Second Summer of the Sisterhood (Sisterhood 2)

Tibby felt tears fill her eyes. What had she done? She cupped her hand on her thigh. Under her fingers was the denim of the Traveling Pants with the careful stitches she’d made at the end of last summer. She looked down and ran her index finger around the outline of the heart she’d sewn in red yarn. Her eyes were too full to read the words she had embroidered below it. She could feel the weight of her body sitting hour after hour on the back porch in the late-summer swelter, her legs falling asleep as she made thousands and thousands of stitches—pulling them out, putting them in—

with her stubborn, clumsy fingers. The product of all that toil was a shabby heart and three crooked little words. Bailey was here.

Had Bailey been there? Had she? What evidence was there of that?

Tibby’s heart felt bereft of her just now.

She put both hands to her cheeks. She needed to steady her head.

Alex was still snarling after Brian. He turned to look irritably at Tibby.

“So, Tibby.” His voice was leaded with criticism. “What’s with the pants?”

If you scatter thorns, don’t go barefoot.

—Italian proverb

Tibby drove Earl, her beloved Pontiac, due north. When she stopped in Front Royal for gas, she took out her address book. She had never been to Brian’s house, strange as that was, but she did have his address. When Nicky turned three, he had insisted upon sending Brian his own invitation for the rodeo party.

It was almost ten thirty when she reached Bethesda. Brian’s neighborhood was less than a mile from hers, but the houses were smaller and newer. She snaked around for a while before she found his house. It was a redbrick one-story. She had always felt annoyed by the perfectly pruned bushes and bright flower boxes in the windows of her house, but this plain, shabby place didn’t seem preferable. The only light came from a blue TV glow at the side of the house.

Tibby knocked timidly. It was late, and she was a stranger to his family. She waited a few minutes and knocked again.

A man opened the door. He was large and balding. He looked half-asleep. “Yeah?”

“Is, um, Brian here?”

He was annoyed. “No.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No. Brian hasn’t been around in a few days.”

Tibby gathered this was his stepfather. “Do you think … his mom might know?”

His patience was gone. “No. I don’t. Anyway, she isn’t here.”

“Okay,” Tibby said. “Sorry to bother you.”

She sat in her car and rested her head on the steering wheel. She felt sad for Brian in more ways than she could name.

She drove slowly toward his old hangout, the 7-Eleven on Rogers Boulevard. It was closing up, and he wasn’t there. She drove another block to the small park where they sometimes used to hang out after a big afternoon of Dragon Master.

She saw him, a dark outline sitting on the picnic table. His backpack and sleeping bag sat beside him.

She crept a little closer. Unfortunately, Earl was in a noisy mood tonight. Brian looked up and saw her car and her in it. He picked up his pack and his sleeping bag and walked away.

Tibby couldn’t go home. She couldn’t face her mother. It was too late to burst in on Lena or Carmen. Besides, she hated herself too much to face them.

The heart sewn on the Pants reviled her. It made her cry. She couldn’t face it any longer. She stripped off the Pants and drove to Lena’s house. It was perfectly quiet and dark. She folded up the Pants as flat as they could go and stuffed them through the mail slot. Then she turned around and drove back to Williamston, wearing only her shame and her underwear.

Lena lay on the wood floor of her room feeling sorry for herself and generally hating everything and everyone she knew.

If she could have made herself paint, she would have. Painting and drawing always made her feel anchored. But there were times when you felt miserable and you wanted to feel better, and other times when you felt miserable and you figured you would just keep on feeling miserable. Anyway, there was nothing beautiful in the world.

It was hot as only Washington, D.C., in late July is hot. Lena’s father didn’t believe in central air-conditioning because he was Greek, and her mom loathed the window kind because they were loud. Lena stripped down to her push-up bra (handed down from Carmen, who always bought them too small) and a pair of white boxers. She set up the floor fan so it blew directly on her head.

Lena liked to annoy, irritate, and provoke her mother, but she hated actually being in a fight with her. She hated blowing up at Tibby. She hated the tension between her mom and Christina and Alice. She hated Kostos and his new girlfriend. She hated Effie for telling her about it. (She liked Grandma for not liking Kostos’s new girlfriend.)

Lena didn’t like fights. She didn’t like yelling and hanging up. She liked silent treatments okay, but not past the third day.

Lena was a creature of regularity. She had eaten peanut butter on whole-wheat bread for the past 307 lunches. She didn’t go in for stimulation.

She heard the doorbell. She refused to get it. Let Effie get it.

She waited and listened. Of course Effie answered it. Effie loved doorbells and phone rings. Then Lena heard Effie screech excitedly. Lena listened harder. She tried to figure out who it could be. Effie didn’t usually screech at the UPS man, but you never knew. Or maybe it was one of her friends with a new haircut or something. That could elicit a screech from Effie.

