The Sisters of Summit Avenue Read online

  “But you won’t. Richard is greedy. He’ll want all your time.”

  Yes, Richard was greedy. He exhausted her with his needy affection, as if he thought that though she did not love him as much as he loved her now, with a relentless bombardment of charm, he could tip the balance. At least his over-affection made the lack of hers less glaring. She was grateful for the cover.

  “He’s been so supportive.”

  “I suppose it’s my fault that he’s so greedy. At least that’s what Dr. Freud would have you believe. Dick doesn’t approve of my reading Freud, although I should be the disapproving one, as poor an opinion as Freud has of mothers. It’s always the mother’s fault, isn’t it? In my case, perhaps it is.”

  That could not be! What Ruth would have given for Linda Whiteleather to be her mother. “Richard is lucky to have you!”

  Mrs. Whiteleather offered June a slice of gingerbread, then picked up her cup.

  “I’m just stating the truth, dear. Maybe there’s something to be learned from it.” She took a sip, then sighed. “I probably should not admit this, but there was a fellow who consumed entirely too much of my thought when I was a young mother and Dr. Whiteleather was busy with starting his practice. The fellow was unsuitable for me, and I knew it, but the heart wants what the heart wants. I wasted a lot of time scheming how we might be together, pining for what I could not have, before I realized that I was throwing away any chance of happiness with what I did have.” She put her cup to her lips but didn’t drink. “Most of Richard’s early childhood had slipped through my fingers before I came to my senses. And so we have our Greedy Gus.” She sipped thoughtfully.

  Radiating guilt, June bit into her gingerbread. Did Mrs. Whiteleather know about her? Did she know about John? June didn’t know how that could be possible.

  Mrs. Whiteleather put down her cup and reached for the polished coffeepot. “Just don’t rush, dear. You don’t need to. You already have him, I promise.”

  June watched the coffee twirl from the silver spout as Linda poured. But she wanted to get married now, the sooner the better. The contest between her and her sister, if there ever was one, was over. The door that June had always kept open to John—whether she admitted it to herself or not—was now closed. Ruth was expecting a baby, due sometime in March.

  DOROTHY

  Everyone’s out there eating lunch. Look here, canned peaches for dessert.

  Now that got your attention. There are those nice brown eyes! Are you feeling any better yet? Did that shot help? Not yet?

  Well, you gather your strength. My story’s just about done.

  —A “Pocket Venus.” That’s what they used to call a tiny little beauty like Edward’s mother had been. Even with my stomach boiling as I sat in the Lambs’ foyer that day, I couldn’t help but like that little bride, so tiny and beautiful, smiling down at me from her life-size portrait. Beneath the sheer tent of her veil, she looked shy, even apologetic. I could not tell which. All I knew was that as a child, I admired her and that smile whenever I passed beneath them.

  Now the real-life Mrs. Lamb said, “Tell me about yourself, Dorothy.”

  I brought my sights from the painting down to the real Emmaline Lamb, her teeny-tiny figure now as padded as the chair upon which I sat. It was as if time had draped the little bride with a thick fleshy coating, turning the sweet girl into a cruel caricature of herself. I swallowed hard, my insides wringing themselves to shreds. When would she bring my baby out? It had been five months since I’d given her up.

  “I’ve taken up coloring photographs.” I wanted to show her that I had gumption. “Tinting, it’s called. You have to be very particular about staying in the lines.”

  “You have time for hobbies? Is there a husband on the scene?”

  A shockwave rippled through me. How could she think that? Was she testing my fidelity to Edward? Was this why she had gone these months without answering my letters, without responding to the packages of teething biscuits I’d baked or the bibs I’d so carefully quilted? Not even my parents would answer my postcards. They were trying me by fire.

  I’d only come to this realization that morning, while Mildred was out wrangling the cheapest price for yarn at the fabric store. I had been peeling potatoes when it dawned on me—Dorothy! What are you waiting for? What if they are wondering if you will fight for your baby, and for Edward, too? If you are waiting for an invitation, it’s never going to come. Go and get your baby!

  I had dropped my knife, run into Mildred’s room, burrowed through her underwear drawer, pulled a fistful of dollars out of a sock, whipped on my Sunday shirtwaist, grabbed my coat, then bounded all the way to the train station downtown on Baker Street, chilly weather be darned. I would prove to Mrs. Lamb that I’d do anything for my baby, that I was true to Edward, no matter what.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. No husband.”

