Three Sisters (17 page)

Then she couldn’t stand still and walked rapidly around the apartment, in and out of every room, looking at everything, touching everything—Scott’s records, a screwdriver, books, an opened pack of cigarettes, a little silver bell, the towels jumbled in the bathroom.

She thought she was losing her mind.

She was in his bedroom. She paced back and forth, touched the chair, the desk, passed herself in the pier mirror. She opened a bureau drawer, a

college pennant fell out. Suddenly she pulled off her jeans and shirt, dropped them on the floor, and put on Scott’s pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.

She was losing her mind. She sat down at his desk and started writing very fast, scribbling in a huge scrawl on both sides of a sheet of paper, almost no punctuation, just the words rushing out.

“Dear Scott I don’t know what you think of me, because you acted so strange toward me today but I know just how I feel about you I love you I have loved you for a long time no not from the very beginning when you and Liz first started going together I just liked you a lot then and I liked you more every time you came to the house—then I started to love you I mean love the real stuff Im not kidding about this—don’t know exactly when it happened I mean don’t know the very instant and anyway I didn’t mean it to happen—nobody plans stuff like that it would be like planning a tornado or a flash flood—and something else, I didn’t think I’d ever tell you or be writing a letter like this no—I didn’t hope for anything how could I, how could I compete with Liz—couldn’t couldn’t couldn’t, then I began to think hope believe hope hope hope hope that something was happening maybe you felt something for me too then I came to see you when you were sick and you know what happened then, Scott, it wasn’t just me—”

She dropped the pen and crumpled the paper. She started crying again and threw herself down on his bed.

Twenty-eight.

She must have fallen asleep; it was dark when she woke up, her eyes were sore, her face stiff from crying, and she was hungry. Even in the darkness, she knew where she was and how she got there. She knew instantly. She was in Scott’s apartment, in his bedroom, on his bed. She had gone crazy, but she was sane now.

She turned over and looked at the little glowing red face of the clock. She had slept for hours, as if dead.

I’m staying over at Marisa’s. Excellent. And now what? She tried to think. Scott coming back … finding her still here. No. Had to leave. Go someplace. Where? She fumbled for the light—and heard someone laugh.

Her hand on the switch. Mouth open like a fish. Then that ripple of laughter again, a dim, underwater sound. She slid off the bed, heavy, slow, like moving through water. Heard the murmur of voices … the clicking of the dogs’ paws. One voice, clearly

Scott’s. And the other, lighter, softer, chillingly familiar.

“I admit, it was fun.” That was Scott.

Light seeped under the door. They were in the kitchen.

“I had a feeling you’d like it.” That was Liz.

Karen sank down on the floor, drowning, hardly able to breathe. Liz, here, in Scott’s kitchen, the only thing between her and her sister a door that suddenly seemed as flimsy as seaweed.

“Can’t blame me for wondering what we were in for,” Scott said. “A puppet show—”

“But, sweetie, when you went up on stage—oh, that was beautiful, really beautiful.”

Karen opened and closed her mouth. Hello, out there, you’re not alone. There’s an intruder fish in your pond, a listener, a silent fish, a foreign fish.

“I was amazed when you did that,” Liz said. “I wouldn’t have the nerve. And the way you were—as if that puppet were real—”

“Tell you the truth, I forgot that he wasn’t.”

“You were so serious about it all—”

Her head floated. If she whispered Liz’s name—is that the way fish did it—Glurp glurp bubble blurp—Liz, in fish talk. Liz would say, What’s that? She’d open the door, discover Karen swimming around on the floor in Scott’s pajamas.

And what would Liz say then? What does this mean, Karen? Scott, why is my sister in your house?

I don’t know anything about this, Liz!

That’s true, Liz, noble Karen would say. Liz, it was my idea, not Scott’s.

“I didn’t make a fool of myself?” Scott said.

“No, love. I just fell for you all over again.”

A little laugh, a murmur, an almost silence. The almost silence of two people kissing.

The hell with nobility. What if, right now, she opened the door, walked into the kitchen. Hello, Liz. Calm, self-possessed Karen. Or maybe she’d say nothing, drink a glass of water, light a cigarette. And let Liz think anything she wanted to think.

