What My Sister Remembered (9 page)

“I don’t know,” said my mother, looking at Alex but not smiling. “Sometimes you don’t want to wait too long.”

The bell rang, and Beth jumped up. “It’s Jeff,” she cried. “That must be Jeff.” She went flying out of the room, followed by my mother.

I raised my eyebrows and smirked at Alex. He smirked back. Nobody in our family ever gets excited over Jeff’s comings and goings.

We stayed quiet, listening to the sounds of greetings and the chorus of voices. “... Murder outside
...
100 at least
...
Ginger
...
my mom
...
Jeff
...
Jeff
...
Bethy, little Bethy, all grown up ... watch the guitar
...
living room
...
”

Jeff came in first with his arm around Beth’s shoulder. She was looking up at him as if he was Tom Cruise.

“... Great surprise,” Jeff was saying in his usual happy voice. Jeff always sounded happy. Even when my parents leaned on him, it was hard to stop him from being happy. “...Wonderful seeing you after all these years
...
you’re just gorgeous ... I can see the family resemblance
...
You don’t look anything like Molly, though, but I think you look kind of like me. Doesn’t she, Ma?
...
Oh, hi, everybody, hi
...
”

Behind him trailed Ginger, lugging a guitar. She was a heavy girl with dark hair. To my surprise, she was wearing a dress and high-heeled shoes. Jeff’s friends, like Jeff, generally wore jeans, old, creased shirts, and running shoes. Ginger was smiling uncomfortably, like most people do when they come into a room full of strangers.

“Well, hi, Mrs. Lattimore,” Jeff said, his arm still around Beth, moving across the room and shaking her hand. “It’s just great seeing you again—and Bethy too. What a kick! Actually, I was thinking of coming out to California one of these days, just to see you all.”

“I didn’t know that,” my mom said sharply.

“Any time,” Aunt Helene said politely.

“Oh, Jeff, why don’t you?” Beth cried. “We’ve got lots of room—you could stay for as long as you like. We’ve got a piano, and
you
and I could sing.”

Jeff nodded and laughed. “Well, I just might. I have a couple of friends who’ve moved out to the Bay Area, and they say the scene out there is real mellow.”

“This is Ginger,” my mother said, with a hard look in Jeff’s direction, “She’s a friend of Jeff’s. Ginger, this is my husband; my daughter, Molly; my son, Alex; my daughter-in-law—

“Oh, don’t throw all those names at her, Ma,” Jeff said. “She won’t remember them anyway.”

“How do you do,” Ginger said shyly.

She didn’t have red hair, so I asked her, “Why do they call you Ginger if you don’t have red hair?”

She looked helplessly over toward Jeff, who said, “Because she’s got a real hot voice. I mean hot. When she sings, I have to warn you, people feel like they’re going to burn up.”

“I don’t want to feel like I’m going to burn up,” Lisa said. “I’m hot enough already.”

“Oh, Jeff, can we sing like we used to?” Beth asked. “Do you remember how we used to sing?”

“Uh-huh.” Jeff nodded. “It was great. Sure I remember.” But I don’t think he did.

“I’m thirsty,” Lisa said. “Lately, I’m always thirsty. I’m not hungry so much anymore, but I’m always thirsty. The doctor says—"

“I wasn’t thinking.” My mother sprang up. “I have some soft drinks and”—looking toward Beth—”I made a big pitcher of lemonade. What would everybody like to drink?”

“I’ll give you a hand, Mom,” Alex said, beginning to get up.

“No, I’ll help her,” I said, pushing him back.

“Are you suffering from heatstroke or something?” Alex said to me.

“Ha, ha, ha!” I helped Mom carry in a tray of drinks and then followed her back into the kitchen.

“I guess I’ll assemble the lasagna and put it up,” Mom said.

“Why don’t I give you a hand?” I offered.

“That’s very sweet of you, darling, but wouldn’t you rather be with the others?”

“No, I’d rather be with you, Mom. And to tell you the truth, I don’t want to hear any more about Lisa’s heartburn.”

My mother smiled at me and reached out to touch my hair. “Your hair is so neat today. It really looks pretty.”

“I like the way Beth’s hair looks. It’s so shiny, and I love the way it flips back and forth when she tosses her head. Next week, Mom, I want to get a haircut like that.”

“I wish Jeff would get a haircut,” Mom said. “And he needs a shave. He should have had a shave before he came. And why couldn’t he put on a clean shirt? Why does he always have to look like such a mess?”

