When We Were Sisters (12 page)

Robin was still worried about hiding me. “You find a corner. I'll get the drinks. What do you want?”

I really didn't want anything except to see if I was okay in this place. But I told her to get a whiskey on the rocks because I knew they would have it. This wasn't a white wine joint.

I found a seat in the corner where I could see most of the room. Madonna's “Like A Prayer” was playing over loudspeakers. I wondered if anyone had updated the playlist here since the '90s or if we were listening to AM radio.

I got a few glances, but nobody seemed particularly interested in making contact. We weren't the only women, and the men who weren't accompanied were riveted to their stools, conversing loudly with their neighbors. Recognition is 90 percent expectation, and nobody here was expecting me.

Robin returned with two identical drinks and sat catty-corner so she could look out on the room, too. “I can't imagine why you wanted to do this.”

The song changed and we both fell silent. “No Man's Good Enough for Me,” my first entry on Billboard's Hot 100 list was halfway through before Robin spoke again.

“Does this feel even stranger now?”

I took a sip of my whiskey. It was surprisingly mellow with a nice kick. I put the glass down because I never drink if I'm enjoying it. That decision has kept me sober even though my genes are swimming in their polluted little pool clamoring for me to get hooked on something.

“The thing is it's probably not the first time I've sung here.”

“I'm sure they play your music a lot, especially if anybody's figured out you were born here.”

“No. I mean I think I've sung here in
person
.”

Robin sipped her drink, and when I didn't go on, she prompted me. “I'm assuming the Evergreen wasn't on one of your recent tours?”

“Didn't I ever tell you about Maribeth's favorite trick? Other than prostituting herself, I mean? Drugs were her addiction of choice, but drinking wasn't far behind. When she didn't have money for anything else, she'd drag me into places like this one, and she'd get me to sing. People would give me tips, and then she'd have money for beer. As a reward she bought me potato chips and Coke for dinner.”

Robin was visibly affected. “I think you skipped that story.”

There are plenty of stories I've skipped, and Robin has her own. There's nothing to be gained by recounting every rotten detail of our pasts.

“I guess I just didn't think it was that interesting. The cops were called a few times because kids aren't supposed to be in bars. Bartenders routinely tossed us out, but sometimes they didn't.”

“So you did the dog and pony show here?”

“Maribeth came to get me after I'd been with my grandparents for a year. They tried to persuade her to stay, get a job, raise me where they could keep an eye on things. I remember hearing a fight about it. I was praying she would listen. They were my father's parents, not hers, so they didn't have a lot of clout, but she did hang around awhile before we left. She'd found herself a boyfriend, I think, one of a long string to follow, and she was sure he was going to be my next daddy. I think the two of them brought me here one night and I started to sing along with the music. Maribeth always had the radio on, and even then I knew a lot of songs. She told me to sing louder. That was the first time I sang in public.” The rest of that night was a blank. Blanks are my friends.

“Is that why you wanted to come here?”

“I wanted to see if I'd recognize the place. I don't, not really. I'm sure pretty much everything has changed. But it seems like the right bar, if that makes any sense.”

“That can't be a good memory.”

“I wasn't sure I wanted to share this piece of my past with Mick. That's why we're here tonight without him. I wasn't sure I wanted the world to know this is where my career began.”

My song ended and Otis Redding took my place. Robin downed the last of her drink. “How about now?”

“I'll tell him when we get to Jamestown. After we'd been there awhile Maribeth got reported after one bar concert too many and I was taken away from her for the first time. Are you done?”

“Yep.”

We rose together. Nobody seemed to care we were leaving, which suited me. This may well have been the first place I learned to love the limelight—and potato chips—but I didn't want either one tonight.

Outside I saw we weren't alone in the parking lot. Two young men, probably teenagers, were under the farthest streetlight laughing and pushing each other. I hadn't noticed them inside, but from all signs, they'd been drinking somewhere.