The silence broke. Little noises of chairs scraping, the refrigerator being opened and shut. They were talking … something about a trip, maps… . Suddenly the bedroom door opened, light poured in. “It’s in here somewhere,” Scott was saying. “Hold on a moment—” Then he saw Karen.

And behind him, Liz said, “Do you want me to come help you look for it?”

“No, Liz. No, don’t bother.” He closed the door. A furious smile passed over his face. “Oh, hell!” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I stayed.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“I see you did!”

In the kitchen, she heard Liz singing. “… oh, there was no way I’d come your way… .”

Karen had never had anybody look at her like that. It was frightening. “Scott—”

“Quiet!” He clamped his hand over her mouth,

pressed down on her head as if he wanted to push

her through the floor, sink her, drown her, make

her disappear.

“Mmrrrghh!” She pushed his hand off her mouth.

“Are you going to do anything crazy?” he whispered.

“No!”

He kept looking at her, as if trying to decide if he could believe her. “Now listen to me. I’m going

to get Liz out of here. You stay right here.”

“Why?”

He stared at her. “Why? Are you totally out of it, Karen?”

“Why do I have to stay here?” she whispered fiercely.

“Because I say so!”

“Scott?” Liz called.

“Coming, sweetie.” He flicked off the light and went out, closing the door hard behind him.

“Find it okay?” Liz asked.

“No. Listen, Liz—I just developed a really weird headache, it hit me just like that, right across the back of my head.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me massage your neck, maybe that’ll help.”

Their voices faded. Karen sat on the bed, un-moving. Now they were in the living room. Murmuring. Then silence. Kissing? Do you make love when you have a headache? Do you make love when someone else is in the apartment? The clock ticked, tick tick tick tickticktickticktickticktick… . After a long time, she heard the front door closing.

Twenty-nine.

Alfred scratched at the door, whimpering as if he knew that Karen was sitting in the dark. Karen … Karen … do you need rescuing? Here I am. Here comes the rescuer! She opened the door and he romped in. Remembering his errand of mercy, he braked hard and sat down in front of her, his eyes sympathetic but his ears perked for fun. St. Jokey with his jug of wine—could he help it if, in spite of her misery, he was still enjoying life? She hugged him and cried a little into his neck.

When Alfred decided she’d had enough comforting, he lay down with his head tucked under one of his huge baby paws and snoozed off. “Alfred, no! Don’t go to sleep now, don’t leave me.” One eye opened. Sorry, Karen, you’re on your own.

She pushed at her cheeks, drew in, and held a long, shuddery breath. Stop it. Stop crying. No more. Enough! She wiped her nose with the back of her hand like a little kid. The gesture angered her. Don’t move, Scott had ordered, as if she were five years

old. Stay right there until I come back. What did he think she would do? What terrible, horrible, unimaginable, depraved acts did he think she would commit?

Was she going to be obediently sitting here when he returned? In the same place, in the same wet, choking mood? And still wearing his pajamas. His pajamas! The visible sign of her passion, her obsession, her craziness, her nutty, unreal belief that he was in love with her.

She pulled on her jeans, fumbled with the buttons on her shirt. The faster she moved, the greater the sense of urgency. She ran her hands quickly over the bed, straightening and smoothing, hung up the pajamas, gathered the damp tissues she’d dropped on the floor. Had she forgotten anything? Her knapsack. She picked it up, stuck her feet into her sneakers, and left the room.

In the kitchen, Harold was asleep under a chair. The table was littered with the remains of Liz’s and Scott’s snack. Bowls, nutshells, a limp ice-cream carton dripping the sticky cream onto the table. Why was she so hungry? It seemed indecent to be miserable and hungry at the same time, as if her stomach had no respect for the pain of her feelings.

She opened the refrigerator and crammed tuna fish into her mouth. When Stott came back, she’d be gone. His kingdom, his castle, would be all his again. The mad, watery witch banished. The prince spared the nasty job of throwing her into the moat to drown. She’d salvage a little something from this wreck, a tiny scrap of her dignity. She’d leave on her own. Maybe it was diving deep and coming up with nothing but a handful of pebbles to call that

a dignified exit, but at the moment it was the best she could do.

She was in the hall, the door closed and locked behind her, before she slowed down enough to ask herself where, exactly, she was going. It was well past midnight. No buses. Walk across the city at this hour? Not too smart. Even if she did and got home safely, what would she say to her parents? How explain creeping in, in the small hours of the morning? Well, I know you thought I was at Marisa’s, but… . You weren’t at Marisa’s? Actually, no… . Then where were you? I really can’t say… .

