The Weird Sisters (7 page)

Sweat stood out against Rose’s bare upper arms; Bean could see the way the drops arrayed along the pores from which they had emerged, like synchronized swimmers poised for a Busby Berkeley number. Rose shrugged. “Okay, I guess. I don’t know, I never really thought about weddings. I look at these bridal magazines, and they all say things like, ‘You’ve been dreaming of this day since you were a little girl,’ and I haven’t. I never did.”

“Me, either. Is that odd? Do little girls really dream about their weddings and dress up like brides?”

“I have no idea. Certainly no one we know did. But then again, we’re hardly a representative sample. And neither Jonathan nor I would want the kind of wedding a little girl would dream of anyway. All that foof,” Rose added dismissively.

“Foof,” Bean repeated, trying out the word, unconsciously letting it slip over the tip of her tongue. Rose shot her a doubtful glance, and they both laughed. “Sorry, it’s a funny word.”

There was a pause. Rose put her hand in her pocket, checking to make sure her wallet was still in there.

“So where will you have it?” Bean asked.

“Oh, the chapel on campus, you know. And then the reception in Harris. The college doesn’t usually rent the space over holidays, but Dad got them to make an exception.” Bean nodded, remembering vaguely a concert she had attended in the Harris ballroom, during her sophomore year, she thought. The band had been some hippie-folk experience, probably one of the ones Cordy had seen recently at some mud-flung venue, and Bean had spent most of it pressed up against the back wall, drunkenly permitting some boy to fondle her. She tried to remember his name for a moment, and then mentally waved her hand, dismissing it.
O, is it all forgot? All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence?

“So how will it work, everything? With Jonathan being in England and all?”

Rose gritted her teeth and looked over at one of the houses across the street. “We haven’t worked that all out yet exactly. The wedding’s still scheduled for New Year’s Eve. I didn’t want to lose the deposit. So maybe I’ll go over there a bit for a honeymoon, and then when he’s done with his fellowship there, he’ll come back.”

Bean couldn’t honestly imagine anyone wanting to come back from Oxford to Barnwell, but she didn’t say anything. Just hummed a few bars of “How ’Ya Gonna Keep ’Em Down on the Farm? (After They’ve Seen Paree).”

“Have you started looking for a dress yet?”

Rose laughed. How like Bean, to go directly for the clothes. “No. I fear it, actually.” She tugged self-consciously at her shorts, which were threatening to ride up the insides of her pale thighs. “I can’t see myself in one of those big white monstrosities.”

“No one says you have to wear a big white dress. Wear what you want. It’s not going to be a big formal wedding, right? Not black-tie or anything?”

Rose shook her head.

“Then it doesn’t matter if it’s not traditional.”

“I guess,” Rose said, but looked slightly confused by the idea.

They had come to the head of Main Street, and Bean stopped. “I’ll look with you. We’ll go to Columbus; there won’t be anything here,” Bean said. She turned to Rose for a moment and smiled, a sharp-toothed strangeness that was nonetheless kind. “You’ll be beautiful,” she said, and squeezed our older sister’s sweaty palm.

Rose smiled back, a more genuine smile of surprise and pleasure, and came to a stop in front of the post office. “Thanks.” She wanted to say more, but the moment had passed, and it wasn’t in our nature to prolong sentimentality. She felt, for a moment, that she could tell Bean about how betrayed and confused she felt about Jonathan’s departure, how torn she was about what she would do, that somehow Bean would understand, would be able to help. But then she pushed it aside. Bean couldn’t help her with something like that. A dress, Bean could do. A life, no. “I’ve got to go in and mail this.”

“Okay. I’m gonna walk down the street and check things out. I’ll meet you in the Beanery in, like, a half hour?”

“Sure,” Rose shrugged and watched Bean walk away, her hair still bouncing back and forth, the creases in her clothes unbeaten by the heat. Rose shook her head and went inside to buy the stamp to mail a letter to Jonathan in Oxford.

