Читать книгу When We Were Sisters: An unputdownable book club read about that bonds that can bind or break a family - Emilie Richards - Страница 19

12

Cecilia

Robin didn’t look happy when she slipped downstairs to join me after everybody else had gone up to their rooms for the evening. She had planned to call home and check on her family before we made our getaway, but I wasn’t sure asking how the call had gone was a good idea. I wasn’t sure she would be honest with me anyway. Donny, annoying insightful man that he is, had asked if I was trying to pave the path to divorce for Robin and Kris, and ever since I’ve wondered.

Do I need my sister’s love and attention so much I don’t want to share her with her husband? Despite my spectacular Australian collapse I hope I’m psychologically healthier than that. Whatever I am, though, I am absolutely sure I don’t want Robin to be unhappy.

“You okay?” I hesitated a second, then added, “Family okay?”

“No one set the house on fire.” As we let ourselves out the front door and headed toward the parking area, she dragged a smile into place. “Though Kris might be happier burning it down and moving into a condo next door to his office.”

I had to laugh. The smile had been an effort, I could tell, but she was digging for humor. “How’s the nanny?”

“Lord, we can’t call her that. The kids would have a fit. She’s the housekeeper. I only talked to Nik. Pet had dinner with a friend, and Kris was off picking her up. Nik says nobody misses me, which means he does. Elena made chicken and rice for dinner, and she told him she made enough for tomorrow, too. I guess I forgot to tell her my son doesn’t like leftovers.”

“Poor, poor Nik.”

“Maybe Elena will train him for me.”

“Is she going to train Kris, too?”

“Not so far. Nik said he was late coming home from work.”

“His problem, right?”

“That kind of thinking’s going to take a while.”

“Will she quit if he keeps it up?”

“Won’t Kris have fun if she does?”

I noticed Robin was carrying her purse and a camera case, along with a windbreaker. “You’re not planning to take photos, are you?”

“Get used to it.”

“I thought we could just hang out, you know, and insult each other, like sisters do.”

“I can insult you and take photos, too. I’m good.” She hesitated. “Or at least I used to be.”

I didn’t want to tackle that. It made sense that Robin wouldn’t feel fully comfortable yet, and I didn’t want to make more of that than necessary.

A platinum moon was beaming at us just beyond a stand of trees. Not everywhere we stayed would be as lovely as this. But for the next few nights Mick had booked us into a historic brick inn on a farm just outside town. We had enough rooms for everybody, divided between two houses, and tonight we had eaten at a farm table scattered with miniature pumpkins, in front of a fire that smelled of apple wood.

Autumn colors might be fading, but the trees are still spectacular, even now when they’re well past their peak. A field of drooping sunflowers greeted us as we drove in. I am such a sucker for sunflowers. I’m coming back next year when they’re at their peak.

Wendy’s rental compact was parked at the end of a short row. She and Fiona had brought us dinner from a local Italian restaurant so I was betting her car smelled like garlic.

When I opened my door I found it also smelled like cigarettes.

“She smokes?” Robin made a face. “Your assistant smokes?”

“She probably rented the cheapest car they had so she can pocket the rest of the car allowance. Can’t blame her for that. I remember pinching every penny when I started out.”

“You must have pinched hard. Moving from the Osburn ranch to Manhattan with nothing but a little money from Betty Osburn to get you started.”

Some stories are best left untold. My early months in Manhattan are one of them. How I even got to New York? Nobody knows that but me.

“Generous Betty and Jud,” I said. “Foster parents with big hearts.” Robin knew I was being sarcastic.

“And for Jud, at least, a big mouth,” she said, right on cue. “Plus a big appetite for the waitress at the Blue Heron diner.”

“His downfall.”

Jud Osburn was the final foster father in a long series for both of us. Near the end of our stay at the Osburn ranch in Cold Creek, Florida, he and the black-haired temptress who had faithfully served him ham and eggs on his trips into town had disappeared on the same day. Thoughtfully Jud had left a note for his wife.

Not coming back. Dont give a rats ass what you do with this hellhole you call a ranch or your wornout useless body. Don’t want a thing that blonges to you.

Jud had never been much of a speller.

Neither Robin nor I had been sorry to see him go. I was pretty sure Betty hadn’t been sorry, either. She sold the ranch and left Florida forever.

We were due to film at the ranch sometime after Christmas. Since Robin had lived there with me, returning was going to be tough for her, as well. I had asked to make the ranch our final stop, a chance to put memories firmly behind us at the end of this trip before we went back to our lives, and Mick had agreed.

Robin slipped behind the wheel, turned the key and immediately put the windows down. I have cars at most of my houses and use them when absolutely required, but nobody will ever vote me driver of the year. I learned how to brake and steer in the battered pickup Jud used exclusively on the ranch, followed by years in Manhattan when I didn’t drive even that much. Donny swears he’s going to hide my license because his livelihood depends on me staying in one piece.

