Francie turned and looked at her sister, her eyes widening slightly. Andrew kept his head cocked to one side, his eyes narrowed. “That’s okay,” he said.
“These times are difficult,” said Beth, realizing how pompous she sounded but unable to think of any other way to say it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Well, sure. It don’t matter.”
Beth nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Well, no hard feelings, I hope.”
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and started back toward the house. She could hear them whispering behind her.
That’s better, she thought, opening the door and going back inside the house. She hung the coat back up on the hook, and then she remembered Cindy, who had wanted to talk. She wandered through the rooms, looking at the various groups of people, but after a quick search she determined that Cindy had already left.
One of the guests saw Beth staring aimlessly around the living room and cleared a chair for her. Beth sat down with a grateful smile. The air in the house was stuffy, and she envied Francie out there in the clear air, leaning against her beau. She felt a stab of loneliness, and tilting her head back against the chair, she thought of Mike. She wished she could call him and at least talk, but he would be at the hospital now, in the thick of it. Later, she thought, closing her eyes. It will give me something to look forward to. The hushed conversation drifted around her, but she stayed slumped in the chair, feeling as if it were taking all her effort just to keep breathing.
BETH CAME AWAKE SUDDENLY IN THE NARROW, LUMPY BED
and lay still for a minute, sweat beading under her arms as she tried to remember where she was. Then the childhood room regained its familiarity, and she sank back on the pillow with a sigh.
Church bells tolled faintly through the town, announcing the end of a service, although it was hard to tell which service it was, for the light through the window was a metallic winter gray that defied the passing hours. Beth rolled over and put her face in the pillow. You have to get up, she reminded herself. You have a lot to do. This entire house has to be cleaned out. The thought of it was so depressing that she closed her eyes again.
But sleep was beyond her now. She felt sluggish, as if her heart were barely beating, but she forced herself out of bed and toward the bathroom. You have to face it sooner or later, she thought. She opened the door of the bedroom and heard sounds from downstairs. She hoped, briefly, that Francie was on her way out.
When she had dressed and gone downstairs, she was surprised to find her sister still in the kitchen. Beth looked at the clock. It was nearly noon, although she felt as exhausted as if she hadn’t slept at all.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Morning,” said Francie.
“How did you sleep?”
“All right. I was tired.”
“It was a long day.” Beth agreed with a yawn.
Beth went over to the refrigerator and looked inside. “God, there’s nothing to eat in this house.”
“Sorry,” said Francie sarcastically.
Beth ignored the sarcasm. She blinked at the meager contents, trying to assemble a meal in her imagination from what was there. “Is that little market on Main Street open today? I want to go get a few things.”
“Not on Sunday,” Francie said incredulously, as if Beth had asked if it were a good day for the beach.
“No, I suppose not.” Beth sighed. She reached into the refrigerator and sniffed at the carton of milk.
“It’s good,” said Francie indignantly.
“Look,” said Beth, “no one expects you to have kept up on the groceries at a time like this.”
Francie made a little grunting sound, but Beth could tell she was mollified.
“What about in Harrison? Anything open there?”
Francie nodded. “There’s a big shopping center with a supermarket that’s open every day.”
Beth shook her head. “Times have changed.”
Francie got up and put her dishes in the sink as Beth shook some dry cereal into a bowl. “The Seven-Eleven is open Sundays too,” said Francie.
“Well,” said Beth, “there’s a better choice at the supermarket. After I eat this, I’m going to take a ride over there. Do you want to go with me?”
Francie hesitated, balancing on one foot in the doorway like a crane. “I guess so,” she said.
“All right,” said Beth. “I’ll be finished in a few minutes.”
Visiting the Harrison Shop-Rite in a car was a luxury to Beth, who was used to carrying home a single bag from the crowded neighborhood grocery on her corner in the city. When she was entertaining, she would sometimes have a large order delivered, but as a rule, a single bag every few days sufficed.
“Family size everything,” Beth exclaimed, hefting a huge jar of tomato sauce in wonderment.