I wasn't worried. Wendy's car was on the other side of the lot, and if they bothered us, we could dart back inside and ask the bartender to see us to the car. But as we crossed I heard a high-pitched yelp, followed quickly by another.

Robin stopped. So did I. We turned and I saw one of the teens pick up an animal of some kind, then drop it back to the asphalt.

“Hey!” I didn't think. I started toward them. “What are you doing?”

The other kid stumbled and fell to his knees and began to retch. The one who was still upright whirled. “None of your business!” Profanity followed, quite a colorful selection, too.

“I'm going to make it my business.” I was closer and could see what looked like a small dog trying to slink away, but Profanity Kid was between me and the pup.

“Yeah?” He drew himself up, but he still wasn't as tall as my five-eight.

“Honey, I've got more friends in law enforcement than you have in the whole wide world, and any minute I'm going to get one of them on my phone. So if I were you, I'd split for parts unknown.”

Instead the kid started toward me, and the closer he got the younger he looked. Robin grabbed my arm, as if she planned to haul me away. I shook her off and stood my ground, and whatever her original plan, she remained beside me.

“Try anything at all,” I said, “and you have a world of hurt waiting for you. I am in the mood to knock you into the next dimension for abusing that dog.”

He stopped, clearly unsure that continuing forward was a good idea.

“I'm sure this is a misunderstanding,” Robin said, as politely as if she was talking to a rational, receptive adult. “We'll just get our puppy now, and I won't even tell my husband who was kicking her.” She paused a moment. “Or your mother, either.”

He really
had
been drinking, because suddenly his eyes went wild, as if he expected good old mom to jump out of a shadow. “How do you know my mother?”

I glanced at Robin, who was shaking her head sadly. “Son,
everybody
in this town knows your mother.”

He turned and took off. I stood there openmouthed, and both teens were halfway down the block before I could speak.

“I had no idea you could lie that well.”

She looked pleased. “Someday I'll tell you how I lied my way into the middle of a UAW picket line and got the photos I needed for my senior project in college.”

We started to search for the dog. I had no idea how badly hurt it was or what we could do for the poor little thing, but it didn't take long to find out. We found all six pounds of matted fur resting against a tire, panting as if it had run a mile. The poor creature growled when Robin approached, but she crouched in front of it and spoke soothingly.

“Little guy, we aren't going to hurt you.”

“He's not wearing a collar,” I said.

“He has to be a stray. He's starving. Look how thin he is.”

I really didn't want to look. We had done our good deed, and now I wanted somebody else to finish for us, take the dog home, feed him and take him to a vet in the morning.

I didn't want to, but I joined her down on my knees and extended my hand. “Poor little guy,” I crooned. Then I was singing softly, some nonsense syllables at first, sliding into “No Man's Good Enough For Me.” Instant replay.

The dog whined, then, trembling, it scooted on its stomach toward my hand.

“Terrier,” Robin said. “Some kind of mix. Maybe part Chihuahua. He's hoping you're going to give him something to eat.”

“Uniontown will have a shelter, right? He'll be better off there.”

“We can try.” Robin sounded doubtful.

“Work up a little enthusiasm, okay?”

“Towns that small? Kill shelters, most likely. Bring in a dog this beat-up?” She didn't finish.

“At least we can try.”

“I'm sorry to say it, but this isn't going to end well.”

“Look in the car. I left my jacket in the back. We can wrap him inside.”

The dog inched closer, whimpering. How could anything this tiny, this abused, still have faith I might help? Trust seemed inconceivable, but there it was. The dog let me stroke his muzzle, then his ears. His eyes closed, and for a moment I thought he'd died happy.

Robin came back with my jacket and her camera. I laid the jacket over him, and he lifted his head.

Not dead. Not yet.

“I'm going to wrap this around you,” I told the dog softly. “Then I'm going to carry you to the car.”

“He might bite,” Robin warned. She lifted her camera, as if she hoped to get
that
scene on film.

