The Sisters Page 2

  Mabel laughed. “Did you forget the store’s on the way home from school? I’ve seen you two going past for months—since October at least.” She wrapped an arm across her sister’s chest and pressed her cheek over the very spot Wallace kissed. “I’m happy for you, Bertie,” she said. “I like Wallace.”

  Quickly, Mabel fastened up the braid in a loop, then picked up the brush, sweeping it through her own hair in rough, short strokes. Meeting Bertie’s eyes in the mirror, Mabel tipped her head toward the closed bedroom door and whispered, “You mustn’t let on to him, though. He wouldn’t like it.” She laid the brush on the dresser. “I’d better get in there before he hollers. And you’d better get changed or you won’t finish your chores in time to get to school.”

  With her everyday dress on, the looped braid was too fancy—people would laugh, say she was putting on airs—so Bertie plucked out the pins and shook her hair loose, tying it back from her face with piece of twine. What was it Wallace saw in her? She was so plain, she might as well have been invisible.

  Around the house, that was the best way to be. If not for Mabel, she might have run away a dozen times over, but her sister always smoothed things, seeming to know the way to talk to calm Butcher down. Then, late at night, after they had heard him go down the hall to bed, Mabel would relight the lamp and get out the stereopticon. They’d take turns with it, spreading the cards across the rug.

  Mabel might hold out a view of downtown San Francisco or New Orleans or Chicago and say, “Let’s you and me go there.”

  And Bertie would gaze at the gray city and try to imagine herself there. She couldn’t—she’d never been out of Juniper. “What about money?” she would say. “He expects me to go to work soon as school’s out.”

  Mabel would smile—always a smile shadowed with secrets, but a shadow that stilled Bertie’s worries, as if the things she didn’t know were what kept her safe. “Whenever he sends me to the store,” Mabel told her once, “I keep back a nickel or a dime—whatever I think he won’t notice. That I save. I’ll work extra when I can, like I’ve been doing for your commencement dress. By the time you finish high school, there’ll be enough to get us out of Juniper, to get us started somewhere else.”

  There was plenty of money in Butcher’s strongbox, the one he kept back of the low cabinet behind the whiskey bottles. Surely Mabel knew about that. Or maybe she didn’t. Bertie hadn’t known about it for long—only since she’d stepped around the corner early one morning last winter while he was loading up his pockets for his trip to the bootlegger. He didn’t see her, but she saw him put the box back in its hiding place.

  Just a week or two ago, while studying a view of New York, Mabel had again said, “We’ll go there. You and me. Someday.”

  “Oh, Mabel, let’s go now.” She could surprise Mabel with the money. Make up some story about how she’d earned it. Or about how Mama had hidden it away for them. A gift. “Let’s go right after graduation. I can work, too.” Bertie had meant it when she said it, caught up in the idea of getting away from Jim Butcher, meant it until she remembered Wallace. Leaving Juniper would mean leaving Wallace, and she didn’t want to do that.

  “One of us should finish school.” Mabel squeezed Bertie’s hand. “For Mama’s sake. Besides, right now I don’t have enough to get you or me to the other side of town. When we go, we need to get at least as far as Indianapolis—the bigger the city and the farther away the better.” She stretched back across the bed and gazed at the ceiling. “When you start a new life, everything has to be different.”

  Bertie took another quick look in the mirror, then picked up her books so she could go on to school straight from the barn, right after she’d turned the horse out into the little pasture and cleaned the stall. She knew some of the others talked behind her back, gossiping about her clothes and her dirty shoes, but what did it matter if Wallace didn’t mind?

  She stepped into the hall, just in time to hear Mabel saying, as sweetly as you please, “Another cup of coffee, Daddy?”

  She wanted to love Mabel—did love her—but at times like this Bertie wondered if it was possible to love someone you couldn’t understand, someone who could do something so terrible. Mostly, she was sure Mabel hated Butcher as much as she did, but Mabel would never admit it, not even when she and Bertie were alone. Sometimes Bertie thought she heard a sneer in Mabel’s voice when she said Daddy. But even if that was true, saying it at all was still an insult to their father—the father Mabel, being five years older, remembered far better than Bertie could. Bertie hadn’t started school yet when he’d been called up for the war. There’d been only a couple of letters after he left home, which Mabel, like Mama before her, kept in the blanket chest along with the telegram saying he’d died of influenza a week before he was to ship out to France.