Francie, who was dawdling along behind the cart, turned her head away and made a face. “Very funny,” she muttered.
“I think it’s great,” said Beth. “I’m not making fun of it.”
“Who cares?” said Francie.
Beth made a clicking sound with her teeth and shoved the cart on down the aisle. The Muzak in the store cheerfully played on as they cruised the aisles, covering up their lack of conversation. Occasionally Beth consulted the girl about what she liked, but Francie was unwilling to give an opinion and kept insisting that she didn’t care.
“Did Dad do the grocery shopping for the two of you?” Beth asked.
“No,” said Francie shortly, “I did. While he went to the Laundromat.” Beth thought she heard the girl’s voice catch in her throat, but Francie had already walked over to the magazine section and was flipping through a rock magazine.
When Beth pushed the cart up to her, Francie eyed the cart, which was half full of ill-assorted items. “Can we get out of here?” she asked.
Beth nodded, realizing all at once that her sister had painful associations of her father here in this homogeneous, well-lit, unremarkable supermarket. She felt a stab of pity for the girl and a sudden urge to do something conciliatory, although it was hard to think of what it might be since Francie would not even admit which foods she liked. She thought of going to a movie. There was a theater right in the shopping center, and it would delay the inevitable return to the gloom of the house. But they had all these groceries in tow. Then she had a sudden idea. Company, any company, might make the evening less dreary.
“Look,” she said, “why don’t you ask Andrew to come to dinner tonight?”
Francie looked at her warily. “Do you want him to come?”
Beth summoned up the necessary enthusiasm in her face and voice. “Sure. I think it would be nice.”
Francie’s face cleared. “Okay,” she said. “I think he’ll come.”
Beth pointed the cart back up the meat and poultry aisle. “All right,” she said, pleased with the effect of her suggestion. “What do you think he would like to have?”
Francie frowned thoughtfully and then picked up some chopped meat off the shelf. “He likes hamburgers,” she said.
“Okay,” said Beth. “Hamburgers and what else?” More purposefully this time the sisters began to retrace their route through the store.
With the aid of a rubber spatula Francie swirled the instant pudding filling around in the ready-made crust and then stepped back to admire her creation.
Beth searched through the cupboards and finally turned to Francie. “Where do you keep the seasonings?” she asked.
Francie tore her gaze from the pie and licked the spatula. “What seasonings?”
“You know, spices. Oregano, basil, garlic. All that stuff.”
Francie picked up the pie and deposited it on the refrigerator shelf. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “I don’t think we have that Stuff. There’s salt and pepper on the table.”
Beth nodded and closed the cupboard door. “Do you want to put some onion or bread crumbs in these hamburgers?”
“No. Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know. Just to jazz them up a little.”
“We like them plain,” said Francie. “What’s wrong with having them plain?” There was an edge in her voice.
“Plain is fine,” said Beth, reminding herself that it was Francie’s company.
For a few moments there was silence in the kitchen as Beth set the table for three and Francie formed the meat into patties. Then Francie said, “Do you use lots of spices in Philadelphia?”
Beth stifled a smile at the way the question was put. “Well, I have my own business there, so lots of nights I don’t bother to cook. I’m just too tired.”
“I know what you mean,” Francie said in agreement. She frowned in concentration as she molded the meat.
There was another silence between them, and then Francie said, “It must be weird living in the city.”
Beth laid down the fork and napkin in her hand. “I’ve been very happy there. It’s been a good place to live.”
“I guess you must miss it already,” said Francie, carefully placing the meat on the broiler rack in readiness for cooking.
“Not too much,” said Beth. “Not yet.” As she said it, though, she thought of Mike. He had seemed so far away on the phone yesterday. He had been very solicitous of her, but she had felt, as they were talking, as if it had been months, rather than days, since she had seen him. She felt a sudden desire to be home, to be normal, that was like a little ache inside her.
Maybe I should call him again, Beth thought as she began to tear lettuce leaves into a green Pyrex bowl. Francie had said that they didn’t need salad, but Beth had insisted that it was no trouble to make. No, she thought, don’t bug him. You’ve got plenty to do around here. Get it done, and you can be home again. That’s what you really should do.