I got in, too, tossing a jacket on the seat behind me, and we sat there a moment letting the car air out while she familiarized herself with the dashboard. Then she backed out, following the farm drive to the road and, once there, turning in the direction the innkeeper had told us to go.

“It’s lovely country,” Robin said.

“Coal country usually is—until the mining companies destroy it. And let’s not talk about mountaintop removal.”

“How close to Randolph Furnace do you want to get?”

“As close as I can without having a panic attack.”

Robin kept her voice casual, but I knew she was worried. “That’s something new, isn’t it? Panic attacks, I mean.”

I’m almost as good an actress as I am a singer, so I sounded casual, too. “I’ve probably been having them for years. Smaller ones, of course. I thought of them as nerves. Stage fright. Whatever I could call them to make them seem normal.”

“You’re one of the most courageous people I know. You always keep going, no matter what.”

“Not so much anymore.”

“What do you call this?” Robin glanced at me. “I don’t know anybody else who would decide to expose herself to the world as a way to drive out her demons.”

“Demons. Perfect. I like that better than nerves.”

“I’m serious.”

“It’s not courage. I just know I have to put things in perspective. My life now. My life then. My life tomorrow.”

“What part of your life now isn’t going to follow you into the future?”

“Trust you to go right to the heart of it.”

“Are you thinking about slowing down? Having a different life?”

“I’m thinking about a lot of things.” I let the subject rest.

Robin doesn’t push. If I don’t embroider, she knows I’m finished. Sometimes learning the fine art of conversation late in childhood is a plus.

“What about you?” I asked, after a few minutes of silence. “Just coming along with me is a huge change. Is this the start of something new? Or a temporary aberration?”

“I would never call you an aberration. Annoying, sure, but that’s as far as it goes.”

I also know better than to push. We talked about Mick and the crew. They had met before dinner to discuss what tomorrow would bring. Mick seems like a laid-back guy, but Robin said the meeting was under his tight control every minute. He briefed everyone on the logistics of our location and concerns to watch out for, including a neighbor at the home where my grandparents had lived, who had flatly refused to allow any shots of his home or yard. I zoned out when she recounted information on storyboards, equipment and shot lists. Thankfully she covered most of that quickly.

In addition to Jerry, the DP who had been with us on the plane, a gaffer and sound technician had joined us at the inn. While Mick was both producer and director, a line producer whose job was day-to-day production would join us early tomorrow morning. She was still finalizing details.

Documentaries are often shot with skeletal crews because finding enough money for salaries and expenses is problematic. Since this one had enviable funding, including a grant from a foundation dedicated to improving the future of dependent children, we had our own executive producer in New York. He might visit us at some point, but his job was the business side of making this film, securing more funding and publicity, but not the creation. That was all Mick.

We drove for ten minutes before Robin slowed. “City limits.” She nodded to a sign on the right and slowed so we could read it. We could have parked in the middle of the road; we were the only car in sight. Off to the left was what looked like a man-made mountain, maybe of coal that had never been shipped, with what looked like trees and shrubs springing out of it. It seemed familiar.

Randolph Furnace. I licked my lips. If the sign had been here when I was living with my grandparents, I’d been too young to read it. “‘Population 803.’ The place is booming. Quick, let’s buy property before it skyrockets.”

“I guess it was a different town back in the day, when the mine was open.”

“The mine closed a year or two after my mother swept me back into her hopeless little life. She hated everything about this town, although at that time she probably could have found a job. She had bigger aspirations, though. Places to see, things to do.”

Through the years I’ve learned to tell that story without bitterness in my voice, but Robin knew me well enough to hear the undertone.

“It’s really a pretty area, CeCe. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater isn’t far away.”

“I don’t think Frank was building coal patch houses. You’ll see the one I lived in tomorrow. Most of them started life as duplexes sharing a porch. I think my grandparents’ kitchen was in the back with the living room in the front. I do remember a big coal heater that stuck out into the room. At least heat must have been cheap. Coal was probably free, and I remember holes in the floor upstairs so when the heat rose, the bedrooms were warm. The holes were covered with grates, and I was told over and over again not to step on them.”

“Do you want to drive by?”

I didn’t know. I didn’t want to spoil tomorrow for Mick. I had made it this far, and that was probably good enough to get me back tomorrow. There was just one other thing I wanted to do.

“Let’s get a drink. There has to be a bar, right?” I asked the question like I didn’t know the answer right in the center of my gut. “Eight hundred people means bars and churches. Maybe next door to each other.”

“You’ll be recognized.”

“Way ahead of you.” From my handbag I pulled out a cap with a Pittsburgh Pirates logo. I rummaged and found oversize aviator glasses with pink-tinted lenses while I explained.

“Wendy got me the hat when she went out to score dinner. Local color. Do you know experts in eyewitness identification claim that eye color and the way the eyes are set are what people remember, plus hair color and style? Head and face shape matter, too. A baseball cap and sunglasses cover just about all those factors, which is why you see us celebrity types wearing them so frequently.” I could sense she wasn’t sure. “Robin, it’s dark, right? It’s a bar. It will be dark in there, too, and nobody is expecting me to be in town.”

