Little Sister (17 page)

First he went to his bookcase and dragged out the road atlas and opened it to the map of the U.S.A. There were so many places you could disappear to, a million towns where you could be free in the land of the free. The thought made his lips curl into a smile, although his eyes remained cold and riveted to the page. He had told Francie his father lived in California. He ran his finger up and down the California coastline. That was no problem. Once they got there, he’d just say he lost the address or something. He rolled up the atlas and put a rubber band around it.

Then he lay down on his back and ran his hands under the bottom of his dresser, peeling off the masking tape which held the large lightweight package wrapped in plastic. Andrew shook the package loose and took it out. It was a khaki duffel bag, neatly folded, which he had ordered from the same magazine as the watch and had hidden under the dresser. He had had to be very careful getting it into the house because he knew if she saw it, she would take it away, saying he didn’t need it because he wasn’t going anywhere.

Gently he shook the bag out and then, after easing open the creaky drawers of the dresser, took out some clothes he thought he would need. He took only light things, figuring it would be warmer where they were going. Plus he had to keep the bag fairly flat so he could hide it under the bed for tonight and the morning.

Now, he thought, zippering the bag, for the most important part. In the toe of his oldest sneakers, which he always kept stuffed with a pair of sweat socks, he pulled up the insole, and there it was. It was the key chain she had given him, the one with the bird on it, and dangling from the metal hook were two keys, one to the ignition and the other to the trunk of his mother’s car. He had had them made in Harrison one day, when he drove her there to shop on a Saturday. It had been a daring move, although he had waited to run to the hardware store while she was in the beauty parlor having her hair cut. She had been suspicious of his whereabouts, but he made up a good story about trying on a pair of pants, and even though she made a fuss and said they couldn’t afford new pants, she let the matter drop.

He stared at the keys now with an exhilarating feeling of power. Tomorrow she would be sure to take her set to work after the way he had kept the car out late today. He would pretend to go walking off to work as usual, but instead, he would go find Francie at school and convince her to come with him. Then he could come back for his things, and the car, after she had gotten her bus, and he and Francie would be long gone by the time she got back from Dr. Ridberg’s.

As he formulated the plan in his mind he found the last thing he needed. It was an envelope of money, hidden inside a book which he had cut out the pages from, the way it was done in the movies. He had been saving the money for a car, but now they wouldn’t need it because they had her car. After unzipping the duffel bag, he tossed the keys and the money back in and then carefully wedged the bag under the bed. He attached it to the bedsprings so that it did not hang down under the wooden frame. He began to think about the car. She would probably describe the car to the police, and sooner or later he and Francie might have to ditch it and steal another car. For that matter, the money could run out, and they had to have a way to get more money fast. The one thing they still needed was a weapon, and he knew there was a gun in this house. Hadn’t she been threatening him with that information for years? Tomorrow, when he got home, he would search the place until he found it. It didn’t matter how he tore the house apart. He wouldn’t need to put anything back. She could yell all she wanted after he was gone.

Andrew felt a surge of happiness all through him as he went over the plan in his mind. Tomorrow they would be gone. Free. He had never been able to do it alone. It was Francie who gave him the strength. His girl. They would do it together.

He got into bed, but he could not sleep, and the book that he had suddenly did not interest him. It was as if his veins were filled with an intoxicating drug. He would be free. His mother’s voice, her smell, this house—all of it would be wiped away.

Let her tell. They would never catch him. Francie would be with him, and there was no end to what they could do. They would take what they wanted and have their own way.

He sat up in his bed, wide-awake, until dawn. His eyes were open, but he did not see his shabby room. He saw visions of himself and Francie, driving fast, mowing down anyone or anything that tried to get in their way, taking without asking. The images danced in his head, wreathing him in happy contentment, all night long, like visions of sugar plums on Christmas Eve.

BETH WALKED UP TO THE FRONT DOOR
and rapped on it with the tarnished brass knocker. A frail old woman with unsmiling eyes opened the door.

“Good evening. I’m Beth Pearson. I’ve come about my sister.”

