Sister of the Bride (14 page)

Barbara was startled. Someone had tried to brighten the room, which had one small window facing on an air shaft, by painting it yellow. It was yellow all right, bright taxicab yellow. Probably the painter had been surprised at how yellow it had turned out to be. There were cracks in the tile floor, and the wall around the edge of the tub was mildewed. Some past tenant had tried to introduce a note of whimsy over the washbasin with decals of goldfish with flirtatious smiles and sweeping eyelashes.

“Someone must have liked decals,” murmured Barbara, wondering how Rosemary would reconcile Klee and flirtatious goldfish in one small apartment.

Rosemary snapped off the light and stepped back into the living room. “Oh yes, a feature I forgot.” She pulled a sliding door across the entrance to the kitchen. “See. Greg can study in the kitchen and I can study in the living room and, with a door shut between us, we can't disturb one another.”

A bride and groom with a door shut between them. It didn't seem right to Barbara.

“That was the hardest thing about living in a dormitory,” Rosemary chattered on. “Having to study in the same room with Millie. She always chewed her hangnails when she had to memorize something.”

Barbara was curious to know where Rosemary and Greg were going to sleep, but she did not like to ask. It seemed like such a personal question.

“And now the bedroom,” said Rosemary, as if in answer to her sister's thoughts. She swung open a heavy door on one side of the living room. Folded against the back of the door was a bed, the coils of its springs pressing against a blue-and-white striped mattress. Greg's raincoat was hanging on a hook in the closet behind the bed. “Meet the Murphy bed,” said Rosemary. “We'll only have to move the couch two feet every night to get it down.”

Barbara was embarrassed to be standing there staring at the lumpy-looking mattress clamped to the springs. She thought of her sister's single bed at home and of her narrow bed in the dormitory, and tried to think of something to say.

Rosemary was oblivious to Barbara's embarrassment. “And since it's out of sight during the daytime, we won't even need a bedspread. That's a saving right there.”

Rosemary swung the door shut, flopped down on the couch, looked around at her future home, and said with a happy sigh, “And it's all free for taking care of the yard and the halls, listening to the complaints of the tenants, and collecting the rents.”

Barbara wanted to protest, but knew it was not her place to do so. “Isn't it a little—shabby?” she asked mildly, while words like
dingy
and
falling apart
went through her mind. How could Rosemary bring herself to leave her neat room in the dormitory for this?

“That's because it is going to be torn down in a couple of years,” explained Rosemary. “The owner isn't doing anything to fix the place up, because the university is going to tear it down to make a parking lot. But long before that, Greg will have his credential and we'll be out of here.”

Any time at all in this place seemed like a long time to Barbara. Embarrassed, she looked at the Klee leaning against the end of the couch and found she liked it better now that she was growing accustomed to it. It was interesting to look at, even if she did not understand it.

“And that isn't all,” said Rosemary, as happily as if she were pointing out a beautiful view from a window. “The refrigerator is connected to the owner's electric meter and not ours. That's another saving.”

Barbara perched on the arm of the one armchair and looked thoughtfully at her sister, resting on the couch in her faded shorts and old shirt. Even to Barbara she looked young, too young to be thinking about rent and the electric bill and having to clean the dreary halls of this run-down building. But there she was, fairly gloating over the owner's having to pay for the electricity to run that little built-in refrigerator, which would defrost every Monday night and melt any ice cream that was not eaten up.

Rosemary sat up. “Let's get to work. At least we can put the canned goods away.”

Barbara leaned over and picked up a small can from one of the cartons on the floor. “What do you suppose this is? Tomato sauce maybe?”

“I don't think it would be anything that ordinary,” said Rosemary. “The girls said they tried to get things we could never guess. It might be mandarin oranges. People don't buy those every day, and they come in small cans.”

Barbara shook the can beside her ear. “It might be chocolate sauce, except it has a wetter sound. Do you think artichoke hearts would sound wet? They are packed in brine or something.”

