Thursday, November 5
Beth wouldn't let Willa look at the apartment until she had carried the bag upstairs.
“What if I refuse it?” Willa asked.
“Then carry the bag back down.”
It contained two wineglasses wrapped in newspaper, a box of screws, and a bottle of drain cleaner. Beth unlocked the door and took the bag before Willa could set it on the floor.
The apartment was on the third floor, two rooms with a kitchen pushed against the wall of the larger one. From the window Willa could see the roof of a laundromat and a church whose clock had stopped at eleven twenty. There was a small table, one chair, a mattress on a low frame, and a green armchair with a lamp standing over it. No boxes. Beth had even hung a picture: a print of four pears Willa recognized from the back room of their childhood house.
“She gave you the pears?”
“I took the pears.”
“Mother's going to have to eat real fruit now.”
Beth shut the door. She was grinning. Her cheeks were pink from the stairs, and she looked younger without the tote she carried at Jo's shows, the tote in which there was always a replacement object for whatever was going wrong.
Willa went toward the green chair.
“Don't sit.”
“Sorry.”
“No. I want to be the first.”
Beth sat down, placed both palms on the arms, and stretched her feet out. The chair gave a long breath beneath her.
“Oh, fuck me.”
“Does Simon know you say that to furniture?”
Beth's smile stayed, but she brought her feet back.
“He doesn't know about this.”
Willa waited.
“He knows the job. He thinks I'll come home afterward.”
“Are you?”
“Here.” Beth tapped the arm of the chair. “Here will be home.”
At the window a bus braked hard enough for them to hear its sigh three floors up. Willa took her coat off and laid it on the back of the kitchen chair.
“When are you telling him?”
“Before I leave.”
“Beth.”
“I tried Sunday. Then his father called about Thanksgiving. Then I tried Tuesday and he showed me the cabinet handles. I know how it sounds.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Two weeks.”
Willa looked again. The bed was made, a towel hung neatly from the bathroom rail, a jar of coffee stood beside two mugs. She had thought she was being shown a possibility. Beth had been buying coffee.
“I still love him,” Beth said.
Willa sat on the kitchen chair.
“Then maybe—”
“No. I've done maybe. Have a go on the chair now.”
Willa got up. The armchair was ugly in a way she liked, too much green, with a back high enough to hide a person. She sank into it. From here she couldn't see the unmade side of any bed or the kitchen sink. The lamp made a small agreeable room around her.
“God,” she said.
“Right?”
“You could die here and it would be a while before you minded.”
Beth sat on the floor and leaned her back against the wall.
“Don't tell Mom.”
“Wasn't at the top of my list.”
“Or Simon. I mean it. He's not coming home to find his wife explained to him by you.”
“I wouldn't.”
Beth studied her, then let her head fall back against the wall. Willa wanted to ask whether something had happened. She didn't. Simon loved a dinner party. He bought serving platters for parties he hadn't yet invited anybody to. Beth had once liked that about him. Willa had liked it too. There were worse husbands than a man making enough potatoes for eight, but she could imagine wanting to eat one potato without anybody being disappointed.
“What have you got?” she asked, pointing at a box under the sink.
“Smoke alarm.”
“You've got a smoke alarm.”
“I bought it before I saw that one.”
The installed one blinked above the door. The spare sat in its plastic packaging beside a roll of paper towels.
“So you've got a spare.”
“Yes.”
“In case this one's on fire.”
“It's not a spare. I'm putting it in the bedroom.”
“Good. You don't want to wake up halfway through a fire and have to move rooms.”
Beth made a face, then laughed. She stood and found the wineglasses in the bag. One had a greenish stem. The other was shorter, with a thick base.
“These don't match,” Willa said.
“I know.”
“Doesn't it hurt?”
Beth held up the glasses and admired them.
“A little. I'm trying something.”
Before they opened the wine, Beth asked Willa to stand in the bedroom doorway.
“Why?”
“I want to see if I can see the bed from here.”
“I'm not the bed.”
“Just move a little.”
Willa moved. Beth stood by the kitchen sink, tilted her head, went to the far side of the table, and tilted it again.
“Can you see me?”
“Yes.”
“That's not good.”
“You've rented a small apartment. I don't think the bedroom can be a surprise.”