  Mabel remembered him so well she could still tell stories about his teaching her to look under the leaves when hunting blackberries, and about the eagle-shaped swing he’d made for her one summer. He’d slung the swing’s rope over a thick limb of the maple tree in the front yard and said, “Now you can fly as high and far as you want. Far as you can think.”

  How Mabel could remember all that and still call Jim Butcher Daddy, Bertie couldn’t accept—wouldn’t forgive—no matter how good a sister Mabel was to her. She would tell her so—today, right now. She’d stand in the kitchen door and throw an angry look at Mabel. So what if Butcher saw it?

  But the moment she was in the doorway, seeing Butcher hunched over the table, leaning on his thick arms, strong as iron chain, Bertie lost her nerve. Then, as if she sensed Bertie watching them, Mabel looked up suddenly, her eyes wide, almost terrified, and with a quick jerk of her head she told Bertie to be on her way.

  With Mabel’s look, Bertie forgot about Butcher, and her courage returned. The signal annoyed her. And besides that, she was hungry. She would march right in and cut a slice of bread for her breakfast, take a piece of cheese to carry for her lunch.

  She took one step. Mabel lifted her hand as if to say Stop! her eyes now wider still, diving up and down between Bertie and Jim Butcher. Those eyes pleaded, as Mabel shook her head violently. Now. She was telling Bertie. For God’s sake, go now.

  * * *

  There’d never been such a crowd in the sanctuary of the Emmanuel Baptist Church, not even on Easter Sunday. Every pew was full and the people who couldn’t get seats lined the walls and clumped in the aisles. The graduates sat hip-to-hip in the first two rows. Bertie stood up again and turned around to scan the congregation, ignoring Irma Henderson, who was tugging on her wrist and telling her to sit down. “They’re about to start, Bertie. Please!” Irma pulled harder. Bertie stayed on her feet.

  They had to be there. But no matter how hard she looked, forcing herself to go face by face, she couldn’t see them anywhere—not Mabel or Wallace. It was possible they had slipped in while she was sitting down, but surely they would wave from wherever they were if they saw her. Over and over she ran her gaze through every row and into every corner, but they just weren’t there.

  At the edge of the stage, old Miss Callahan sat down at the piano and began playing the melody of “We Gather Together” while her first-grade students filed into the choir loft to prepare to sing. Bertie had learned the hymn herself at that age, baffled by most of the words: The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing—what could that mean? How she used to stumble over that odd way of phrasing: And pray that thou still our defender wilt be. Now, as she stood with the rest of the congregation to join in, the words slipped easily from her mouth. Had she ever really listened to them, even after she had learned their meaning?

  Just the idea of gathering together made her want to cry. What might she have done that would make Mabel and Wallace desert her this way? People were sure to notice. Everyone else in her class had at least one parent present, plus grandparents, brothers, sisters, cousins—and here she was with no one who cared enough to come.

  While the principal stood in the pr
eacher’s place and gave a speech about stepping off the train in Juniper as a young teacher in 1900, Bertie crumpled a handful of chiffon in her fist. She saw now how foolish the dress was—much too pale a color for her, and too like the ancient peach-colored silk that silly spinster Miss Callahan always wore when she sang at weddings. Had Mabel thought the same thing when she helped her pick it out? Had her own sister set her up to be mocked?

  She didn’t want to believe these things about Mabel, but how could she not? Her sister couldn’t be trusted. Time after time, Mabel had urged her to cooperate with Jim Butcher—and just look at the way she played up to him, speaking softly and keeping her eyes lowered, smiling from time to time, and even touching him gently now and again. This whole last week had been worse than ever, seeming almost like Mabel was inviting Butcher to court her. Not once since Monday, when she’d tried on the dress, had Mabel come to brush out Bertie’s hair or to sit on the bed to look through the stereopticon or talk about school or ask about Wallace.

