Little Sister by Patricia MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

wearing this,” she said. “It’s my sweatshirt dress.”
    “You’re supposed to wear black,” Beth said stiffly.
    Francie continued to gaze at the rumpled garment in her hands. “He made it for me,” said Francie.
    “Who?”
    “Daddy.”
    Beth examined the shabby dress incredulously. The top was a blue sweatshirt with the neck cut out and the sleeves cut to cover about the middle of the forearm. The skirt, which was sewn to the top, had a drawstring waist and was cut along the bottom instead of being actually hemmed.
    “He sewed it,” said Francie.
    “He couldn’t sew,” Beth said flatly.
    “He did, though. I wanted one of these dresses, and I was going to try to make it on my—on Mother’s old machine, but I couldn’t get it to work. So he came in and said, T never saw a machine I couldn’t operate.’ And he sewed it.”
    Beth stared at the faded garment as if it had suddenly come alive The girl was right, of course. What could be more appropriate for the occasion? So what if she looked like a hobo’s daughter? A quick glance in the closet told Beth that everything the girl owned was shabby anyway. It looked as if he had never bought her anything new. He thought new clothes were frivolous, a waste of money. Just like the heat. What did he care if they all froze to death? But an image of her father, seated at the sewing machine, seemed to rise before her like some mocking specter.
    “Wear what you want,” said Beth.
    “I’m going to,” said Francie, staring back at her.
    Downstairs a door slammed, and Beth let out a gasp.
    “How come you’re so jumpy?” said Francie.
    “What was that?”
    “Probably the screen door out front. That always happens in a storm like this. The hook is broken.”
    “Screen door?” said Beth. “It’s January. Didn’t he even put the storm doors up? God.”
    “He didn’t feel good a lot of times. There was too much that needed fixing.”
    Beth thought of her own house and the constant maintenance chores it required. And she had Mike to help her and no teenage girl to worry about. Somewhat chastened, she said, “I’ll look at it.” Francie did not reply.
    Beth left the room and trudged down the stairs. She laid her dress on the banister and went to the front door. Maybe I can wedge the screen shut, she thought, opening the door. I don’t feel like trying to fix it tonight.
    Beth threw open the door, and as she did, dried needles from the brown wreath hanging there showered the front hallway. The red bow tied to it had faded to pink from the exposure to the weather. “We need this like a hole in the head,” she said.
    The screen door flapped and banged as Beth reached behind the wreath and struggled to untwist the wire that secured it to the nail in the door. Needles scattered and clung to her sweater as she attacked the twisted wire with a ferocity it did not warrant. Finally she freed the wreath, and pushing the screen door out, she tossed the wreath into the bushes beside the door.
    That done, she turned her attention to the screen door latch. She flicked it back and forth with her finger, but it was clearly broken. “Didn’t he do anything around here?” she said aloud.
    But even as she said it, she thought again of the sweatshirt dress, and she felt as if something were rising inside of her, closing off her throat. He had made Francie a dress.
    Beth rattled and shook the door latch as if willing it to fix itself. The handle flapped helplessly in her throttling grip. She glared down at the useless catch in disgust.
    The wind moaned around her and the rain spattered her shoulders as she let go of the latch and looked around the doorway for something to use to wedge the door shut.
    At the foot of the stone steps was the day’s newspaper, still rolled up and secured with a rubber band. It’s all wet anyway, Beth thought, spotting it there. /’// tear off a page and fold it up. Clutching her sweater around her, she skipped down the steps and bent over