“I'll bite him back.” I wrapped him up gently. The dog let me, staring at me with sad little eyes.

“Find a vet on your phone?” I looked up at Robin. “There's got to be somebody who's open twenty-four hours, even if we have to drive back to Pittsburgh. We can leave him there. Leave money for his board and treatment. Maybe the vet will know how to find this poor baby a good home.”

Robin snapped a photo and shook her head.

I glared at her. “Well, he might!”

She sent me one of those I'm-smarter-than-you-are smiles that only sisters can get away with. “CeCe, don't you think it's clear by now that if this little guy makes it through the night he's already found one?”

13

Robin

Nik tells me you called. Pet got sick last night from something she ate at her friend's house. What do you suggest if she can't go to school? Elena seems inflexible.

I stared at the tiny screen framing Kris's text from late last night.

Good morning to you, too, husband mine.

I debated whether to call home to check on my daughter, call Elena and ask her to do some problem solving with Kris, or throw my cell phone out the window. I turned it off instead, and just like that, the problem disappeared. I would call Pet in the afternoon to see how she was. But usually when her stomach gets upset the culprit is fried food, which doesn't always agree with her. To combat the problem I dole out an antacid, and by morning she's fine.

Pet knows the drill, and Kris knows the top of our closet is a minipharmacy. Maybe I'll get a follow-up later saying the crisis was averted with a chewable pink pill or, more likely, I won't. Kris seems happiest delivering recriminations by text, and I doubt he'll be in the mood anytime soon to change course.

I miss him anyway. I miss my kids, too, but I'm still happy to be here. While my professional photographer's hat isn't firmly in place, I think it might be after today, our first official day of filming. That doesn't mean I'm glad to be away from my family.

At least not too much.

I pictured my husband coping with short skirts, leftovers, upset stomachs and a housekeeper who isn't afraid to stand up to him. None of it is beyond Kris's capabilities. By the time I return, will he feel comfortable being in charge? What kind of changes will he make in our household?

How much will they still need me?

Someone knocked on my door. I got up and pulled on a pair of knit pants on my way to open it.

Cecilia stood in the doorway. No makeup. The same jeans and T-shirt she'd been wearing last night. She still looked amazing. Her hair fell over her shoulders in natural waves. Her skin was luminous.

I opened the door wider to usher her in.

She came in just far enough so I could close it behind her. “The vet called. Roscoe had a good night. She thinks he'll be ready to leave tomorrow afternoon. They're icing his leg, and they're still giving him fluids and meds for pain and everything else, but he's responding well.”

Luckily the dog's leg wasn't broken, but he was malnourished and flea infested, for starters, and the vet practically guaranteed parasites. There were vet visits galore in the little guy's future.

I tried to look sad. “‘Leave' as in go to a shelter? Or a home the vet found in the middle of the night?”

“You are so smug. I hate it when you're smug.”

“Roscoe?”

“He had to have a name, didn't he?”

“You know what happens when you name a dog.”

“The receptionist asked
my
name last night and I told her Cecilia. ‘Cecilia what?'” It was a perfect imitation of the scowling woman at the desk, who clearly needed a different job with better hours.

“Did you explain that you're world famous and need at most one name to be recognized?”

“I told her I didn't like my last name so I got rid of it. I think she thought I was trying to duck out on the bill.”

“Does this mean poor Roscoe won't have a last name, either?”

She ignored that. “Most of the places we'll be staying on this trip probably don't allow dogs.”

“A little thing like rules never stopped you.”

“I already talked to the innkeeper here.
Her
, not him. She seemed more malleable.”

“How much money did you offer with your sob story?”

“Enough, apparently. She gave me a laundry basket with a blanket for Roscoe to sleep in.”

“What if he's not housebroken?” I considered. “And once this is over, what house will he be broken for, anyway? Will he be a California dog? A Manhattan dog?”

“Oh, I don't know—he's so small he can fit under the seat on an airplane.”