Rosemary laughed. “I don't know. I never listened to an artichoke heart. Or felt its pulse either.”

Barbara dropped the can back into the carton. “What are you going to do with all this stuff? Open every can that's the size of whatever you need, hoping you'll find what you want and then ending up with a lot of open cans of things you don't want?”

“We decided to save them for rainy days,” explained Rosemary. “If we run out of grocery money before payday, we'll pick out several cans of different sizes, open them, and, no matter what they are, have them for dinner.”

This was an interesting solution, if not an appetizing one. At that moment there was a tap on the door.

“Our first caller!” Rosemary smoothed her hair with her hands and opened the door.

The visitor was an old lady, straight-backed and sharp-eyed, who was wearing a hat that might have been worn by Paul Revere and carrying an armful of library books. “I'm Miss Cox. Upstairs front,” she introduced herself. “Are you the new manager?”

“Yes, I am. Won't you come in?”

“No, thank you. I was on my way to the library when I heard voices and thought I would stop in and tell you that the lightbulb in the front entrance has burned out.” Barbara, who was watching Miss Cox over Rosemary's shoulder, saw at once that she did not approve of a manager who allowed a burned-out bulb to remain in its socket.

“Oh…I didn't know,” said Rosemary. “I'll have my…uh…I'll have Greg replace it today.”

“And the garbage was collected this morning,” continued Miss Cox. “I thought perhaps you didn't know, since the garbage cans have not been lined with paper yet.”

“Why, no, I didn't. Thank you for telling me.” Somehow Rosemary was being made to sound guilty. “I…I'll take care of it right away.”

Barbara was indignant. This was no way to welcome a new neighbor and one who was about to be a bride at that.

“And while I am here I might as well mention those tenants in the rear apartment on the second floor,” said Miss Cox. “The ones who let that little boy run up and down the halls all day. He has been leaving his toys on the back stairs, and I very nearly tripped.”

“I…I'll speak to them,” faltered Rosemary, “and I'll take care of the garbage cans right away.”

“Good,” said Miss Cox crisply. “The former managers were inclined to let things slide.”

“What an old biddy!” Barbara burst out when Rosemary had closed the door and Miss Cox was out of earshot.

“I suppose she has a right to complain,” said Rosemary doubtfully. “All the things she mentioned should be taken care of.”

“And she will complain, too.” Barbara was emphatic. “All the time. I can tell.”

“That's what I'm here for, I guess,” said Rosemary. “To listen to complaints and not let things slide.”

“Oh, joy.” Barbara's voice was flat.

“We don't expect to get our rent for nothing. We have to earn it, only I guess I didn't expect to start earning it quite so soon,” she reminded her sister
with a rueful laugh. “And now—off to the garbage cans!” She tried to sound gay, but her fatigue from her night of cramming had returned.

This was too much for Barbara. A bride should not be lining garbage cans with newspapers. Neither should she have circles under her eyes. “I'll do it,” she volunteered.

“But it's my job.”

“I'll do it just this once,” said Barbara. “To protect your lily-white hands for the wedding. You know. Pale hands I love and that sort of thing.”

Rosemary looked at her fingers. “Hands with an ink stain on the forefinger from writing that final.”

“Where will I find some newspaper?” asked Barbara.

“In the laundry in the basement,” answered Rosemary, giving in. “And thanks awfully.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Barbara. “I'm maid of honor, aren't I? And the maid of honor is supposed to perform little services for the bride, isn't she?”

Rosemary laughed. “I don't think lining garbage cans was exactly what the author of the wedding book had in mind.”

And neither did I, thought Barbara, as she found her way to the laundry and snatched up an armful
of old newspapers.

