wasn’t dreaming of Daddy—not in the way they all believed. She remembered no recurrent nightmare except the one she still sometimes had, even now—fighting and twisting as she was carried out of the courtroom, screaming over her mother’s shoulder, reaching out her arms to her receding father, who was reaching out to her. Daddy was clear enough in the dream, face red and wet with grief and fury, but when she woke, she couldn’t call up the image, not even of how he had looked when she was a child. If there had ever been any pictures of him at their house, they had long ago been destroyed. Once, Daddy had given her a photo to keep. She was standing in front of a Ferris wheel, Daddy with his arm around her, and another man, big and dark, on the other side. The big man was holding up two fingers behind her head for devil’s horns. When Daddy gave her the photograph, she wrapped it in a handkerchief and slipped it inside the zippered pocket of the yellow purse she’d gotten to carry with her Easter dress, but when she thought to look for it again, months after she came back from the hospital, the handkerchief was there, but not the photo.

She missed a lot of school that year—the whole winter—and spent her days on the couch, watching
As the World Turns
and
The Guiding Light
with Grandma. In all that time, no one told her what had happened after she’d been carried from the courtroom. All anyone ever said about Daddy was that the judge had decided he couldn’t see her anymore. No one told her why that was. No one told her why Daddy didn’t call or write or send her presents.

Lynn leaned in toward the mirror again and checked her makeup. Her eye shadow was too heavy, she decided, and her lipstick was too dark, making her look years older. She wetted a paper towel and wiped off as much color as she could, then went back to the car. Derek was leaning against the gas pump, talking with the attendant while he washed the windows.

When they were on their way again, Derek said, “We’re on the right track. The guy back there said it’s not more than another seven or eight miles.”

Lynn stared out the window, trying to persuade herself she recognized the landscape. Here the leaves were just beginning to turn, some around the edges, others spotted with orange and red. The green of the maples was fading into yellow and the leaves were almost translucent in the afternoon sun. Back at school, the ground was already thick with sweet-smelling brown leaves that swirled in the air with the lightest breeze. On their drive south, mile by mile, the trees had gotten greener, as if the wheels of the car had turned back the season.

“He knows your dad,” Derek said.

“Who?”

“The gas station guy.”

A rope squeezed at her heart. “You didn’t tell him who I was?”

“Of course not. I just asked about the address.” Derek looked in the rearview mirror more than necessary and slid his hands up and down along the wheel. Clearly, he had something else to tell her.

“What did he say? Did you find out what he does or anything like that?”

“He used to do some kind of work on the roads—that’s what the guy said—but then he got run out of that job. A long time ago.”

“Run out? What do you mean? Why?”

Derek slowed for a curve, steering stiffly, as if he’d never taken one before. “Sounds like he’s doing okay, though—financially. The guy said he sold a lot of land a few years back to a developer—after his dad died. But he kept the old homeplace. He lives alone there now—except for some dogs.”