The Weird Sisters (21 page)

“Hellooooooo?” Cordy called, dropping the bags and shower seat Bean had harassed her into carrying in from the car. “Where is everyone?”

“Upstairs,” Rose called. “Come up, please.”

Bean and Cordy went upstairs into our parents’ bedroom. Our mother was lying in the bed, her eyes closed. Our father sat beside her, holding her hand. Rose was leaning against the fireplace, her eyes closed.

“What’s wrong?” Bean asked. She and Cordy sat on the hope chest where we stored extra blankets.

“The results from the lymph node biopsy came back,” Rose said. “They were positive.”

“Meaning what?” Cordy asked.

“Nothing good,” Bean said. She’d found a book on breast cancer at the library, and had read it, but the medical terms had jumbled in her mind and she found herself unable to follow the complicated flow charts of combinations and treatment options.

“It means the cancer has spread to the lymph nodes under her arm. They’ll have to do radiation and maybe more chemo.”

“Shit,” Bean said.

“No doubt,” Cordy agreed.

No one seemed to have anything else to add to that pithy pair of statements. We’d convinced ourselves that after the surgery it would all be okay, problem solved, and we could move on.

“It could be worse,” our father said. “It’s stage IIIC. Treatable, provided everything goes well.
And what remains will hardly stop the mouth of present dues: the future comes apace; what shall defend the interim?
”

“Daddy,” Cordy groaned. “Speak English.”

“We’ll just have to deal with it,” our mother said softly, opening her eyes, which looked bright against the white of her skin. “We knew there was the possibility that things could be worse. And your father’s right—it’s treatable. The doctor said since the tumor responded so well to the chemotherapy, it’s likely it will respond equally well to radiation and maybe another round of chemotherapy.”

Another round. As if she were buying drinks. Bean pictured our mother sitting at a bar, offering chemo cocktails on the house.

“Well, we got all the things the nurse suggested,” Bean said, clearing the image from her mind.

“Bring them up,” Rose ordered. “We’ll get things set up in here.” The nurse had suggested that we move our mother downstairs during her convalescence, but our mother was horrified by the thought of turning the dining room into her bedroom for the duration, and flat-out refused, despite the nurse’s perfectly reasonable arguments. So we had resigned ourselves to schlepping ourselves, our mother’s things, and, if need be, our mother, up and down the stairs for the next few months.

Bean and Cordy trudged downstairs and brought everything up, and we settled ourselves into a rhythm of work and fussing, bumping into each other until our mother complained about the noise and we scattered like seeds into our own rooms to bury ourselves in all the things we didn’t want to talk about at all.

B
ean’s hands were cold as her heels clicked up the sidewalk to the Mannings’ front door. The evening wrapped, warm and humid, around her, the silk of her camisole pressing against her heated skin, but her fingers were chilled and shaking.

“Bianca,” Dr. Manning said as he opened the door to her knock. He was wearing a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly up, the fabric’s deep blue echoing in his eyes. “You look beautiful, as always.”

“Edward,” she said, and proffered her cheek for a kiss. His lips were warm and dry and almost familiar, and he lingered a moment longer than technically appropriate, inhaling the scent of her.

“Come into the kitchen,” he said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Bean slipped off her shoes by the front door—barefoot, he was only a few inches taller than she—and followed him. The kitchen had been re-modeled since she had been here last, with expensive appliances that gleamed, self-satisfied, in the dim light. Bean might have asked about it, but doing so would have brought reality dangerously close to the fantasy, would have entailed mentions of Lila and the children, and Bean knew better than to spoil the moment. Leaning on the edge of the marble-topped island in the center of the room, she watched Edward’s hands as he deftly opened a bottle of wine and poured her a glass, the liquid settling joyfully into the bowl.

“Let’s have a toast,” Edward said, filling and then raising his own glass. “To old friendships, rekindled.”

“To the future,” Bean said.

Same as the past.

There had only been one married man on Bean’s too-long list, an attorney at the firm where she worked, too old to not yet be partner, tired and beaten down and welcoming of the wonder of this young beauty who brought pageantry and drama to his staid life. They made love on his desk, Bean laid bare on open files, a cold paperweight against her arm. They rented obscenely expensive hotel rooms for only a few hours. He bought her jewelry, plied her with lavish dinners, whispered lyrics from old power ballads in her ears. In his Walter Mitty dreams, he was powerful and dominant, and Bean let him believe that, let him be magnanimous at the expense of her own strength. But it wasn’t any of that which bothered her. It was the family pictures she turned her back on when she lay on his desk, the handmade card she found in his pocket while he showered in their room at the Plaza, lost in steam and floral soap. It was the way that when he moved above her she could picture him kissing his wife goodbye in the morning, pushing his children on the swings, living the life that she was pulling him away from.

It appeared, after all, that Bean had some standards.

But then here she was again, watching a very married man, married, frankly, to a woman who had done nothing but good for her, make her a very fancy meal. Pickings were, after all, rather slim. But, oh, it was so nice to be so obviously wanted. So nice to worry about her hair and her makeup instead of money and her awful prospects. So nice not to be turned away from for someone younger, prettier.

There was a picture of Lila and their youngest child, who’d been only a baby when Bean graduated, on the refrigerator, nestled together against a backdrop of snow. Lila’s eyes, bright and blue, crinkled at the edges, above cold-pinked cheeks. Bean closed her eyes for a moment and sent out a silent apology. For these gifts we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly sorry.

“How are we so lucky to be graced with your presence again?” Edward asked. He held his wineglass in one hand and deftly worked a wooden spoon in a skillet on the stove.