“Nobody else notices the way you do, Mom. He looks okay.”

“That girl, Ginger,” Mom said. “She seems like a nice girl. She thanked me for inviting her. At least she’s got good manners, which is more than I can say for Jeff.”

Beth came into the kitchen, smiling and carrying a couple of glasses. “Jeff wants more lemonade, and so does Ginger,” she announced.

“I have more,” said my mother, rushing off to the refrigerator. “I squeezed a whole bunch of lemons. There’s plenty.”

Again, Beth’s eyes rested on the window while she waited for my mother to get the lemonade.

“Here, here,” cried my mother, holding out a pitcher of lemonade toward Beth. It took Beth a moment or two to tear her eyes away from the window and focus them on my mother. The smile was gone, and her mouth was pulled tight over her teeth.

My mother poured some lemonade into each glass and then asked, “Do you want to bring the pitcher into the living room with you? Maybe somebody else wants some lemonade too.” She looked happy and gave a little laugh. “I haven’t made lemonade for ages. We always used to have it when we were kids.”

But Beth just shook her head and walked out of the room. My mother stood there, looking after her, holding the pitcher in her hand.

“Maybe I’ll try some, Mom,” I said.

I took a glass from the cupboard, and my mother poured some lemonade into it. “Yuk!” I said. “This is disgusting. I remember you used to mix frozen lemonade with grape juice sometimes. That wasn’t so bad.”

“We always used to make fresh lemonade in the summertime,” my mother said, putting the pitcher back into the refrigerator. “Kathy always liked lemonade too. I remember now. She used to drink it all the time.”

“Mom,” I said, pouring the rest of the lemonade in my glass down the sink, “why does Beth keep looking at the kitchen window?”

“The kitchen window?”

“Uh-huh. There’s something about that window that really fascinates her. What is it?”

“I don’t know.” My mother shook her head helplessly.

“She’s funny,” I said. “Sometimes she’s so mean, and sometimes she’s
...
well, she’s like a little kid with Jeff and with Mrs
.
Palagonia. She really likes Daddy, and sometimes she’s not bad with me. But, Mom, she’s always mean to you. And you should be the one who’s mean to her. She’s the one who picked the Lattimores. I can’t figure her out. And every time she looks at that window, she gets nasty.”

My mother bent over the lasagna pans and began arranging the noodles. “You just be nice to her, Molly,” she said.

Chapter 10

By the time we put the pans of lasagna into the oven, Jeff had begun singing.

“Oh no!” My mother straightened up and listened. “He’s not going to sing
that
song in front of them! Oh, no!”

“It’s not
that
song, Mom. All of Jeff’s songs sound alike, but this is a new one. I don’t think we ever heard it before.”

My brother Jeff composed songs as well as sang them. There was one that my mother particularly hated. It had to do with loving the whole world. She thought some of the lyrics were indecent, although he claimed it was all in her own mind.

“I’d better get in there,” my mother said, whipping off her apron. “You never know what that boy’s going to come up with.”

I followed her back into the living room. Jeff was sitting in the center of the room, on the floor, with a plaid wool scarf wrapped around his neck. I guessed that was his present from Aunt Helene. My mother made an impatient sound that nobody else seemed to hear except me. Jeff was singing very loud.

No, no, baby, no, no, no!

I say yes, don’t let me go,

No, no, baby, watch it grow.

This love of mine just won’t go slow.

Ginger was plunking away at the guitar, and Beth was leaning forward, her mouth open, her eyes shining. The song seemed to go on longer than most of his songs. When it was over, Beth cried, “Oh, that was wonderful, Jeff, just wonderful.”

“Very unusual song,” Aunt Helene said. “Very—uh—the melody is certainly ...”

“It’s not really finished yet. I still think the lyrics need a little more work. But there’s another one I wrote for Ginger.” He looked up at Mom, standing in the doorway, watching him with a very concentrated look. All of us understood Mom’s looks. Jeff laughed. “It’s okay, Mom. This one is real pretty. I kind of stole the melody from Madonna, but the words are tame. Even you might like it. Come on, Ginger, let’s do ‘Beat, Beat, Beat.’ "

“Well, sure, if it’s all right with your Mom,” Ginger said shyly, her cheeks very pink.

“I like the old songs,” my mother interrupted quickly. “Why can’t you sing some of the nice old songs?”