Beth came and stood beside her. Willa could feel the warmth of her sister's arm through her sleeve.
“A curtain,” Beth said.
“Or you could shut the door.”
“Then it'll be dark.”
“That's very bad for a bedroom.”
Beth bumped her with her shoulder and went into the room. There was a second towel folded on the dresser. On the pillow lay an unopened packet of earplugs.
“What are those for?”
“Sleeping.”
“Alone, in your own place?”
“The street.”
Willa took the packet. The earplugs were bright orange, soft little shapes that looked like sweets. She put them down again before she said something that would spoil her sister's face.
Beth opened a drawer. Inside were underwear, socks, two folded shirts. She closed it as quickly as she'd opened it.
“Have you stayed?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“Tuesday. I said I was at Mom's.”
They looked at the bed.
“Did you sleep?”
“Eventually.”
“Good eventually or bad eventually?”
Beth put a hand to her face. “I read half a book. I kept thinking I should turn the light off. Then I thought, Who for?”
Willa sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was firm, new enough to push back at her.
“I fell asleep with it on,” Beth said. “Woke up at three and the light was still on. And that was fine too.”
“Reckless.”
“I know.”
Beth sat beside her, both of them facing the little dresser. For a while they didn't speak. A child shouted somewhere outside, the long, rising vowel of a child who wasn't being listened to. Somebody shouted back. Beth lifted one foot and rubbed her ankle.
“I haven't told him,” she said, “because when I tell him I have to watch him hear it.”
Willa looked at her. Beth kept her eyes on her sock.
“And then I'm going to have to say it again. It's not going to make sense to him the first time.”
“Will it the second?”
“Probably not.”
Willa could have asked whether keeping it from him was making that better. She wanted to remain in this room where her sister had put an extra towel out. She leaned down and took her own shoes off.
They lay across the bed, heads at opposite corners so their feet wouldn't hang in each other's faces. It was a thing they'd done as girls while one of them described a life they intended to have. Beth had wanted a horse. Willa had wanted to be somebody who was asked what she'd like before a meal.
“I could put a television there,” Beth said.
“You could.”
“I don't think I will.”
“Then you can tell people you don't own a television.”
“I own one. It's with my husband.”
“Shared custody. Weekends and the Olympics.”
Beth laughed against the bedspread. Willa watched the ceiling. There was one small crack, a fine wandering line above the window.
“Does she know how much work you do?” she asked.
“Mom?”
“Either of them.”
“Simon does. That's part of it. He's very appreciative.”
Beth rolled her head to look at Willa.
“Don't. I'm not being nasty. He says thank you. He means it.”
“Okay.”
“Sorry.”
“You don't have to say sorry.”
“Don't be nice. It's confusing.”
Willa reached across and pulled her sister's sleeve until Beth let her hand fall into reach. They linked little fingers like children making a promise too large to discuss.
After a minute Beth pulled free and sat up.
“Wine,” she said. “I'm showing you my exciting new life and we've spent ten minutes on the bed. People pay extra for this.”
She opened a bottle of wine with a corkscrew attached to her keys and poured. Willa took the one with the green stem. It was still cold from outside.
They drank without getting up to make anything look better. Beth described the independent tour she'd be working, six weeks of venues she'd never had to discuss with their mother. A production manager had sent an equipment list with three items labeled “misc.” Beth had replied that misc was not something she could arrange to load into a van.
“He wrote back, Assorted.”
“Helpful.”
“I called. Turns out it's an accordion, an inflatable dog, and a dehumidifier.”
“That's your support act.”
“I said as long as the dehumidifier has its own dressing room.”
Beth laughed at herself, delighted, and Willa lifted her glass. Through the wall they could hear somebody running a bath. Nobody asked them a question. Beth took the lampshade off, put it back on, and sat in the green chair again.
“There's one thing. A shelf's being delivered next Thursday. I can't be in because of Mom's fitting. Can you let them up?”
“What's it pay?”
“All the wine you can steal.”
“I accept.”
Beth worked a new key off the ring. It had a round head and a little metal burr along one edge.
“Don't lose it.”
“You want me to keep it in the bedroom? In case my other key catches fire?”
Beth threw a piece of newspaper at her. Willa put the key in the small pocket of her coat. They stayed until the light outside the window had gone blue.