Lena concentrated on the sounds. She strained to hear the visitor, but she couldn’t make out a voice. It didn’t help that Effie talked five times louder than normal people.

Now they were coming up the stairs. The footsteps didn’t have the rapid-fire artillery sound of Effie and one of her friends. The second set of footsteps was slower and heavier. Was it a boy? Was Effie bringing a boy upstairs in the middle of the afternoon?

She heard a voice. It was a boy! Effie was going to take a boy to her bedroom and very possibly make out with him!

Suddenly Lena realized the two sets of footsteps hadn’t taken the turn for Effie’s bedroom as expected. They were coming in the direction of Lena’s bedroom. With a burst of panic it occurred to Lena that her door was open. She was mostly naked and a boy was coming toward her room and her door was open! Well, it wasn’t like she could have seen this coming. She could count the number of times a boy had come up those stairs on one hand. Her parents were strict that way.

Lena was frozen on the floor. The footsteps were close. If she leaped up to shut the door, they would see her. If she stayed where she was, they would see her. If she got up and grabbed her bathrobe …

“Lena?”

At the sound in her sister’s voice—excitement bordering on hysteria—Lena jumped to her feet.

“Lena!”

There was Effie. There indeed was a boy. A tall, familiar, and excessively good-looking one.

Effie had thrown her hand over her mouth at the sight of what Lena was and wasn’t wearing.

The boy stood there looking captivated and amused. He didn’t avert his eyes as quickly as he should have.

Lena’s head was fuzzy. Her heart whizzed like a Matchbox racer. Her throat swelled painfully with emotion. She felt heat rising from every part of her body.

“Kostos,” she said faintly. Then she slammed the door in his face.

Bridget had memorized Greta’s schedule. Monday evenings she played bingo at church. Wednesdays she played bridge with her neighbors across the street. Today was Thursday, the day Greta went to the Safeway to do her weekly shopping and splurge on a shell steak. On the third Thursday of every month, her son Pervis came from Huntsville to have dinner, and Greta bought two shell steaks. Bridget volunteered to tag along. The real draw for Bridget was the cold of the meat aisle. She’d become a girl of simple pleasures.

“What’s your son like?” Bridget asked, lazily watching the signs flash by on the interstate.

“Quiet. Not so social,” Greta said.

“What’s he do in Huntsville?”

“Custodial services at the U.S. Space and Rocket Center.” She looked at Bridget in confidence. “That’s a fancy way of saying janitor. He cleans and buffs the floors.”

“Oh.” She remembered her uncle Pervis always in his bedroom, always at the window looking through his telescope. Once, when she’d been older, he had come to Washington, D.C., and stayed with them overnight. It was the only time she remembered him coming. He’d set up his telescope, got it all set and trained, and let her look through it. Pervis saw a thousand

familiar pictures in the sky, and Bridget saw chaos.

“His father and I saved up our money and sent him to space camp there the summer he was nine. I don’t think he ever wanted to leave. He’s happy with it.”

“Did he ever get married?” she asked.

“No. He’s always been real shy with girls. I don’t see him getting married. He’s got his ham radio friends. That’s about as social as it gets for him.”

Bridget nodded. Pervis had realized his dream of working at the Space Center, yet he spent his days looking down.

Thinking of Pervis made her think of Perry, his namesake, who was like him in many ways, minus the ham radio. Bridget had finally spoken to Perry for a few minutes on the phone the night before. He’d been curious about Greta, but guarded. He didn’t want to hear anything about Marly.

At the Safeway, Greta marched around purposefully with her cart and her coupons, while Bridget drifted through the refrigerated and frozen aisles, letting her mind go to places it had never gone before.

She wondered about Perry and she wondered about her father. Tragedy brought some families together, maybe, but not hers. Her father never talked about what had happened. He never talked about the things that might lead to talking about what had happened. There were so many things they couldn’t talk about, they had stopped trying to talk about much of anything.

She pictured her father, when he wasn’t at school, sitting in his den, wearing his earphones tuned to NPR. He never played the radio to the whole room, even when he was alone.

Perry spent his time in front of the computer. He played elaborate fantasy games on the Internet. He spent more time interacting with strangers than with people he knew. Bridget sometimes forgot she lived in the same house with him, let alone that they were twins.

It was sad. She knew it was. She wondered if maybe she could have held on to them better, Perry and her dad. Maybe if she’d tried hard enough she could have kept them feeling like a family and kept her home feeling like a home. Instead, they seemed to float out from under the roof, off into the stratosphere, farther and farther apart, orbiting nothing.