The old woman indicated for her to come in with an impatient gesture. “Frank,” she called out, “the sister’s here.” She indicated a stiff-looking chair in the comer of the dreary living room. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get him.”

Without another word she turned her back on Beth and went down the darkened hallway to the other end of the house.

Beth sat down on the hard seat and looked around. The room was lit only by dim bulbs in ancient lamps with yellowed shades. A jumble of furniture filled the room, barely leaving a walkway between pieces. Framed sepia-toned photographs hung above the mantel. The only thing in the room that did not look as if it belonged in another century was the giant console TV, which sat opposite the sofa. The top of the TV was thick with dust.

Beth closed her eyes and rested her head against the scratchy upholstery of the chair. A grandfather clock by the staircase chimed eight o’clock, and Beth was surprised. It seemed much later than that to her. It seemed like one of the longest days she could ever remember.

After Francie had stormed out, she had wandered the house in a daze for a while. She had tried to call Mike but got only his answering service. Finally she had sat down in the living room and forced herself to go back over the argument with Francie. She had been shocked by her own outburst. She had not really been aware of the ugly, irrational anger she had harbored for so long. From there she progressed backward in her thoughts to the news of her father’s death, the beginning of this visit. Then, like someone picking at a scab, she thought back to her mother’s death and then, farther back, to Francie’s birth. It was like a journey through a jungle, like trying to find a river’s source. She hacked her way back through a tangle of old feelings, old resentments. She had started out with the conviction that she was a good person at heart. After a while, though, she became frightened. Nothing was clear anymore.

By the time the old man called she had already been watching the clock for several hours, wishing Francie would get back and wondering what she would say to her when she did. The call had unnerved her and then sent her flying out the house.

Beth heard the shuffle of feet in the hallway coming toward her and then heard the old man say, “Go on. Move.”

The old woman came in first, shaking her head, as if confronted with a hopeless quandary. Beth stood up.

“They’re bad,” said the old lady. “They have no morals. What kinds of homes do they come from that they turn out this way?” She did not look at Beth but simply seated herself on the sofa.

“And a girl,” the woman continued, shaking her head in disbelief. “A girl no less. These days they are worse than the boys.”

“It’s terrible,” Beth murmured, “although I know she’s never done such a thing before.”

“Frank,” the old woman barked impatiently. “She’s a bad girl,” said the old woman. “She’s no good. They ought to lock her up.”

Beth tried to conceal her annoyance at the old woman’s words. She thought about saying something about Francie’s difficult life in her defense, but just then she heard the others coming in.

She turned and looked. The old man was prodding Francie along with the tip of a cane, and the girl dragged her feet as she walked, her eyes down, her hands tied in front of her with a length of rope.

Beth stifled a yelp of protest at the sight. “Francie,” she said, “what happened?”

Francie looked up at her a moment and tried to stick her chin out defiantly. But there was a lack of spirit in the gesture. She looked back down at the floor.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” said Frank in a peevish voice. “I caught her red-handed in my barn, trying to make off with my money jar. She had it in her hand, so there’s no point in making excuses. She’s lucky I didn’t shoot her. I was mad enough to, I’ll tell you.”

“You tried to,” Francie muttered.

The man poked her with the cane. “What’s that?”

“I just want to thank you,” Beth said hurriedly, “for calling me first, instead of the police. I feel this is a matter we can deal with among ourselves.”

“It seems like you don’t keep a very good eye on this kid.”

Beth wanted to insist that the man untie Francie’s hands, but she did not want to make him angry. She quickly decided that diplomacy was in order. “You’re right,” she said, “and there’s no excuse for it. But our household is in a kind of chaotic state right now. Our father just died, and we have no mother—she died years ago—so there’s been a lot of confusion.”

The old man was unflinching. He turned to Francie and poked her again. “Is this the way you respect your father’s memory—breaking into people’s life savings?”

“It’s a sin,” said his wife vehemently.

Francie shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

Beth fought back the urge to push the old man away and undo the rope. It was a tricky moment. The old man seemed in no hurry to give up his prisoner. Eat a little more crow, thought Beth.