“Pink-tinted lenses? You think that’s a trend in Randolph Furnace? Designer glasses aren’t going to set you apart just a little?”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You don’t drink.”

“Not true. I drink on special occasions.”

“A case could be made for every day of this trip being special in some way.”

“Addiction was my mother’s thing, not mine.”

“How do we find this bar?”

I scanned both sides of the intersection. “This has to be the main street, or else Main Street intersects with this road. We’ll cruise and look for a busy parking lot. I’m thinking there’s not much else to do here at night except drink.”

We went in search. I wondered if Robin was in a hurry to get back to the inn so she could call Kris, but when I asked, she said no, the telephone worked in both directions.

I didn’t look too closely at the town, which didn’t seem to have much going for it, although I did note a park and a steepled church. We found a bar, the Evergreen, at the end of what was probably the main drag. So many years had passed, but my stomach tightened as Robin pulled into a small lot inhabited for the most part by pickups and cars manufactured in the US, and turned off the engine.

I wanted to tell her to turn around and head back to the inn, but this trip was about facing ghosts. And I supposed I could start right here.

Robin, who still didn’t look comfortable with our new plan, got out, and after donning my hat and glasses, I followed.

The inside was basic, to say the least. The bar counter was faced with varnished plywood, and I wondered if the owner had gotten tired of customers kicking in more expensive woods like oak or cherry. Plywood could be quickly and cheaply replaced, and the countertop of dark laminate was also a quick fix. Plain stools with backs faced it, and half or more were occupied. An old television with a picture that faded in and out was fastened on the wall high over the bartender’s head. In addition to the usual shelves of liquor, there were two refrigerator cases, one stocked with soft drinks and mixers, the other with snacks. The requisite flag completed the decor.

Robin was still worried about hiding me. “You find a corner. I’ll get the drinks. What do you want?”

I really didn’t want anything except to see if I was okay in this place. But I told her to get a whiskey on the rocks because I knew they would have it. This wasn’t a white wine joint.

I found a seat in the corner where I could see most of the room. Madonna’s “Like A Prayer” was playing over loudspeakers. I wondered if anyone had updated the playlist here since the ’90s or if we were listening to AM radio.

I got a few glances, but nobody seemed particularly interested in making contact. We weren’t the only women, and the men who weren’t accompanied were riveted to their stools, conversing loudly with their neighbors. Recognition is 90 percent expectation, and nobody here was expecting me.

Robin returned with two identical drinks and sat catty-corner so she could look out on the room, too. “I can’t imagine why you wanted to do this.”

The song changed and we both fell silent. “No Man’s Good Enough for Me,” my first entry on Billboard’s Hot 100 list was halfway through before Robin spoke again.

“Does this feel even stranger now?”

I took a sip of my whiskey. It was surprisingly mellow with a nice kick. I put the glass down because I never drink if I’m enjoying it. That decision has kept me sober even though my genes are swimming in their polluted little pool clamoring for me to get hooked on something.

“The thing is it’s probably not the first time I’ve sung here.”

“I’m sure they play your music a lot, especially if anybody’s figured out you were born here.”

“No. I mean I think I’ve sung here in person.”

Robin sipped her drink, and when I didn’t go on, she prompted me. “I’m assuming the Evergreen wasn’t on one of your recent tours?”

“Didn’t I ever tell you about Maribeth’s favorite trick? Other than prostituting herself, I mean? Drugs were her addiction of choice, but drinking wasn’t far behind. When she didn’t have money for anything else, she’d drag me into places like this one, and she’d get me to sing. People would give me tips, and then she’d have money for beer. As a reward she bought me potato chips and Coke for dinner.”

Robin was visibly affected. “I think you skipped that story.”

There are plenty of stories I’ve skipped, and Robin has her own. There’s nothing to be gained by recounting every rotten detail of our pasts.

“I guess I just didn’t think it was that interesting. The cops were called a few times because kids aren’t supposed to be in bars. Bartenders routinely tossed us out, but sometimes they didn’t.”

“So you did the dog and pony show here?”

“Maribeth came to get me after I’d been with my grandparents for a year. They tried to persuade her to stay, get a job, raise me where they could keep an eye on things. I remember hearing a fight about it. I was praying she would listen. They were my father’s parents, not hers, so they didn’t have a lot of clout, but she did hang around awhile before we left. She’d found herself a boyfriend, I think, one of a long string to follow, and she was sure he was going to be my next daddy. I think the two of them brought me here one night and I started to sing along with the music. Maribeth always had the radio on, and even then I knew a lot of songs. She told me to sing louder. That was the first time I sang in public.” The rest of that night was a blank. Blanks are my friends.

“Is that why you wanted to come here?”

“I wanted to see if I’d recognize the place. I don’t, not really. I’m sure pretty much everything has changed. But it seems like the right bar, if that makes any sense.”