Beth finished the salad and pushed it back on the counter. “What time did you tell Andrew to come?”
“Six.”
“Six? Lord, isn’t that a little early?”
“That’s when we eat,” said Francie.
“Fine,” said Beth. “Six it is. I forgot how things are done around here. Look,” she said, “I’ve got a lot to do, so I’m going to get started.”
Leaving Francie in the kitchen, Beth picked up an empty grocery bag, went down the hall and reluctantly opened the door to the room which her parents had shared. She felt like an intruder in the dark, stuffy room, though she knew that neither of them would ever return to it. The room was neat except for one of her father’s shirts, which lay at the foot of the bed, two pens still clipped to the pocket. She looked around the room. Everything else in it was exactly the same as it had been when her mother was alive. For a moment she had the terrible thought that perhaps he had never bothered to clean out her mother’s things, and it made her feel almost faint with dismay. She walked to the closet and opened the door with trepidation. Only men’s clothes hung there. She let out a sigh of relief and then looked in again. The clothes would have to be sorted and folded into boxes. She did not feel like doing that right now. She reached up to the top shelf of the closet and pulled down a shoebox with one ripped corner. The contents clinked and shifted as she moved it, so she knew it didn’t contain shoes. She put the box down on the bed without opening it. Then she walked over to her father’s bureau and opened the top drawer. The drawer was filled with a daunting jumble of items. She took the drawer out of the bureau and dumped it onto the bedspread beside the shoebox.
As she looked down at the motley assortment, she was dimly aware of the doorbell’s ringing, and then she heard Francie’s footsteps clattering down the stairs in response. Sir Lancelot has arrived, she thought with a smile.
She sat down on the bed and opened the top of the shoebox. It was filled with a sparse selection of men’s jewelry, army memorabilia, and other scraps of things such as toothpicks, matchbooks, and loose change. A wave of inertia swept over Beth as she began to pick through this collection. Every single item required a decision. Was it old or new? Valuable or worthless, gold or brass? There were broken watches and medals with ribbons attached. She knew that they must be mementos of something, but she had no idea of what. Weariness engulfed her, and she felt like putting the lid back on the box and just turning her back on it. Do it now, she told herself. Get it done. It won’t just go away.
She began to sort, throwing everything that she was in doubt about into the empty brown bag and trying to keep only the things she was certain were of value. After a little while the odor of the hamburgers cooking filled the house. She realized that she was hungry when her stomach growled, but she doggedly kept on with her task, trying to get as much done as she could before supper. She looked at the clock on the night table before she unplugged it and decided to put it in a pile designated for the church. Six o’clock. What an ungodly hour to have dinner. It was the very time that they had always eaten when she was a girl.
Opening another drawer in the bureau, Beth found the old, battered wallet that her father had always carried. It had a rubber band around it. Someone must have put it in there after he had been taken away by the undertaker. Beth removed the rubber band, opened it up and looked inside. There were a few wrinkled dollar bills in the billfold and a couple of cards in the pocket. She pulled them out. There was his faded Social Security card, his driver’s license, and an ID card from the electric company with a photo on it of him, pale and scowling, that made him look like a convict. There was an insurance agent’s calling card, and Beth dimly remembered speaking to the man after the funeral. He had tried to explain the terms of her father’s small life insurance policy to her, although she had not felt like listening. The wallet also held a yellow paid receipt for a local plumber and one picture, a wallet-size school portrait of Francie. It was the only photo he carried. As if she and her mother did not exist, had never existed.
Beth stared at it for a moment, the old familiar resentment churning inside her. Gripping the wallet tightly, she pulled out the money and put that on the bureau. “More junk,” she muttered, tossing the wallet and the rest of its contents into the garbage can.
She was suddenly aware that the cooking smells had faded away in the house. Opening the bedroom door, she listened and could hear Francie’s and Andrew’s voices in the kitchen. She heard another sound as well: the scraping of silverware against plates.