Bean sidled around the edge of the island so she was closer to him, the picture behind her. Her heart beat faster, her hand slipped against the stem of her glass as she set it down. “It’s so noisy in the city,” she said. “I thought it was about time for a little piece of quiet.”

Edward nodded. “Then you’re in the right place. I can’t remember the last time I had to complain about the volume in Barney.”

“You’re obviously not spending a lot of time at the keg parties,” Bean said. She rested her hand against the countertop and turned, pushing her hips toward him, calculatedly making herself available.

“My interest in partying with college kids died shortly after bell-bottoms abandoned us. I think there’s an evolutionary limit on how long drinking warm beer can hold your interest.”

Bean stepped closer again. “But all those nubile young coeds? Come on, don’t you find it the least bit tempting?” Oh, it was so easy for her, every move planned for maximum effect, every phrase calculated to raise the temperature. The thrill of the chase still excited her; though she knew its inevitable conclusion, though she could predict every breath along the way, there was pleasure in its incredible power to dull everything but the two people in this room. If only those silly boys at the bar knew what they were missing.

“Children,” Edward said dismissively.

“I was one of those children once,” Bean pouted.

“But you’re not now, are you?” he asked. “You’re a woman.” His fingers still wrapped around the bowl of his glass, he brushed the back of his hand over her collarbone, his eyes locked with hers.

And Bean, if she had ever been planning to fight, surrendered.

C
ordy’s first shift at the Beanery was quiet, as it would be in the summer. If you have never been in a college town in the summer, it is hard to explain. It’s a small town with a lot of large, empty buildings, and people knocking around between them like lost billiard balls. During the year it explodes, but in the summer there is nothing but time stretching thick and slow.

So it was just Cordy and her trainer, a junior at Barnwell who had stayed over the summer because his girlfriend had a work-study job on campus. To be honest, he could have run the Beanery just fine on his own. But he patiently walked her around and showed her the menu, and allowed her to inhale the rich scent of the coffee he made, and then banished her to the sandwich counter. Not that it felt like a banishment, she thought, the slick crust of the bread against her freshly washed hands as she spread egg salad between the slices, sneaking in some chopped dill to sharpen the quiet thickness of the eggs and the rich bread. She tucked the halves of the sandwich into a foam clamshell, closing it with a satisfying squeak, and handed it to the customer, who left, nudging the door open with his hip. When she had finished, she swept the stray crumbs into the well at the edge of the counter.

“It’s good you’re starting now,” Ian told her. “Because during the year, it’s crazy like woah.”

Cordy nodded. This seemed to be stating the obvious. Would she be here during the year? She wiped her hands on her apron, delicately festooned with edgings of powdered sugar from the lemon bars she had been slicing, and tried to imagine herself, her belly swollen and full, standing in front of piles of college students, their cheeks fresh from winter cold, the air swirling with the smell of stubbed-out cigarettes and the sound of books slamming down on tables and counters.

The bell at the front jingled. “Look sharp,” Ian said, motioning with his spiky hair toward the door. “It’s the ladies who lunch.” A series of maternal chortles swept in with a rush of humid air, and a gaggle of college employees, mostly department secretaries enjoying the quiet laze of summer, came up to the counter.

“Cordelia? Is that you?” Cordy turned, self-consciously adjusting the chopsticks holding her hair back in a spiky knot. The leader of the pack, as it were, Georgia O’Connell, was smiling at her expectantly. Mrs. O’Connell had worked as the secretary of the English department for as long as Cordy could remember. When we were little, our mother had taken us on walks to meet our father for lunch in the student union, and Mrs. O’Connell had let us each have a piece of candy from the omnipresent jar on her desk—butterscotch, or sometimes root-beer-flavored drops that released a sickly syrup when we bit into them.

“Mrs. O!” Cordy said, and leaned across the counter for a hug, which left a smear of powdered sugar on the woman’s clean pink shirt, like frost on raspberries. “What are you doing here?”

“Working, can’t you tell?” Her face curved into rich wrinkles that pushed together as she smiled. “More to the point, what are you doing here?”

Ah, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, that. Cordy shrugged, cast a winsome smile at Mrs. O. “You know, my mom and everything.”

“Of course.” Mrs. O’s smile fell away, and she nodded seriously. “How is she?”

“Okay, I guess. Still on the pain medication, so she’s kind of out of it. But we’re thinking we could sell some of it aftermarket, you know, make a few bucks off of the deal.”

Mrs. O was not amused. “What can we do for you?”

“We’re okay. You know Rose is living at home for a while, and Bean’s back, too. So there’s lots of hands.”

“All of you together again. Your parents must be thrilled. Your father misses you and Bianca terribly, you know. Always talking about what you’re up to. Can’t stop him, really.”

“Ugh. How embarrassing. On behalf of myself and my sisters, I apologize.”

“That’s what it’s like when you have children. Wait until one of you has grandchildren. Then he really won’t be able to stop crowing.”

“Bite your tongue,” Cordy said, flushing.

“He says you’ve been traveling a great deal. How lovely to get to see the world.”

The world? She’d hardly seen the world. “Yes.”

“I’ll admit I’m surprised that you’re back. I always thought we’d see you end up in the theater. You were always so lovely in the plays.”

“Me?” Cordy laughed. “No. I don’t think I had it in me.”

“Well, you certainly had me fooled. I thought I’d be getting autographed
Playbill
s from New York all the time by now. Do you remember Kalah Justin? She was around your year, wasn’t she?”

“Sure.”

“Well, she’s had a few plays produced in New York. Maybe you should call her, dear.”

The thought of calling Kalah Justin, who had smoked French cigarettes and worn sunglasses indoors for every class Cordy had with her, was about the least appealing thing she could imagine. Cordy elected to change the subject. “What can I get for you?”