Her thoughts were tumbling about like laundry in a washing machine. She was shocked by the dingy apartment, bewildered by Rosemary's happiness over such a place. Couldn't she
see
? Couldn't she see that it was small and ugly and shabby and uncomfortable? That mildew in the bathroom, that awful Murphy bed standing on its head in the closet…See? Couldn't she smell? Didn't she know it smelled of meals cooked and cigarettes smoked long ago? Maybe the old saying was right. Maybe love did blind people. Maybe it dulled their sense of smell, too. And their sense of hearing. Maybe, because she was in love, Rosemary didn't even hear the child banging on the floor with a pan. How was she going to study with that going on?

There were four garbage cans, and Barbara grimly set about lining them with newspaper. Rosemary, gay, frivolous Rosemary, sitting there gloating on that shabby couch with the lumpy springs, actually gloating, because the few cents it cost to run a refrigerator would be on the owner's electric bill instead of her own. And bragging about how she would clean those halls to pay the rent! What was the matter with her anyway? Had
the poetry gone out of her soul, too? Even before the wedding?

By the time Barbara had gone to work on the second garbage can, disappointment turned to rebellion. She did not want Rosemary's marriage to start this way. Rosemary was going to be a
bride
. Her life should be as bright and shining as…as a picture in a magazine in which everything matched, nothing was worn, and everyone was happy.

Barbara held her breath and leaned into the third garbage can. She was sure nothing about Rosemary's new life was right. It was all wrong, every bit of it. Barbara felt more and more rebellious, and there was nothing she could do about it. Rosemary had made her decision. If Barbara had been a little girl, she would have kicked a garbage can to express her feelings. But she was not a little girl. She was sixteen years old and on her way to growing up. She could not stamp her foot and say to Rosemary, “I don't
want
you to live this way.” She was too old to kick a garbage can. Instead she slammed all four lids down hard and produced four satisfying clangs, like crashes of cymbals in some discordant piece of music.

“Quiet!” yelled someone from an apartment across the way.

When Barbara returned to the apartment she saw that Rosemary had combed her hair and renewed her lipstick.
The End of the Trail
had been replaced by
Portrait of Moe
. Books brightened the bookcase. The place looked better already. In the kitchen Rosemary had set out two unmatched cheese glasses filled with pink juice. “I shook cans until I found one that sounded good and sloshy, and took a chance that I might find some kind of juice. And it was. Have some,” she invited.

Barbara sat down and took a cautious sip. “It's good. What is it?”

Rosemary tasted hers. “I don't know, and I can't think of any pink fruit except pink grapefruit, and it isn't that.”

“I think there's a little pineapple juice in it.” Barbara tasted thoughtfully. “Maybe the pink is guava. Guava is pink, isn't it?”

“I don't know,” said Rosemary. “We'll just have to call it Brand X.”

As the sisters sat in the shabby kitchen sharing a can of strange juice, Barbara studied Rosemary, who was staring, her chin propped on her fist, at the apartment house next door, which Barbara was
sure she did not even see. She was lost in some private dream, and whatever it was, it was a happy dream, because her lips were curved in a faint smile. When she spoke, she said without rancor, “It's an awful dump, isn't it?”

Barbara nodded. The disappointment and resentment that had twisted into a hard knot within her began to relax. Love had not blinded Rosemary, after all. Now the emotions that had upset Barbara a short while ago seemed…well, young. Not everything about Rosemary's life was wrong. There was Greg. And marriage was not something out of the slick and colorful pages of a magazine. It was not just parties and new clothes and flowers and a wedding veil. It was more than having all your friends envying you and wishing
they
had found the right man and wondering if they ever would. It was a lot of other things, too, like love and trust and living within one's income and, in Rosemary and Greg's case, putting their educations ahead of their immediate comfort. Why, Rosemary was prepared to do all this cheerfully, even gaily, and it had not even occurred to her that she was being brave or self-sacrificing. She was doing it
because she loved Greg and had faith in his future.

And for the first time the thought came to Barbara that Greg was lucky to be marrying her sister.