She sat down on the steps, her head in her hands. Think, Karen. You haven’t been doing too well in that department, but try. Odd thoughts and scenes passed through her mind, as if she were dreaming or half awake. Faces came and went. The Mary Poppins girl … the little gnome who lived downstairs … Mr. Radosh, the principal… and Rachel in her father’s office… . Then she heard someone say, Voices from the other world. What other world? Where? Was there a map showing the way? I want to go there. How do I get in? Someone tell me! Should she just knock on the door and say, Is this the other world?

Then Scott was standing in front of her. She looked at him dazedly. What was he doing here? He stood away from her, hands jammed in pockets, as if she were a contagious disease.

“I’m going home,” she said.

“Good. Do you want to say anything to me?”

“Like what?” she whispered.

“You’re the inventive one. I’m sure you have something to say to me.”

She shook her head.

“Okay, let’s go. I’ll drive you. You figure out what you’re going to tell your folks. Not that you were here. That’s understood, isn’t it?”

She swallowed the soreness in her throat. “I can’t go home. It’s too late. I told them—I called and said I was sleeping over at my friend’s.”

Scott leaned back against the wall. “Ah. Of course. Sleeping over at a friend’s. Congratulations. What do we do now with you?”

“I’ll stay out here. I can sleep right here—”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why not? I’ll go, then.” She stood up.

He grabbed her arm. “Are you really crazy? I’m not letting you out to wander around the streets in the middle of the night.”

“What do you care? Leave me alone.”

He unlocked the door. “You can sleep on the couch.” He held the door open. “Come on.” He yanked her. “Come on!”

She went in. He threw a blanket and a pillow down on the couch. She lay down with her clothes on. She heard him moving around the kitchen, the water running, Harold snoring. The kitchen light went out. She found an apple in her knapsack, ate it, chewing the seeds; they were full of arsenic or something like that, maybe she’d be dead by morning. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

In the morning, she woke up early and went, in her stocking feet, into the bathroom. She was at the sink when she remembered the letter she’d written

Scott. What had she done with it? Her heart sank. The desk. She’d left it on Scott’s desk.

Scott was sleeping, the blankets pulled up over his head, Alfred at the foot of the bed. The room was dim. She crept across the room, fumbled over the desk. Nothing. No letter. Her breathing sounded loud enough to wake the neighbors. She emptied the wastebasket on the floor, pushed aside scraps of paper and orange peels, found her letter crumpled up. Had she thrown it away? Or had he found it and read it?

“Karen?” Scott pushed himself up in the bed. “Karen? What are you doing, Karen?”

“I left something here—it’s nothing, a letter, a letter I wrote you.” She shouldn’t have said it! She stood there, looking at him. She noticed the way the hair grew on his chest in a dark, thick line between his nipples. “Scott… .”

“Kaaren,” he mimicked. But he was different this morning, not so angry, his eyes brown again, not that muddy black. He yawned and almost—could she believe it?—smiled.

And then she did something nutty again. She dropped to her hands and knees, his third dog, and crawled to the bed. He looked at her in astonishment. She reached for his hand, held it beseechingly. “Scott, I’m sorry, sorry about everything!” She kissed his hand. “Do you forgive me?”

“Karen, cut it out! Stand up, for God’s sake.”

She crawled onto the bed, flung her arms around him, smelled his skin. “I only did it because I love you.”

“You know you’re really crazy.” He rumpled her hair, the way he would rumple Alfred or Harold.

He was smiling at her, he didn’t hate her anymore. He held her tighter, she closed her eyes, he was going to kiss her, she knew he was going to kiss her, all the love came flooding back, and he did kiss her.

Then it was over. He pushed her away, pushed her hard, pushed her right off the bed. “Damn it, Karen!” She looked at him dazedly. “Damn it,” he said again, “damn it, damn it, stay away from me, damn it!” He wrapped the covers around himself and leaped out of the bed, trailing sheets, skinny legs and bare feet showing. She wanted to laugh. Wasn’t laughter healing? Laugh, Karen! Right now, right this minute, she needed to laugh! Her lips trembled, and she walked out.