“You've got it bad.” I knew why. The dog needed my sister, and right now, Cecilia needed something to hold on to, something that was more scared about the future than she was. Like I had been all those years ago.

She was pretending all this meant nothing, which was a sign it meant everything.

I had to support her. “If you take him out frequently enough he'll get the idea.”

She lifted a perfectly threaded eyebrow in question. “How frequently?”

“Kris and I had a dog. You take them out as often as possible and eventually they catch on. Trust me, it gets old.”

“Why didn't you get another dog after...Pickles? After Pickles died?”

“Because I did all the work, and for once I put my foot down when Nik and Pet demanded we get another.”

If I'd put my foot down more often, would my life be different now? I gave my own children all the love and attention I missed. Maybe I'd taught them to expect the world on a silver platter.

Maybe I'd done the same with my husband.

“I know this is crazy,” Cecilia said.

“Who cares?” I gave her a hug and changed the subject. “You ready for today?”

“It should be interesting.”

I was glad we were starting with a town I had no connection to. I had time to prepare a little before my past was dissected, although I, at least, wouldn't watch mine fall to pieces on camera.

She left, and I slipped out my laptop to email my husband, since I'm a fan of keyboards not busy thumbs.

I imagine you've already considered all the options if our children are sick. Staying home with them, bringing them to work, paying Elena a bonus if she can come earlier. The good news is they stay surprisingly healthy most of the time. Robin.

At least I had the grace to sign
my
response.

I sent it, then I went in to take my shower and prepare for the day.

* * *

During yesterday's meeting Mick had outlined all the different elements that would go into the final version of the documentary, which so far had no title. He planned to use a variety of techniques. Archival photographs of orphanages and other historical solutions for parentless children, like the orphan trains that carried them from cities like New York to new lives on Midwestern farms. He would use newsreels and footage of past interviews with officials, like the real Father Flanagan of Boys Town in Nebraska, excerpts from books, including the rags to riches Horatio Alger novel
Ragged Dick
, that would be read out loud over photographic montages of real news and shoeshine boys in old New York. Mick was still coaxing celebrities to come on board as readers. So far, having Cecilia involved had made recruiting them easier. Her name lent weight.

Many of the historical elements had already been assembled, although that aspect was still very much a work in progress as new photos and films turned up. The present-day section would include interviews with officials and “talking heads,” historians and experts, who would explain the way child welfare in America had developed. Some of the most innovative programs in the country would be featured, along with peeks into residential education facilities—the new term for orphanages. Some of those segments had already been filmed. Mick had promised Cecilia, and me along with her, that we could view some of the footage if we were interested.

Interested? Cecilia was interested in everything. My sister never made it to college; she went to New York to become famous, and we all know how that turned out. But she
is
well-read and intelligent. She can hold her own with almost anyone, and the prejudiced who expect a superstar airhead when they corner her at parties or snag an interview discover immediately that her IQ is just as responsible for her success as her talent and drive.

Since she's appeared in films, much of today would feel familiar to her, although those roles had been heavily scripted, and the set and everything around her had been controlled. Talking about herself was familiar, too. But talking honestly and in detail about hardships she'd endured? Not familiar. She's always been great at dodging the most personal questions.

Right now Wendy was putting finishing touches on Cecilia's makeup and hair while I took photos. To get here we had driven past the “gob pile” we'd seen on our visit last night and the remnants of the coke ovens for which the town had been named. Now we were on the street where Cecilia's grandparents' house graced a corner lot. The house still existed, but at this point that was all we knew. We were a block away, waiting for permission to move closer. Starla Pierce, the line producer who had been absent from yesterday's meeting, was briefing Cecilia as Wendy powdered her nose in the van. Starla was short and stocky, with black hair buzzed short at the sides and back, with the top long and wavy. She had two nose rings and diamond studs outlining the curve of one ear. I liked her no-nonsense style and the way she treated Cecilia as a co-conspirator.