The day after high school was out Barbara suspected that she had a broken heart. The trouble was, so many things kept happening that she could not find time to settle down and think about it and make sure. She knew that Bill Cunningham had graduated from high school the night before. She also knew that the P.T.A. had sponsored an all-night graduation party to keep the graduation class from getting into trouble. And since he had not invited her, had, in fact, not even mentioned the party at all, he must have taken someone else. That was as far as Barbara had been able to think.

To begin with, now that Millie had moved in for what Mr. MacLane called “the duration” and had
appropriated Barbara's bed, Barbara was sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor. She spent a lot of time thinking how stiff she was from the hard floor. She would start to think about Bill and the graduation party, and then she would move a sore muscle and think
ouch
instead.

Millie had also appropriated the dining-room table for sewing on her bridesmaid dress. She had not been able to sew on it before, because, as she explained, she had finals. She was so slow and so deliberate in everything she did that Barbara felt frantic just watching her. At the rate she was going she could not possibly finish the dress in time for the wedding. Hurry, hurry, Barbara thought every time she looked at Millie. Hurry up and finish it.

Sometimes Millie, who had brought her recorder with her, tootled
Sheep May Safely Graze
when she should have been sewing. When she discovered that Gordy could play the guitar, she insisted they try duets. Unfortunately Gordy only knew folk songs while Millie was struggling with Bach, but with a little practice they worked out a very nice arrangement of
The Old Gray Mare
.

Barbara was also distracted from thoughts of a broken heart by the wedding presents, which were arriving by parcel post, express, and United Parcel
Service, and in the hands of friends, who were of course invited in and served a cup of tea or coffee. And what presents! They might have been for two entirely different brides. Rosemary's generation sent stainless-steel platters and serving dishes, an album of Joan Baez songs on stereo, teak trays and salad bowls, and a set of shish kebab skewers. The next generation sent crystal—more than Rosemary could store in her tiny apartment—silver serving dishes that would have to be polished, a double-damask tablecloth and napkins, cake plates, and copper molds.

“You're collecting a lot of
things,
aren't you?” Barbara could not help remarking, as she paused with her arms full of tissue paper and excelsior on her way out to the incinerator.

Rosemary answered with a happy sigh. “But it's such fun to open packages. I adore getting presents. After all that work I did on ‘Plato: Teacher and Theorist' it's like a heavenly vacation.” She went back to writing thank-you notes. She had vowed she would acknowledge all her gifts before the wedding, because after the ceremony she would be going to summer session and would have to study.

Barbara thought this resolution admirable, but
she could not help feeling a little amused at the way marriage was changing Rosemary even before she had taken her vows. She could remember when her sister had to be prodded into writing thank-you notes for her high school graduation presents.

“That's one thing a college education does for you,” explained Mrs. MacLane. “It teaches organization.”

“I guess we're getting ready for the countdown,” was Gordy's observation about the whole thing.

“I'm not being launched,” Rosemary objected, as Greg arrived to take her over to Woodmont for a conference with the minister.

“Oh yes, you are,” contradicted her father.

When Barbara was set to polishing silver and had the kitchen to herself, she was at last alone with her own feelings instead of Rosemary's. She unscrewed the lid of the silver polish jar and wondered about the state of her heart. Bill…she thought gingerly. Yes, it hurt even to think about Bill Cunningham. This must mean her heart was really broken because Bill had taken some other girl to the all-night party, had danced till dawn, and then eaten ham and scrambled eggs, served by the mothers of the P.T.A. Now, early in the after
noon, he was probably home in bed asleep. Heartless, fickle Bill. All those cookies, all that milk had been for nothing.

Barbara rubbed polish into the bowl of a spoon with a piece of old flannel. Bill…ouch! A broken heart was a sensitive thing. And how sad in the midst of Rosemary's happiness. What a contrast. The hurt was sharp when Barbara thought of Bill as he had been the day before. He had given her a ride home from school, eaten three butterscotch bars, and, with a jaunty wave, had ridden off on his Vespa without one word about seeing her during summer vacation. And in September he would be going across the bay to the university. Perhaps she would never see him again, although common sense told her that in a town the size of Bayview this was not likely.

