Three Sisters (19 page)

She jerked away, jabbed the hook through the worm.

“Look. Look, look, don’t be like that.” He squatted down next to her. “There are some things on my mind. From my point of view, we need to talk.”

She stood up, cast, concentrating on the line, the little nibbles, the dazzle of the sun on the water.

He stood close to her, spoke into her ear. “I’ve had this impulse to tell Liz what—to actually just tell her and—”

She didn’t believe him. He wouldn’t do a crazy thing like that.

“I don’t know if it’s self-destructive, or what, but a couple times I’ve been right on the verge.”

Something nibbled her worm, a rock bass for sure. She yanked in the line. Cleaned. Rockies could nibble you to death.

He leaned against the pilings, looking down into the water. “We should talk. We might not have another chance to talk alone like this.”

Another worm on the hook, then the cast. Scott was like the rockies. Nibble, nibble, nibble, no stopping him, he’d nibble her to death. She yanked hard on the line.

“Karen. Will you stop fishing for two seconds and talk to me?”

“All right! Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay! Go ahead. Talk. Go on, talk. You said you wanted to talk!”

“I do, but I want you to talk to me, too.”

“I don’t have anything to say.”

He looked upset. Did he want her to feel sorry for him?

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I thought I had it all figured out, what I wanted to say to you. I don’t know, it’s just—ever since that morning I’ve been really down on myself and feeling that I had to talk to you, explain things. And now—I’m not saying anything.”

“Maybe that’s the way we’re talking,” she said coolly. “Maybe that’s it.”

“You’re not making this easy for me, Karen.” He took -her arm. That was when she saw Liz up on

the porch, looking down at them. Seeing the two of them.

The two of them, close. His eyes. Close as when they were lying next to each other on the bed. Close as the moment he’d kissed her. Close as when he’d pushed her away, pushed her onto the floor. She pulled away from him, threw in the line.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s it. That’s what I want to say. That’s what I have to say. Have to say. I’m sorry, Karen.”

A blurry smile swam across her face, the sort of smile that isn’t a smile at all. “You’re sorry? What for?” He hadn’t broken into anyone’s house, he hadn’t written a berserk love letter, he hadn’t crawled on his hands and knees!

“The way I acted. It wasn’t just you. Me, I—I did … I… .”

She’d lived in a dream for weeks, the dream of Scott, the dream of love. Why else had she done all those loony things? Crawling in his window … putting on his pajamas … flinging herself on him. I love you … I love you… . No, she didn’t want to remember! Not now. Maybe when enough time had passed, a long time, months, or even a year, she could think about it.

She’d fallen in love. Was that in itself so awful, so loony? Or was it that she’d fallen in love with Scott, with her sister’s boyfriend? Even now, she wasn’t immune to him, wasn’t immune, either, to the thought that Liz was up there watching the two of them. See, Liz! one little part of her mind was saying, I can do the same things you can do. Oh, that was despicable. She hated herself drearily.

Scott was still talking. Would he never stop? “I’m

trying to say, damn it, I was definitely attracted to you! At first I thought it was kind of cute the way you liked me, and it was fun. I wasn’t hurting anyone. I wasn’t hurting Liz. But then—” His voice dropped. “I’m not proud of the way I acted finally. You were there that morning, it wasn’t an easy situation—okay, that’s true. Right there and so sweet—”

The line tugged her hand. A fish flapped frantically on the hook. She pulled the hook out and threw the fish back in the water.

“Wait,” he said, “don’t go yet. Did you hear me? Do you know what I’m saying? I’m taking responsibility, Karen, for that morning, for the things you did-”

That shocked her into anger. Take responsibility for what she did? It was theft. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Oh, no, you don’t.” She brushed by him and went up to the house.

That afternoon, everyone scattered. The house emptied. Karen sat out on the porch, perched on the railing. Clouds covered the sun, uncovered it, covered it. A silver light spilled across the lake.

She heard voices and saw Liz and Scott below her on the path. They were walking away from her, past the other houses on this side of the lake. She watched them. Only hours earlier, Liz had been here in the same place, also watching. Karen felt her face become like Liz’s, calm, considering, watchful. No. She wasn’t Liz. She thumped off the railing, knocked past the wicker table, and went inside, letting the screen door slam.