“I'll ask questions, and you'll answer them,” she told my sister. “Once the film is edited I won't show up or be heard on camera. The questions are just to get you started. We have permission to walk through the house. If you can, would you describe what you see now, as well as the way it used to be? What you remember? That's what we're looking for.”

Cecilia looked in a hand mirror and wiped something off her nose. “What would you like me to focus on?”

“What life was like for your grandparents and for you when you were with them. If you feel like talking about the reason you were here, this would be a good place to do it, too. Sunday we'll go to the cemetery where your family is buried, and we have a special guest who'll meet you there. It's nothing for you to worry about. In fact I think it's going to be something you'll like. But I don't want to spoil the surprise.”

“Not a long-lost relative?”

“Not exactly. You can wait, right?”

“What happened with the guy next door? The one who refused to let you film?”

“I talked to his preacher. Reverend Teller convinced him it was good publicity for the area and promised we would be careful not to show street names or house numbers. He's an old man, and he was afraid somebody would trample his vegetable garden. I promised one of our assistants will stand guard to be sure it stays safe, even though there's hardly anything in it now. He's not happy, but he's not going to come after us with a shotgun.”

“I'll go see him afterward. Is he old enough to remember my grandparents?”

Starla hesitated, and I could almost watch her forming her response. “I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

Cecilia met her eyes, then she smiled a little. “He remembers my mother, doesn't he?”

Starla gave a little nod.

“It's more about
that
than the vegetable garden.”

“Possibly.”

“We ought to get an interview with this guy on camera. In case anybody harbors any doubt that when I was nine she really left me to starve in a condemned apartment house.”

“We considered it.”

Cecilia glanced at me. “Are we having fun yet?”

“You're okay, CeCe.”

“So far.”

We got the nod. Cecilia refused to ride in the van for a block, so we got out and headed toward her grandparents' house.

“Who lives here now?” I asked Starla, who was walking with us.

“A young family. He works in Uniontown, but the rent here is cheaper. She wanted to stay home with their kids.”

I wished her well. “They won't be home?”

“They're spending the day away. They've been very cooperative. They're thrilled Cecilia once lived in their house, and they've promised not to broadcast what's going on until we've left.”

We reached the house, and Cecilia stopped out front. Most of the time so far I'd felt confused about what to shoot and when to do it, but this time I took photos of her gazing up at the house and thought that one shot, in particular, had merit. Her expression said she was surprised her memories weren't completely accurate, but she still remembered enough that she could have found the spot without help.

The house was small, even though it looked as if the original duplex had now been converted into a single-family dwelling. I tried to imagine two miners' families living here, with assorted children and other members.

Because they didn't want to damage anything, and also didn't want to crowd Cecilia, Mick and Jerry had decided to shoot the interior with a handheld camera, although Jerry had been inside since breakfast with a more elaborate setup, filming B-roll—supplementary—footage that they might use later.

Once-green hills, now brown and gold, were visible in the distance. I'm not sure what I'd expected to find in this former coal patch, but Randolph Furnace was picturesque, and so far the houses were well maintained, with trees and hedges and chrysanthemums still in bloom despite a light frost last week. The yard stretched back into thick woods. I could imagine Cecilia as a child playing on that expanse of dandelion-dotted bluegrass, scouting for insects and frogs, learning to do cartwheels and somersaults, collecting wildflowers.

I wished I could turn back time and convince Maribeth Ceglinski to leave her daughter right here, where Cecilia had collected her few good family memories. But if things had been different for my sister, where would
I
be today?

Mick came over to greet Cecilia. “All set?”

“It used to be bigger.”

“You used to be smaller. We'll start with you on the porch. Then Starla's going to take you inside. She's explained how we'll work?”

Cecilia nodded.

“Robin?” He turned to me. “I think we're going to ask you to stay outside while we film. We'll give you time with Cecilia inside once we're done. But we don't want to crowd her. Cecilia, we just want you to feel comfortable, like you're talking to an old friend, showing her pieces of your childhood.”