The Weird Sisters (26 page)

We could have told Bean we were screaming and waving, too, and none of us ever got what we wanted, not when it came to attention. No one does.

THIRTEEN

D
uring the summer in Barnwell, even in August, the educator’s longest Sunday, everything closes early. Without the restless hum of students to fill the businesses until decent (or indecent) hours, the locals shut down and head home before dinner. Walking around the town after six in the summer, you might expect to see tumbleweeds or hear the squeak of a saloon door, if either of those were likely to happen in a small town in Ohio. As it is, there are just blank, dark shop windows and empty streets and sidewalks.

Cordy and Dan closed the Beanery at five, though no customers had come in since three, and they had long since finished all the cleaning and restocking, and Cordy had even been reduced to scraping the gum from the underside of the tables in a desperate attempt to find something worthwhile to do. The storm that had been threatening for days finally broke, sending cascades of rain sweeping down the street in tidy sheets, pushing leaves and occasional trash along the gutters.

“You want a ride?” Dan asked, emerging from the office. Cordy had finished wiping the counters and was sitting in one of the aged brown chairs, her legs hooked over the arm, staring at the ceiling. She was fairly certain that, at one point, it had been stamped tin, but the years of careless paintwork had rendered it merely lumpy and noncommittally white. She had in her hand a yellow plastic Barrel of Monkeys that she shook periodically, like a cheap maraca.

Looking out the window at the Ark-tic flood (did we warn you about the puns or did we not?), Cordy nodded. “That’d be nice, if it’s not out of your way.”

“Nothing in Barnwell is out of the way,” Dan said. Which was patently untrue. He lived on the east end of town, past the dorms, in an apartment building only slightly too pricey for the college students. Research at the Barnwell Historical Society had informed him that it had once been given the grand name of The Theodore, though now it was more often referred to as Old Yeller, since some well-meaning landlord had decided to paint the entire exterior a rich butter yellow that gave off a near-radioactive glow in the sunlight. But still, it would take him five minutes to drive Cordy home, and then another ten to get back. An eon in Barnwell time.

“Thanks,” Cordy said, and then pointed up at the ceiling. “You ever think about cleaning all that crap off? I bet the ceiling’s really nice under there.”

“In all my imaginary spare time? Yeah, I could do that.”

“How come you don’t live upstairs?” Upstairs was a wide, roomy apartment with scuffed wooden floors. Cordy vaguely remembered a beer-soaked party her freshman roommate had dragged her to. It had been loud and sticky, the hallmark of all college parties, but mostly what she remembered is how the scent of the Beanery downstairs had overwhelmed even the scent of the beer and she had felt all night as if she were covered in coffee grounds. But it hadn’t bothered her. When her freshman-year roommate had gone out of town, Cordy would make coffee in the pot just to let the smell cover the room, like the other students on the floor did with incense.

“I could. It would cut down the commute, that’s for sure. But then I’d be here all the time, you know? Never getting away from work.”

Cordy shrugged, lazily pulling her legs back over the chair as Dan shut off the machines behind the counter. “How far are you away from work anyway?”

“Good point,” he said. He pulled up the hinged counter and came out in front. “Hey, it looks great in here,” he said. Cordy had straightened the puzzles, games, and magazines littering the tables, and swept the dust from the corners of the tired floor.

“Slow day,” she said.

“When the kids come back, you’ll be wishing for this,” Dan said. He pushed in a couple of chairs and went to lock the front door, pulling down the heavy green shades. He turned toward Cordy. “You are staying, aren’t you?”

“For a while, yeah,” she said.

“Good. I’ve gotten used to having you around,” he said. “You’re far more interesting than the average worker.”

“That’s just because I’m far
older
than your average worker.”

“That too,” he said. “And better-looking.” He shot her a wink, his dark, thick lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones in the fading light.

Cordy narrowed her eyes at him. Was he flirting with her?

More importantly, did she mind?

They headed out the back door, leaving the darkness of the Beanery behind them, and sprinted across the parking lot to Dan’s car, a silver sedan that looked suspiciously new and smelled pristine. “Nice car,” Cordy said. She had been holding her bag over her head, though it had done little to nothing to keep her dry, and dropped it on the floor. “Smells new.”

“It is. Selling out pays well.”

“Better than the Peace Corps, certainly. Do you still sell pot?”

Dan, one hand on the key in the ignition, turned to look at her. “You buying?”

“Nah. Just curious.”

“No. Not anymore. If there’s anything more depressing than being the old guy who still lives a mile from campus, it’s the old guy who still lives a mile from campus and sells pot to students.”

“It could be worse. You could be the old guy who lives a mile from campus, sells pot, and hits on all the students.”

Easing the car out of the parking lot, Dan paused and checked for oncoming traffic. There was none. Cordy could hear the tires kicking up fountains of water as he pulled onto Main and headed west. The water sluiced down, mindless of the windshield wipers, which swished, futile against the deluge. “That’s something I definitely have no interest in. I look at them now and all I see are kids. You know? I mean, the difference between the freshmen and the seniors is big, but the difference between a senior and a thirty-year-old is like a chasm. Huge.”

“I don’t know. I keep waiting to feel old, to feel like a grown-up, but I don’t yet. Do you think that’s the big secret adults keep from you? That you never really feel grown-up?”

“I feel grown-up. I think buying the Beanery did it to me. Maybe that’s why I’m resisting buying a house. That’ll be like the ultimate surrender.”

The shadows cast by the sprays of water rolled down his face as they drove. He needed a shave, Cordy saw, though his dark hair made it more noticeable. Under his full bottom lip, he was growing a tiny soul patch, an affectation that on most men just seemed, well, affected, but on him looked both sweet and dangerous.