She was upstairs, taking a nap, when Liz came in. “Karen?” Liz bent over her, shaking her, her

fingers digging into Karen’s arm. “Wake up.”

Karen sat up. Liz’s face hovered over her, a round cheese, sharp cheese. Liz continued to shake her. Karen thought she might still be asleep, dreaming, mixing things up the way dreams did. Tobi would shake her, Tobi would dig into her flesh with hard fingers. Not Liz. ””

“Scott told me. He told me everything.” Her freckles were like spots of light on her face.

“He told you?”

“That’s what I said! He told me about you going to his place, he told me the whole thing. He told me everything.”

“Why? Why’d he tell you?” Her toes throbbed as if someone had tramped on them, crushed them with hobnailed boots.

“I asked him. I knew something was wrong. I saw the way you two were acting. Do you think I’m utterly blind?”

Karen turned over and over in the bed.

“What did you think you were doing? Did you think at all? Did you think of anyone but yourself and your little adolescent crush? Do you know what you did? I mean, really did? You betrayed me.”

Karen was shaking under the covers. She huddled into herself, knees pulled up, arms tight to her body.

Thirty-two

Karen Freed?” the voice on the phone said. “Yes.”

“This is Kevin Mason.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t buy anything over the phone.”

“What? Oh, you think—I’m not a salesman. This is Kevin Mason.”

“Who?”

“Kevin Mason,” he said loudly.

“I’m not deaf,” she said, sounding like her grandmother.

“What? Is this Karen Freed?”

“Yes!”

“Well,” he said patiently, “this is Kevin Mason.”

“I give up. Who are you?”

“You don’t remember?”

He sounded so disappointed she hurried to reassure him. “Oh, sure, I just—you know, for a moment—”

“I’ve got your name here,” he said. “The job’s open. Do you want it?”

And finally she remembered. Kevin Mason. The tiny doughnut shop. The tall, skinny boy with the pimple tattoo.

She went down there the next day after school. “I called you first,” Kevin Mason said. “Before anybody else on the list.” What list? Karen wondered, remembering die scrap of paper he’d scribbled her name on. But it was nice of him. He was nice. He fixed her a cup of cocoa, added a sugar doughnut. “It’s on the house.” He told her about his new job, working night shift at the candle factory. “I get health insurance, I get paid more, I have a chance for advancement.”

“I was just looking for summer work,” she reminded him. “You’re full-time, aren’t you?”

“That’s okay. They can find somebody else in the fall.”

He asked her to come in a few afternoons a week for the next couple weeks so he could train her. Then she could go to work right after school was over. “And I’ll come in and check up, every now and then, see how you’re doing.” He winked. “Maybe you’ll give me a free doughnut.”

Right after Kevin Mason called, she had two more calls for jobs. One was from someplace she’d forgotten she’d even left an application. The other was from Scott’s friend, Mr. Anderson, at the The Green Market. “You’ve already got a job?” He sounded disappointed. “Well, if things don’t work out, check in with me. I need someone who can take charge a little bit.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that.” She hung up. Take charge a little bit? That was her? That was the impression he had of her? She liked that. Maybe

things were looking up. Maybe. And maybe not. It was good that she had a job, but not good enough to make her feel really good for very long. Ever since the weekend at the lake, it seemed to her that the whole family was in a terrible mood. Tense, disagreeable, snappy—or maybe it was just her.

She was depressed. Every little thing bothered her, irritated her, upset her too much. Every time she thought of that last afternoon at the lake, her chest tightened, she could hardly breathe. She was unhappy with herself, with the world, with everything around her. She even got depressed over an absurd thing like the clothes Mr. Radosh, the principal, was wearing one day. Checked green pants, violet shirt, preppy shoes. It seemed so bizarre to her, so sad.

One night she heard her parents hassling over something, she didn’t know what, only heard their voices from their room. “Oh, you always—” That was her mother. And “Why don’t you—” Her father. That was all, but enough to make her think the worst, that they were splitting up, getting a divorce.

That night was hot, stifling. She took her sleeping bag into the yard and unrolled it under the mulberry tree. In the middle of the night she dragged back in, scratching her neck, her face, her arms. The no-see-ums had arrived and feasted on her. In the> morning her face was puffy with little red flecks; her neck was swollen to twice its usual size. She scratched and scratched. Her mother dabbed on a green lotion, zinc and something else. “If this stuff doesn’t work, you might have to go see Richard.”