“It’s a terrible thing,” Beth repeated. “I’m sure Francie will never do anything like this again.”

“She must be punished,” the old man insisted. “She can’t just walk away Scot-free from something like this. You people must think I’m some kind of a sucker.”

“She will be,” said Beth, wondering what it was that he wanted before he would let Francie loose. It began to seem less and less as if it were compassion that had kept him from phoning the police.

“After all,” he said in a whining voice, “I can’t have hordes of people breaking into my business. I’m not insured or anything like that. They come in, and they damage valuable things—not to even mention what they steal and run off with.”

“Did you find the money?” Beth asked.

“Yes, I found the money,” he said irritably. “That’s not the point. She broke irreplaceable things in there. It will take me days to get things back in order. Not to mention my nerves. I may not even be able to work for a few days I’m so upset by this…”

Beth suddenly understood that there was a financial penance involved. “That’s true,” she said, fumbling in her purse for her wallet and feeling glad she had brought some money with her. “I’d feel much better if you’d let me pay you for the damage done.”

“Those things can’t be replaced. They’re antiques.”

“I understand that,” said Beth. “And I am sorry. I know that Francie is too. But if you would just allow me to offer you some money to start putting things back to rights…” She pulled out some bills from her wallet and pressed them into the old man’s hand.

He estimated the amount with a grumpy snort and then exchanged a glance with his wife. Beth quickly leaned over and untied the rope on Francie’s hands as he pocketed the money.

“I don’t care,” said the old woman. “No amount can pay us back for all this worry.”

Beth began to edge toward the door with Francie straggling along in her grip. “I know. I’m so sorry. Thank you for calling me,” she murmured, pushing the door open with her shoulder.

The old man followed them out onto the porch. “By rights she belongs in the police station.”

“Good night,” said Beth.

The old man slammed the door and turned the porch light off before they were even down the steps. Beth and Francie stumbled in the darkness toward the car.

Once inside the car Beth turned on the radio. It played softly as they drove along without speaking. After a few miles Beth said in a calm voice, “I know this wasn’t your idea. Where is Andrew? Did he run away and leave you there?”

“Don’t start on Andrew again,” said Francie in a voice shrill with weariness.

“I wasn’t,” said Beth. “I’m not.”

They didn’t say anything else until they got back to the house. Francie went inside and muttered something about going up to bed, but Beth stopped her. The younger girl waited in the kitchen while Beth took off her coat and hung it up. Francie kept her eyes trained on a spot on the floor, her shoulders slumped, as if waiting for a lashing that she knew she had coming.

Beth came into the room and cleared her throat nervously. She found herself knotting her fingers together like a child about to go on in a school play.

“I’ll try to pay you the money back,” Francie said in a tired voice.

“That’s not—never mind that,” said Beth. “Francie, I did a lot of thinking after you left today, and I feel really bad about some of the things I said. I owe you an apology, and I’m very sorry.”

Francie blinked at her in surprise and then looked wary.

“I mean it,” said Beth. “That stuff about Mother’s accident. That was—” She shook her head. “Sometimes you just don’t realize the awful thoughts you keep inside. I guess I was really hurt all these years, and I just took it out on you. I mean, blaming you was—well, a terrible thing to do. Now Dad, I’m not so sure—”

“He felt as bad as I did,” said Francie. “You just didn’t know him.”

Beth nodded and sighed. “Well, maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I don’t seem to know anything today.”

Francie pursed her lips, her eyes still on the ground. “I think I’ll go up,” she said.

“I want you to know,” said Beth, “that I’m truly sorry.”

Francie nodded and left the room. She didn’t smile, but her face looked less drawn than it had when they walked in.

Beth sat down in the rocker, feeling relieved that she had at least tried to do the right thing. After a while she picked up a bag on the floor with some work she had for the business and put it on the table to look at it. She wanted to get her mind on something concrete and emotionally uncomplicated, like work. She heard the water running in the upstairs bathroom, and then it stopped. She wondered if Francie would be coming back down, and she forced herself to concentrate on the drawings in front of her.