“I guess you’re right,” Cordy said, thinking of the lost twentysomethings who had surrounded her wanderings on the road, filtering in and out of her days. After all, hadn’t she given it up because she’d finally felt too old for it? “What I mean is, I still feel like
me.
It’s not like I wake up and think, I am a responsible adult. I just look in the mirror and see myself. The same stupid person I’ve been looking at for years.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, Dan reached over and stroked the curve of her face with the backs of his fingers. She could feel the tiny hairs, and the dryness of his skin from washing dishes. “There’s nothing stupid about you, Cordy.” He put his hand back on the wheel as he made the turn onto our street and pulled up in front of the house, stopping in front of the curb.

They turned toward each other, and Cordy knew he was going to kiss her. His eyes were dark and rich, the color swollen with desire, and something else she did not quite recognize. “I’m glad you came back,” he said. His hand rested on her knee, and the heat seeped through her faded jeans. “It’s good to have someone to talk to.”

Cordy stared at his hand for a moment, at the way his broad palm curved over her knee, his fingers spread slightly across her thighs, and then she pulled her gaze up to meet his. The rain pounded outside, the lights at the edges of the driveways on the street only barely breaking through the cloud-soaked darkness.

When they leaned toward each other—it was mutual, don’t let Cordy tell you any different—she felt her breath catch in her throat and then she exhaled as their lips met. His mouth was wide and strong and soft against hers, and that kiss felt deeper and sweeter than all the kisses she’d shared over the years.

And then she pulled back.

“I’m pregnant,” she told him.

“That was fast,” he said.

“Dan. Really. I’m pregnant,” she said, and her fingers went to her mouth, ripping at the nails. She turned away from him and stared out into the darkness.

“So . . . there’s someone else?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “There’s no one.” She turned to him and flashed him a quick, soulless smile.

“Shit,” Dan said, and exhaled. He put his hands on the bottom of the wheel, and where his palm had rested on her leg felt cold and bare. “Does your family know?”

“No,” she said. “Not yet.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have no clue.” She turned toward the window, which had begun to steam up, and dragged her index finger along the glass in a series of disconnected lines. “See, this is why I’m not a grown-up. Grown-ups don’t make mistakes like this.”

“Grown-ups make mistakes—and I’m not saying this is a mistake—all the time. You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“Too hard on myself? I’m fucking
pregnant,
Dan! I’m going to have a
baby
! I, Cordelia Beatrice Andreas, am going to be responsible for the life of another human, when it’s been made more than clear to me by everyone I know that I can’t even take care of my own life. Is that the biggest joke you’ve ever heard or what?” She could feel herself starting to cry, and tried to push it back under her anger.

Dan sighed, leaning forward slightly and shifting in his seat before leaning back again. The engine hummed, and the rain poured down, beating against the roof, clamoring for attention. “Whatever I say, you’re going to bite my head off, so I guess I should just keep my mouth shut.”

With a swipe of her hand, Cordy wiped away the streaks she had made through the condensation. “I’m sorry,” she said without looking at him. “It’s not your fault. I’m just . . . I don’t know what to do.”

“You’ve gotta tell them, Cordy. You’ve gotta tell your family.”

“I don’t know. Rose would love it, of course, just another example of my being an idiot for her to point at. And Bean’s got her own crap to deal with.”

“So you’re just not going to tell them? Sooner or later, they’re going to figure it out.”

“I know. I guess I was just hoping I could wait until . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t know when she had thought it would be the right time to let us know.

“Until when?”

“I don’t know,” Cordy said. But she did. Until it was time to go. Until it’s time to shake some dust and disappear. Because that’s what Cordy does. Cordy leaves better than anyone we know. No heartbreaks, no recriminations, just a ghost trail in the night and she’s gone.

She flipped her braid over her shoulder and looked at Dan. Tears were streaking down her face and she sniffed hard, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “There’s just so much going on. It’s not right to make them deal with this, too. My mom, you know, and my dad’s like not even on this planet. I shouldn’t be freaking out like this on you. I just feel like there’s no one to talk to.”

“There’s me,” Dan said, and at that moment he looked so sweet and generous, Cordy smiled through her tears. He reached out and took her hand and they sat like that, while the fan blew cool air against their faces, drying Cordy’s tears, and the rain slackened to mist outside.

T
he next day, the storms had cleared, leaving humidity rising thick from the wet ground as the sun pounded down. Bean and our mother were lying out on the patio chairs by the garden in the back. Clad in a bikini that showed the muscles in her thighs, Bean smoked a cigarette, sunglasses covering her eyes, fly-like, her hair pulled back away from her face. She looked ready for the Riviera. Our mother had pulled her chair back from the reaching fingers of the sun, and her legs poked, pale and vein-speckled, from her shorts. The scarf around her head was tied in a new style, the loose ends trailing over her shoulder like an echo of the tresses she had lost. She was reading a magazine of unknown provenance. We were not much for magazines, but there was always one or two lying around, usually courtesy of the five-finger discount afforded by our dentist.

“Bean! What are you doing?” Rose asked, the screen door banging behind her as she stepped onto the brick patio.

Slowly, as though she did not know what Rose was getting at, Bean lifted her cigarette to her mouth and French inhaled. Curls of smoke drifted up into the still air and hung, blue and frothy. “I’m sunbathing,” she said.

“You’re smoking around Mom,” Rose hissed. “You want her to get lung cancer, too?” She made a move as if to grab the offending butt from Bean’s hand, but Bean dropped her arm, her fingers drooping lazily over the edge of the chair’s arm, and the cigarette remained between her fingers.