“I know lots of old songs,” Ginger said. “Which old songs do you like? I know, ‘l Wanna Hold Your Hand’ and ‘Saturday Night Was Meant for Fighting’ and
...
”

“Well
...
” My mother was trying to think up a song that nobody would mind. You could see she was having trouble. “Well
...
well ... I like ... I know ... I like a song like ‘Ave Maria’
.
’’

“ ‘Ave Maria!’ “ Jeff cried. “You’ve got to be kidding, Mom.”

“I used to sing ‘Ave Maria,’ “ Ginger said. “I was in my church choir, and we sang it every Christmas. I can sing it, Mrs. DeMateo, if you like.”

“For God’s sake, Ma, it’s the middle of August. We’re having a heat wave.”

But Ginger began tuning up the guitar, and we all watched her. She strummed softly at first, and then sang in a low voice
...
“Ave, Maria
...
da, da, da, da, da, da, da, dum
...
” It was all in Greek or Latin, so I couldn’t understand the words, but I could feel a ripple running all the way down from the back of my neck to behind my knees.

After a while, the strumming grew louder, and her voice opened up exactly the way Jeff had described it—into a big, strong, burning sound. The room felt too small and cramped all of a sudden.

“My God!” said my father when she finished.

“You have a wonderful voice, a splendid voice!” said Aunt Helene. “You could be a professional singer with a voice like that.”

Ginger’s cheeks shone bright red. “Thank you,” she said in a little voice, looking down at the floor.

“You could sing opera with that kind of voice,” Aunt Helene continued. “Do you take lessons?”

“No.” Ginger continued looking at the floor. “I never took any lessons, but I always loved to sing.”

I noticed Beth watching Jeff. He seemed surprised and maybe a little disappointed at all the attention Ginger was getting. I heard my mother make a few complimentary remarks, and even Lisa joined in. But Beth kept her eyes on Jeff.

“Jeff,” she said finally, “could we sing together, the way we used to?”

“Sure, Bethy, sure.” Jeff straightened up and took the guitar from Ginger. “What would you like to sing?”

“Don’t you remember, Jeff? You wrote a song for me. Just for me, you said.”

“No kidding!” Jeff grinned at her. “Just start us off, and I’ll remember.”

Beth began to sing. She had a high, sweet voice that didn’t match the rest of her.

Let’s hold hands and circle round.

Some go up and some go down.

But the prettiest girl in this whole town

Is little Beth with eyes so brown.

“You wrote that?” my mother said happily. “See, Jeff, if you just put your mind to it, you could really write some nice songs.”

“And then, there was another one about two mosquitoes, and one about a man with a wooden head.”

“Just start it off for me, Beth.”

Beth began singing, and after a while, Jeff joined in. They sang a couple of songs, and then Jeff laughed and said, “I forgot all about those.”

“They’re very nice,” my mother said proudly. “Jeff, you really wrote some cute ones back then. Nice, catchy songs! Why can’t you do the same kind now?”

“Oh, Mom!” Jeff said, but he began strumming, and soon some of the others joined in too. Aunt Helene was clapping, and Alex, who hardly ever sang, started to hum. Other voices blended in. Somebody laughed. I kept my eyes on Beth. She was laughing and singing. Her eyes were shining, and she didn’t look mean at all. She looked the way she had looked upstairs in Mrs. Palagonia’s apartment. There was no reason for it, but I began feeling scared again.

The smell of the lasagna began to fill the living room, and my dad put up his head, sniffed the air, and smiled at my mom. “I hope you made a lot,” he said.

“Oh, that’s right. I’d better get things moving,” she said, turning around slowly and moving back to the kitchen.

“Wait, Mom!” I cried. I had to move. I had to be doing something to make that sick, scared feeling go away. “I’ll help.”

I followed her into the kitchen. She was standing there, smiling. You could hear Jeff and Beth singing the loudest, and the other voices backing them up. “I guess it’s all working out for the best,” she said, “and isn’t it wonderful how Jeff can behave when he isn’t showing off?”

“Mom,” I said, “he’s not a kid anymore. He’s twenty-four.”

Ginger came into the room. “Can I help, Mrs. DeMateo?”

“No, no!” My mother smiled at her. “You just go back and enjoy yourself with the others.”

“I’d rather help you,” she said. “Can’t I do something? Make garlic bread or a salad?”