  And what about Wallace? That same afternoon, Monday, he wasn’t on the stoop waiting for her after school. Instead, Henry Layman was there in his place, saying Wallace wouldn’t be able to turn up for the rest of the week. When Bertie had asked the reason, Henry just shrugged: “That’s all he said.”

  None of it made any sense—or at least none Bertie wanted to accept.

  I like Wallace. That’s what Mabel had said.

  No one had been more surprised than Bertie when Wallace started paying attention to her. Not that he was the best-looking boy in town—he was barely an inch taller than she was, dark blond hair always in a tumble, and sturdy as a stump from hard work, with dozens of small scrapes and scars to show for it—but just about everybody said he was one of the nicest boys there was, and, more important, good-hearted and responsible.

  Wallace was so much older than she was, too, just a year behind Mabel, and even though Bertie would marry him tomorrow if he asked, she’d worried that when he was ready he might decide she was too young. Not long ago she’d heard a couple of boys laughing behind her back, saying if a fellow thought he needed a Fischer girl enough to stand up to the trouble that came with Butcher, he’d be crazy to go for Bertie over Mabel.

  She didn’t want to set the last piece of the puzzle into place. It just fell in on its own.

  Two days ago, knowing Wallace wasn’t going to be waiting for her, Bertie had walked into town to get some thread that would match her dress, just in case a button came off or a seam broke at the last minute. Mabel was supposed to be working until 5:30 at Kendall’s, but she was standing with Wallace under the awning of the hardware store, tucked as far back as they could be behind a display of washtubs. Wallace had hold of both her hands and leaned his head close to hers. Mabel was nodding, looking nervous, but there wasn’t any question they were agreeing on something. Then Wallace drew Mabel into his arms and held her, her head nestling against his neck, his hand on her hair.

  What are you doing? Bertie had called to them from her heart, the words stopping in her throat. What are you doing? A firm pair of hands—she never knew whose—settled on her shoulders to urge her back onto the walk and out of the street.

  “Bertie, what are you doing?” Irma’s whisper stung her ear. “They’ve called your name.” Irma pushed her forward, nudged her up the steps and across the stage, then grabbed her elbow to keep her from turning in the wrong direction as they stepped back onto the floor.

  When the ceremony was over, Bertie let Irma lead her to the church hall with the rest of the graduates. She wandered through the buffet line, spooning food onto her plate, but after a few minutes she left it untouched on the corner table where she’d gone to be out of everyone else’s way.

  The church bell was just chiming five when she pushed past the Anderson clan, who were celebrating the graduation of their twin sons. She was nearly to the door when she heard her name called out over the Andersons’ laughing chatter. “Bertie! Bertie, wait!” She turned toward the young man’s voice. Wallace had come. She was sure it was Wallace. When he found his way through the crowd to clasp her hands, she would scold him—just a little, not too much—for being late. “Bertie!” she heard again.

  It wasn’t Wallace at all. She could see Henry Layman trying to get to her. He was waving something over his head—a piece of paper, maybe—and calling out for her to stay put for a minute.

  So Henry had been sent as messenger again. It was a dirty trick. Yellow, it was. If Wallace wanted to tell her something, if he was going to tell her he liked Mabel better, then he could do it to her face. And Bertie would see to it Mabel looked her in the eye, too. She wasn’t about to listen to any made-up excuses they’d fed to poor Henry.

  Bertie shook her head at Henry, still struggling his way through the crowd. She turned on her heel and went out the door.

  There wasn’t a soul on the street, just a couple of dogs tumbling in play on the parsonage lawn. The sun, so bright this morning, had faded behind heavy ash-colored clouds and the air simmered with the feeling of coming rain.

  She’d give anything to think of somewhere to go besides back to the house, but she wanted out of this ridiculous dress and out of everyone’s sight. Pretty soon, it would be all around town about Mabel and Wallace—off somewhere together on Bertie’s special day, laughing at her.

