Little Sister by Patricia MacDonald Read Free Book Online

May.
    “Don’t hound them, dear,” said Uncle James. “They’re big girls.”
    “Thanks anyway, really,” said Beth.
    “Good night,” said Francie, getting out and slamming the car door behind her.
    Aunt May sighed as Francie headed toward the house in the rain, her shoulders hunched up to keep the water from running down her neck, her sneakers squishing on the muddy path.
    Beth leaned over and gave her aunt and uncle perfunctory kisses before getting out of the car. “See you tomorrow,” she said.
    She turned her collar up against the drizzle and waved as they backed out of the driveway, with Aunt May fussing at her husband to beware of the tree on the other side of the road. Beth shivered from the chill as she stood there. Hoisting her suitcase again, she turned and walked toward the house. Francie had already disappeared inside. At the door she looked back, but she could no longer see her aunt and uncle’s car lights. She turned the doorknob and went into the dark house.
    Francie was not in the kitchen when Beth entered, and she could not hear her in the house. Beth put down her bag and looked around. The kitchen was at once familiar and strange. The decorations which her mother had used to cheer the room were still in place but were covered with dust and grease. A little plant pot in a ceramic windmill on the windowsill was still there, but the plant had died long ago. The cupboard doors hung open haphazardly, and the cabinets were sparsely stocked with instant potatoes and cans of stew and spaghetti that just had to be heated to be eaten. Her mother’s prized china was chipped and carelessly stacked, and a dull film seemed to have settled over it. In the corner the rocker still sat, although the cushion on it was ripped and had been patched with a piece of masking tape. Looking at it, Beth remembered that it had been her favorite place to curl up and read when her mother was alive, bustling around the kitchen.
    With a sigh Beth passed through the kitchen into the hallway and hung her coat in the closet. Once she had taken her coat off, she suddenly realized how cold it was in the house. Pulling her sweater closer around her and rubbing her arms, Beth went into the living room to check the thermostat. As she crossed the room, she touched a few of the things on the dusty tables. There was a music box the family had always had. And an ashtray from her parents’ honeymoon in Washington, D.C. As she ran her hand along the table behind the sofa, her fingers touched her father’s glasses. They were lying there, open, on the table, and she suddenly had a vivid image of him, absorbed in a book, the corners of his mouth lowered, his eyes narrowed behind the lenses, as if the author were trying to deceive him. She drew her fingers back quickly as if they had been burned.
    Briskly she crossed the room and pushed up the temperature on the thermostat. The heat kicked on with a rumble.
    “You’d better turn that down,” said a voice behind her.
    Beth started and turned around. She could see the outline of her sister’s form crouched on the darkened staircase, watching her.
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” Beth snapped. “It’s freezing in here.”
    “Too bad,” said Francie. “The oil’s low. We didn’t pay the guy last month, so he didn’t deliver.”
    “I’ll pay them,” said Beth evenly. “They can deliver it tomorrow.”
    “Not on Saturday they won’t,” said Francie. “Not till next week.”
    “Great,” Beth muttered.
    “What?” asked Francie suspiciously.
    “Never mind,” said Beth as she went back and lowered the temperature. She heard Francie stomping up the stairs and then the sound of a door slamming on the second floor.
    Beth went and got her suitcase and then climbed the stairs herself. The wind and rain outside were buffeting the house, and she felt as if every draft were whistling through the walls and cutting into her. /’// get pneumonia from this damn trip, she thought.
    The door