In the spirit of things Gordy sang from his room, “What will the wedding supper be? Ah-hah. Three green beans and a black-eyed pea. Ah-hah.” He had been much more agreeable since his trio had been so well received at the Latin banquet, and Barbara was surprised at the improvement in his guitar playing.

Mrs. MacLane, coming into the kitchen, paused to look back at Millie, who was cutting out the
taffeta slip for her bridesmaid dress, and Barbara followed her mother's worried glance. Deliberate Millie, wearing a muumuu and beaded Indian moccasins, had laid her pattern exactly on the straight of the goods. Meticulously she had inserted each pin exactly three inches from the last pin.

Now Mrs. MacLane stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind her. She shook her head. “That girl is driving me out of my mind. She isn't going to finish that dress in time for the wedding if we don't do something drastic,” she whispered. “And she spends half her time playing the recorder.”

“Do you want me to help?” asked Barbara.

“You'll have to,” agreed her mother. “You go on. I'll get Gordy to help with the silver.”

Gordy was singing, “Uncle Rat has gone to town. Ah-hah. To buy Miss Mouse a wedding gown. Ah-hah.”

“Gordy!” Mrs. MacLane called down the hall. “Come and help polish the silver.”

A couple of noisy chords came from the guitar. “Aw, Mom, do I have to?” Gordy wanted to know. “That's woman's work.”

“Well, woman's work is never done, so hurry
up.” Mrs. MacLane's patience was wearing thin.

Barbara found trying to work with Millie exasperating. The dress was finally cut out, but Millie carefully refolded the pattern into its original creases and tucked it into the envelope instead of just stuffing it in, to get it out of the way. She pinned the seams together with pins exactly two inches apart and five eighths of an inch from the edge. Barbara, whose own impulse was to sew up the seams on the sewing machine without bothering to baste, could stand it no longer. She did not even offer to help. She simply picked up a needle and thread and started basting with generous stitches. Then she noticed Millie's careful, even stitches, and measured hers accordingly—or tried to. She was too impatient to see the dress finished and too exhilarated, in spite of her broken heart, by the excitement of the wedding preparations to work with Millie's deliberation.

“Aren't you excited that the wedding is almost here?” Barbara finally asked.

Millie licked her finger and knotted her thread. “Not particularly,” she said. “I'm not the one who is getting married.”

Barbara found this calm infuriating, although she tried to tell herself that it was a good thing.
Millie at least would never panic, and there was no telling what the rest of them would do when the wedding day finally came. Barbara loved every ring of the doorbell, every conversation about how many people did they
really
think would stay for the reception, every satin bow, every shred of excelsior. She wished it could go on and on and never end. She dreaded the moment when it would all be over, when the wedding cake was eaten and the rice was thrown and Rosemary had gone off to that awful apartment to live with Greg and be a member of the Dames. She dreaded having the bedroom to herself forever—or until she left home herself.

This brought Barbara back to her daydream of Bill Cunningham. The cookie jar was now empty, the cookies eaten by the bearers of wedding gifts, but it did not matter. Bill was not around to eat them. She hoped Gordy would not notice and make caustic remarks. If he did, she was sure to answer with even more caustic remarks, and that would be the end of the truce they had declared when she had crowned him with the rhododendron wreath before the Latin banquet.

And then unexpectedly Barbara heard the familiar sound of a Vespa in the distance. She had long
since learned to distinguish the sound of a Vespa from that of many other motor scooters. She went taut with anticipation. It might not be Bill's scooter, she warned herself, to keep from being hurt if the scooter did not come in her direction. It might not come up the hill. But it did come up the hill. Still she did not relax. It did not have to be Bill's Vespa. His was not the only one in Bayview, she told herself, to stave off disappointment if the scooter passed her house without stopping. But it did not pass by. It really did stop, and Bill Cunningham ran up the steps and rang the doorbell.