T
he library drew Bean down the street, as it had drawn all of us over the years. Our parents had trained us to become readers, and the town’s library had been the one place, other than church, that we visited every week. When we were young, we had three little red wagons that we would pull into town like a parade each Saturday morning, our mother at the head like the high-stepping grand marshal. Rose liked to go last, to keep an eye on the rest of us, particularly Cordy, who was usually in desperate need of it. Cordy would be eating a Popsicle, letting it drip along her arm, stopping to lick the sticky sweet slug trails off her skin. Or she wouldn’t have stacked her books well and they would fall over the sides of the wagon, Rose picking them up like a flower girl in reverse. Or she would halt, squatting down to stare at an anthill in the cracks of a sidewalk, mesmerized by the to-ings and fro-ings until Rose poked her in the behind and made her waddle on. Bean, who liked to arrive first, would be following our mother, peppering her with questions that she answered when she found the time between social conversations along the way.

The building smelled the same—dusty and damp, and Bean stopped inside the door and inhaled. With all the money the town got from the college, she would have thought they would have changed the library, but it had remained the same. The carpet was dirty marigold, step-worn. To her right was the adult fiction, in the back, by the wall of windows looking out on a spreading willow tree and an ill-tended batch of hedges, the children’s section. A woman browsed in the new fiction shelves, and two children, presumably hers, sat contentedly at the yellow plastic table in the back, studiously examining books too big for their hands. A man sat at one of the battered wooden study carrels, his head bent forward so Bean could see only the curl of his red-touched blond hair over his collar.

Mrs. Landrige, the librarian who had been here in the red-wagon days, had been white-haired and stooped even then, but Bean could see her at the desk, stamping library cards with a patient hand. Bean felt a rush of sweet nostalgia for the woman who had introduced us to E. Nesbit and Edward Eager and Laura Ingalls Wilder, and she found herself desperately wanting to give the old woman a hug, not that Mrs. Landrige would have trucked with that. Mrs. Landrige, as a point of fact, didn’t truck with much.

Bean strode over to the desk and leaned forward, her voice falling immediately to a whisper. We’d been well-trained. “Mrs. Landrige.”

The old woman’s head popped up, her eyes sharp, watery blue. “Bianca!” she said without a moment’s hesitation. Her recall amazed Bean. With the way professors and their families shifted in and out of this town, she wondered how many patrons this otherwise small-town place would have had, how many cards Mrs. Landrige could associate with a face. “How lovely to see you !”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Bean said honestly. “I thought you might have retired.”

Mrs. Landrige smiled. “I’m too old
not
to work. Keeps my mind off the inevitable.” She gave a wheezy little chuckle, the red and black checked bow of her dress trembling against her chest.

Bean didn’t quite know what to say, so she smiled back and cast her eyes around the room again, taking in the desk with the stacks of paper, the eroded rubber stamps leaning drunkenly against one another on the desktop. The children in the back squabbled for a moment about a book in the center of the table, and the man in the study carrel lifted his head for a moment, giving Bean a flash of his profile—strong cheekbones fading down into a goatee, his hairline crawling back genteelly from his forehead. Bean thought he could have been handsome. Pity about the goatee.

“Back for a visit?” Mrs. Landrige asked. She had gone back to her careful work, leaving a date in the future stamped, slightly askew, in a column of its relations. “Or to stay?”

“To stay,” Bean said, and then stammered it back in. “I mean—I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I might go back to the city after . . .” After what, exactly? After our mother dies? After no one wants to throw you in jail anymore? When will it be safe, Bean? “After a while,” she finished weakly.

Mrs. Landrige stopped, mid-stamp, and rested her weapon on the desk. She peered up at Bean for a moment, considering, and then gave a little nod, as though she’d decided something for herself. “Then you’ll need a library card, won’t you?” she said finally, as though that solved everything (which, in our family, it nearly did). She opened a drawer with one vein-knotted hand and flicked out a stack of cards. She wrote Bean’s name down on one of them in her precise, schoolroom script and handed it over with a flourish. “It’s nice to have you back, dear,” she said, and smiled, and Bean suddenly felt like crying.

She blinked hard and turned her gaze away from Mrs. Landrige, lest the urge to cry, or worse, to hug her, returned. The man in the study carrel gathered his things and strode toward the desk. He wore jeans and a Superman T-shirt, and his boots were battered and faded in spots. No wedding ring, about the right age. Worth a hair flip, at least.