“Who?”

“Richard. Dr. Richard.”

“Mom, he’s a pediatrician. A baby doctor! I will not go to a baby doctor!”

Her mother threw the cotton swab into the wastebasket. “All right. All right! What’s the matter with everyone? I’ve never seen such a houseful of prima donnas.”

“What’s the matter with you and Dad?” Karen blurted. “I heard you fighting.”

Her mother looked at her. “Is that what’s upsetting you? Karen. People who live together fight. It’s impossible to live with someone without fighting.”

“Well, what was it about?”

“I don’t think I want to discuss that with you.”

“Fine!” She stormed out, knowing that she was being less than honest, using her parents’ quarrel as an excuse to explode or cry. Either one would do. That was the way she felt most of the time lately—ready to cry or scream.

Later that day, she had a fight with Tobi over a pair of flowered ankle socks they both wanted from the clean laundry. Tobi said they were hers; Karen said no, they weren’t, Tobi had given them to her. “I want to wear them,” she said, although she didn’t truly care. But something made her insist. “I am going to wear them, Tobi!”

Tobi shrugged and threw them at her. “You know, you can be a real spoiled brat.”

Karen wore the socks and felt miserable. Tobi was right, she was selfish, self-centered, egocentric, more pig than person. She tore herself down. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, even try to defend herself against the charges. Guilty! What was it Liz had said? Did

you never think of anyone or anything but your own little miserable, stupid, ridiculous, adolescent self? Something mild like that.

Liz didn’t talk to her anymore. She had cut Karen off, cut her out of her life. She passed Karen on the stairs, or coming out of the bathroom, or up the steps with a distant look, without a word. She sat next to her at the dinner table and there was a space between them wider than the house. Liz’s eyes never strayed her way. She never acknowledged anything Karen said. It was as if Karen no longer existed for her.

They had had fights now and then in the past, but not a lot, never a lot of fights, not like some sisters who went at each other like cats and dogs. Fight with Liz? Why would she want to do that? And Liz fight with her? For that matter, Liz fight with anybody? Liz was the famous family peacemaker. Fighting and Liz didn’t go together, didn’t make sense. Except that now it did—bad sense.

Karen moved around as if there were a paper bag over her head. Every morning when she woke up, she counted. Five days since Liz talked to me. Eight days. Nine. She didn’t get used to it.

One afternoon, coming home from school, she saw Liz across the street. Without thinking, Karen waved. Liz kept walking. Karen’s arm dropped, she sat down on the curb, stunned, as if someone had hit her on the head. A woman passed her, hunchbacked, gray-faced. She glanced at Karen, then came back. “What’s the matter?”

Karen shook her head, mumbled, “I’ve had a terrible fight with my sister… .”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. That hurts, doesn’t it?” What was she, a witch, cackling in glee over Karen’s misery? She squeezed Karen’s shoulder, dug her fingers right in. “You’ll make it up with her,” she said. “Oh, yes, you will, don’t shake your head. Your very own sister? Of course, you will.” Her face, close to Karen’s, showed a fringe of stiff whiskers on her chin.

Surprisingly, that cheered her up and she went home feeling momentarily better. But Liz was still not talking to her and nothing was as it had been. But who said it would be? Where did she get that idea? And was that what she was waiting for? Was that what she expected? For everything to go back to the way it had been?

That evening she and Tobi were in the living room. Tobi sat cross-legged on the window seat with an art book. Karen should have been studying, exams were coming at her fast, but she was leafing through a photography magazine. She looked for a long time at a picture of a house in winter: sagging roof, smoke rising from the chimney, blue hills of snow in the distance. A simple picture, full of the feeling of coldness and winter. She saw that compared to this picture, the ones she took were awful—silly, pretentious stuff.

She began to feel depressed again and turned on the TV. A rerun of M*A*S*H, Alan Alda picking up a surgical knife, making a joke that cracks up everyone except the guy lying on the operating table. She flipped the dial. A special on street people. Quick shot of a bag lady. Floppy brown shoes, a long brown man’s coat, a soiled white kerchief tied under her chin.