  Would it be possible, if she worked, to live on her own? She was pretty sure Butcher wouldn’t make a fuss, even about losing a hand around the place, and she didn’t care if Mabel did. She’d heard Nellie Perkins was looking for a girl for the boardinghouse to do some scrubbing and to help the cook. If she could get her room and board for the main part of her pay, then she wouldn’t need but a few dollars a month for other things. She wouldn’t even have to wait for morning. If she hurried back, she could get changed into a clean housedress and get everything settled with Mrs. Perkins before dark.

  In spite of the blister rubbing at the back of her right heel, Bertie picked up her walk to a trot and then to a full run as she approached the corner where, for months, Wallace had said good-bye with a kiss. When she turned onto her road, dusty from too little spring rain, she stopped in front of the Mitchell place to catch her breath and pinched at the damp chiffon to shake it away from her body.

  “Bertie, come on in here.” Mrs. Mitchell was standing on her porch, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “I’m just going home, ma’am,” Bertie said, starting on her way again.

  Mrs. Mitchell rushed down the steps and out to the gate. Everything about her was atremble, even her red-rimmed eyes. She fumbled with the latch. “No, honey, please,” she said, reaching over the gate, trying to grab Bertie’s wrist. “You come in and let me give you some lemonade.”

  Bertie protested again, said she was in a hurry, but, having freed the latch, Mrs. Mitchell came out of the gate, took hold of Bertie’s shoulders and steered her onto the front walk, through the house, and into the kitchen. “You need to stay here for now,” she said. “There’s some trouble at your place. So you just wait here till it passes.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  No amount of questions could get Mrs. Mitchell to tell her what was going on. She wouldn’t do anything but shake her head and chip off more ice to drop into Bertie’s glass, but at last the woman looked out the window at the dark clouds. “I need to get those clothes off the line. You just stay here, Bertie, and pour yourself some more lemonade.”

  This was her chance. The instant the back screen door banged behind Mrs. Mitchell, Bertie was out of her chair and pushing through the front door. It seemed like all the women on their road had been put on watch for her, calling from their porches or waving dish towels out their kitchen windows, but she ran past them. Whatever this trouble was, it must be the reason Mabel and Wallace hadn’t come to the graduation. The fear of it made Bertie’s head swim, and she felt a rush of shame for having thought they could betray her.

  She stopped short at the end of the chicken-wire fence th
at marked their land.

  Five or six men were gathered outside the barn. One of the doors was partly open.

  Everything was quiet—no sound from the chickens or from the songbirds that usually swooped in to feed before a storm. Nothing but the shaking of the leaves.

  Bertie recognized Mr. Mitchell and some other men who lived nearby, but a couple of them were strangers to her. They were standing in a crooked row, staring in at something they could all see through the open door, so none of them saw her until she’d walked right in amongst them.

  “Whoa, Bertie!” Mr. Mitchell grabbed her just like his wife had done and swung her away from the barn and toward the house. “You go stay up on the porch. I’ll take you on to my place in a minute.”

  “What’s happening?” Bertie asked. None of the men would answer her. They wouldn’t even look at her.

  Everything was odd.

  Somebody had tied the cow to the fence rail, right in the place where a slat was missing, so the cow could reach through to nibble at the little cornstalks, just ankle-high.

  The plow was out in the middle of the patch Butcher had said this morning he was going to plant with more beans, but the mare was unhitched, wandering around through the cucumbers.

  And every now and then, when the wind kicked up, Bertie could hear a muffled banging, as if the back screen door had been left unhooked.

  Another man Bertie didn’t know stepped out of the barn. Even from her place on the porch, she could make out the shape of his badge. The sheriff. He took off his hat and stopped in the yard to talk to Mr. Mitchell, looking up once or twice to glance over at her. Mr. Mitchell shook his head and walked slowly back toward the barn.

  The other man came toward Bertie and sat down on the top step beside her. “Bertie Fischer? That short for Alberta?”

  She nodded. The sheriff reached out to take her hand. She started to pull it away, then thought better of it.

  “I asked the men there to keep you out of the barn,” he said. His hand was warm. Strong and sad. “Your stepdaddy’s hanged hisself. They’re just cutting him down now.”