“I'll get it,” cried Barbara, and sprang up from the welter of silk to hurry to the door before anyone else got there. “Why, Bill!” she exclaimed, as surprised as if she had not heard his Vespa blocks before it reached her house. There were no circles under his eyes. He looked lively and alert, not at all like someone who had danced till dawn. Perhaps he had not even gone to the party. There was nothing for her heart to be broken about, because now she knew Bill really liked her. He had come in the summertime at an hour of the day when he could not possibly be hungry. “Come on in,” she said, and smiled up at him.

Bill stepped inside, and Barbara introduced him to Millie, explaining, “We have been sewing like mad on her bridesmaid dress.” And then, lest he think she was too busy sewing to spend any time with him, she added, “I've been basting until my fingers are stiff. I was just going to take a break.” She wished Millie was wearing something other than that muumuu and those beaded moccasins, that she felt insecure enough to care more about her appearance. She also wished Millie would go off someplace and tootle on her recorder, but Millie did not have this much tact. She said hello to Bill and continued to sew.

“Yeah, I thought you might be sewing,” said Bill, and for the first time Barbara noticed he was carrying something rolled up under his arm the way boys carry swimming trunks rolled up in a towel. This was not a towel, so he could not be here to ask her to go swimming. She watched him pull the bundle out from under his arm and unroll it. It was a plaid shirt. “I was wondering—could you sew my shirt? It's my good Viyella shirt, and I tore the pocket. See?”

Automatically Barbara took the shirt and examined it. It was beautiful. The brown-and-green plaid was subtle, the fabric soft, one corner of the
pocket had been ripped loose, and the rim of the collar was a bit grubby. Barbara was so disappointed she could have cried. She wanted a date, and he had brought mending. “Couldn't—couldn't your mother do it?” she faltered.

“She doesn't go in much for sewing,” explained Bill. “She has this big career and all.”

Barbara looked at Bill, standing there so expectantly by the front door, and thought of all the things she had to do before the wedding—Millie's dress to finish, hair to be washed, errands to be run, a thousand things. Maybe she didn't have a career, but she certainly had plenty to do. Suddenly she was mad. Just plain mad. Who did Bill think he was, anyway, eating her cookies day after day and then coming around taking it for granted she would do his mending? She was not his mother. Or his wife. She most emphatically was not his wife. She would not be his wife if he were the last man on earth. His torn shirt was not her responsibility. Just because she fed him cookies did not mean she was going to do his mending. Mend his shirt, and he would be bringing his socks next. Well, she did not want to mend his shirt, and she was not going to mend it.

Barbara looked Bill in the eye. “No, I will not
mend your shirt!” she informed him. It was with good reason that Gordy sometimes called her Barbed Wire.

“You don't have to be so ferocious about it.” Bill was obviously taken aback. “I just thought—”

Barbara felt ferocious. “I suppose you thought I would be glad to mend your shirt!” she said. “I suppose you thought I would consider it an honor to do your mending.”

“Well…no, not exactly.” Bill put his hand on the doorknob as if preparing to retreat.

“Well, I don't!” Barbara informed him.

Bill stepped back and opened the door.

“And furthermore, it isn't even a clean shirt,” Barbara pointed out.

“Well, I'm sorry. You seemed so domestic and all…I didn't think…” Bill began to back out the door.

“Obviously you didn't,” snapped Barbara. “Well, for your information, I may bake cookies, but I don't take in mending. Or washing.” She rolled the shirt up into a ball. “Here. Take your old shirt.” She threw it at him with such a poor aim that it flew over his head, and Bill, now halfway down the steps, automatically sprang up to catch it, like a fielder catching a baseball.

“Good-bye, Bill Cunningham,” said Barbara emphatically. “I don't care if I never see you again.”

Bill must have begun to recover from his surprise and to regain his poise, because he said with exaggerated sorrow, “Good-bye, dear Barbara, I shall go. It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done before.”

“Oh, be quiet!” snapped Barbara, and slammed the door. He needn't think he was going to win her over by being funny.