“All ready, Father?” Mrs. Landrige asked, taking the books from the man.

“As I’ll ever be,” he said.

“Have you met Father Aidan?” the librarian asked Bean, who was busy blushing a little at her idea of flirting with a priest.

“No,” Bean said, and thrust out her hand, a little too quickly. “I’m Bianca Andreas. My father’s a professor here. At Barnwell,” she added, as though the town were an academic Gotham, teeming with institutions of higher learning.

He smiled, revealing teeth that were bright white, and slightly crooked, as though his mouth were off-balance in some way. “Charmed,” he said. “I’m Aidan.”

“Father Aidan is the new priest at Saint Mark’s,” Mrs. Landrige advised Bean, neatly closing the last book and pushing the stack across the desk to him.

Well, at least he wasn’t Catholic. St. Mark’s was our church—Episcopalian, not so progressive that it would have let our Bean actually bed the man standing in front of her (at least not with any expediency), but she wasn’t going to go to hell just for thinking of it. Episcopalian priests could date, could fall in love, could marry. Maybe they could even engage in some heavy premarital petting. Bean had never really had the opportunity to consider this before.

“That’s great!” Bean answered, too cheerfully. She felt stymied by her inability to engage her powers of flirtation, Puck without his love spell flowers. It was great, actually, that the church had a new Father; the last one had passed his sell-by date years ago, but had hung stubbornly on, boring the populace with his creaky Christmas services long after Bean had departed for less green pastures. But she didn’t want to say that. “My parents go there. To Saint Mark’s.”

Aidan nodded. “You’re Dr. Andreas’s daughter, right? Your father read for us a few Sundays ago. He’s an excellent speaker.”

This is true. Years of lecturing has created a monster of a presenter—his voice dips and swoops like a roller coaster, flashing forward at important moments like fireworks, and then retreating back, pulling his audience with him. His overgrown eyebrows wiggle, Marx-like, and he spreads his broad hands across the podium, as if he has to struggle to hold the papers down, lest his high-minded thoughts spirit them away.

“Thanks,” Bean said, though none of this is to her, or our, credit.

“How’s your mother? She’s got chemotherapy in a few days, doesn’t she?”

Bean took a step back, surprised at the question. She’d forgotten how involved our parents were in the church—how they’d raised us to be involved in the church, too, not that it had stuck, particularly. She didn’t think about God a lot. None of us did. He was just there if we needed him. Kind of like an extra tube of toothpaste under the sink.

“She’s okay. She says she’s tired. But that’s to be expected. And, you know, now I’m here to help.” Bean was fairly pleased at putting forth this idea of herself as a latter-day (if better-dressed) Florence Nightingale to a clergyman.

“So, I’ll see you for services, then?” Aidan asked, bending over to hoist his books under his arm. His hand, broad and dusted with gold hair, spread easily over the span of the covers, and Bean stared at it while she concocted an answer. She hadn’t been to church in years, other than when she came home for Christmas, which hadn’t been often. Our parents had wanted us to believe, but they had also taught us, outside of church, to question nearly everything. It has never made a great deal of sense that our father, a man who spends his days analyzing the most finite syllables contained in one book, should so easily accept the even less believable tenets of another. And this is part of the reason why the mystery of faith has escaped all of us, and why Bean—why none of us—had ever bothered to make even a pretense of making church a regular part of our adult lives.

But it’s not like she had any other pressing engagements, right?

“What the hell,” she said. “I mean, yes.” Aidan looked at her oddly for a moment while she blushed again—twice in only a few minutes, a record—and then he smiled and said goodbye, heading out the doors into the sunshine.

“Would you like to check anything out today?” Mrs. Landrige asked, settling back down into the repetitive stamp, stamp, stamp of making due date cards.

“No thank you,” Bean said. “I have to meet my sister.”

At least we made good excuses for each other.

T
he next night, Rose was sitting on her bed, watching dust motes dance in the air while she dialed Jonathan’s number. “Right on time,” Jonathan said, picking up the phone an ocean away.

Rose and Jonathan had a scheduled once-a-week phone call. Not very romantic, Cordy might say.