The Sisters by Nancy Jensen Read Free Book Online Page A

had come, once she made it up, and how it felt almost true, right from the start. As far as Hans was concerned, her given name was Imogene Alberta Fischer and she had just passed her twenty-sixth birthday instead of her twenty-first. When she’d left Juniper behind her, she’d taken her mother’s Christian name and her sister’s age and told everyone she was an only child whose parents had both died of the flu in ’18, taken in by the preacher of the Baptist Church until she was old enough to earn her keep. There was a piece of truth in all of it. Daddy had died of the flu, and after Jim Butcher hanged himself, the preacher did take her in until Nellie Perkins was ready to have her at the boardinghouse. Bertie wished now that she’d decided to take her mother’s full maiden name, Imogene East, when she was on the train out of Juniper, the greasy dollars from Jim Butcher’s strongbox in her pocket, but then there had still been a little part of her that wanted to leave a trail in case Wallace took a notion to follow it.
    Odd how even that first letter had the same address as this one, not directed to the old house. Maybe Mabel had somehow heard the news about Jim Butcher. Or maybe she just figured with her gone, Bertie wouldn’t stay there. Well, she was right about that. A sour burn pricked the back of Bertie’s throat. Time and again she’d tried to work out some other reason for Mabel to leave her like she did. But in the end it didn’t matter. That’s what she’d done. And that’s how she’d shown herself for what she really was.
    Every time a new letter came—this one made the eighth or ninth—Bertie prayed it would be the last, but Mabel wasn’t one to give up. Lucky thing that after the first, all the rest had come with the regular post while Hans was at work. But now Bertie had Alice Conrad to worry about, with her big mouth. No knowing who she might tell. At least she hadn’t opened it—the seal was still tight—but Alice could sure start the questions going if she wanted to.
    Well, the letters had to stop. But how to do that without writing back?
    The day after that first letter had come, after Hans had gone to work, Bertie had almost opened it, hoping for some news about Wallace, but she couldn’t bring herself to read anything Mabel had to say. There was nothing to say. Nothing but lies. Even an apology would leave too bitter a taste—not that she believed Mabel would ever apologize.
    “Mother.” Alma was scooting her way out of the rocker, pale cheeks drawn in, thin brown curls sticking all over her head, her daddy’s faded green cardigan slipping off her shoulder, not looking any better for her nap. When Alma was born, she was plump as a dumpling and Bertie had worried the girl would tend to heavy like herself—well, like she used to be—but now she couldn’t imagine her daughter as anything but rickety. She didn’t even seem to want things, not like a four-year-old should, and Bertie reckoned this was because Alma had learned wanting didn’t do a bit of good. Even now she knew the child wasn’t calling for her so much as just letting her know she was awake again.
    “Come on over here.” Bertie sat down at the table and pulled Alma onto her lap, folding the sleeves of the sweater up around her daughter’s tiny wrists. “Let’s count things.” Alma lifted her arms to wind them around her mother’s neck, but Bertie caught her hands and pushed her arms back down, then twisted the child around again to face the table. She spread her own hands flat and said, “Count,” and Alma touched each of her mother’s fingers, calling off the numbers without energy. “Now the buttons,” Bertie said, leaning back to reach to the low shelf for the old tobacco can, filled with buttons from clothes long gone. She dropped a handful onto the table to keep Alma busy.
    “Flower,” Alma said, rolling between her fingers a small, carved silver button.
    “Rose,” said Bertie, taking the