  Mrs. Lamb smiled with tiny possum teeth—one of the few things that stay little on a person. “Have you found employment? I remember you were quite good at laundering. Not afraid not to spare the bleach.”

  I thought I heard a baby’s laughter. I jumped to my feet.

  “Sit down, Dorothy.”

  “Is that June?”

  “You must have heard the parrot in the parlor. Remember Socrates? That bird will outlive us all.”

  “Please, Mrs. Lamb, may I see her?”

  “Dorothy. Dear.” She fondled the cameo at her neck. “In light of the child’s condition—”

  Fire bells clanged in my brain. “Her condition?”

  Mrs. Lamb stroked the cameo. “You can’t say that you didn’t notice.”

  “Notice what?”

  “Her retardation.”

  My vision went red-black. The floor seemed to have opened up beneath me.

  “Severely so. Surely you noticed.”

  No. No. June was bright and bubbly. She had been doing all the things that six-month-olds should: reach for things, laugh, roll over, make cooing noises. She was smart for her age. Maa. She even said Maa. She was advanced. Wasn’t she?

  I thought of her difficult birth. I had tried so hard not to push. Had she been hurt and I was too inexperienced to know it? Bile scorched up to my throat.

  “It’s only to be expected in her kinship situation. Babies born of it can die, if they aren’t horribly damaged like your baby was. It’s a very good thing that there are laws against it, don’t you think?”

  I thought I had not pushed. I replayed the birth, every agonizing minute of it, to see where I’d gone wrong. Sparks were shooting behind my eyes. “Against what?”

  “I hate to acknowledge it, too. Believe me, I hate it more than anyone.”

  I was oozing terror. I could hardly hear her right.

  “Edward is your half-brother.”

  My ears slammed open.

  “What?”

  “All those years, I pretended that I didn’t know about my husband and your mother. I had no other choice. To expose them would only humiliate me. But then my own son, my own son—” Her voice was calmer when she resumed. “You can understand how much that hurt, can’t you, Dorothy?”

  It’s true: when in shock, your mind does break from your body. It splits free and looks down on the scene that is threatening it. As I perched on one of those foyer chairs that was too uncomfortable for human use, my inner self left my body. It drifted over to the magnificent maroon-carpeted stairway, with its flame-shaped frosted glass lamp upon the newel post, where it looked down idly upon the poor wretch gaping at the former Pocket Venus.

  The poor wretch forced out the words. “Does—Father—know? About me?”

  Mrs. Lamb pressed the diamond of her ring to her mouth as if to suck it. “Heaven knows.” She lowered her hand to her bosom. “He went along with it all those years. Maybe he just didn’t want to see. I didn’t, at first.”

  From the staircase, my inner self noted that over on her chair, the wretch was having a difficult time with speech. Drool pooled at the corners
of her mouth as she fought to shape the words. “She said Maa!”

  Mrs. Lamb lifted a brow.

  “Let me—see her. Please!”

  “Oh, dear. I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  Over her shoulder, her bridal-self gazed down apologetically as the current Mrs. Lamb made sure I was listening.

  “It was best to institutionalize her, dear.”

  I watched myself jerk.

  “There’s a wonderful facility just for children of her kind. It’s in Indiana, in Fort Wayne, to be exact. Maybe you’re familiar with it, having lived in that little burg—the State School for Feeble-Minded Children? I have a good friend on the board there, a very good friend, indeed. He has assured me that your child has a permanent place there, for the rest of her natural life.”

  As the wretch choked back her vomit, my inner self coolly realized: that wasn’t an apology, or shyness, or sweetness, on little Mrs. Lamb’s young face. It was spite.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Indiana-Michigan Line, 1934

  Richard was in his element at lunch, regaling the family with his story about the disturbed patient who had eaten an alarm clock and Richard had to remove it. When Richard had opened the man and revealed his stomach cavity, the alarm was going off.

  “True story!” Richard exclaimed. “I’m not kidding.”

  “Oh, darling.” June glanced at Nick, who quickly lowered his gaze. He’d been watching her since she’d sat down.

  “June, do your ad men at the flour company know other ad men?” Richard asked. “I could sell my testimonial to Westclox: Baby Ben was licked and yet it ticked.”

  “I don’t think anyone would be interested,” June said.

  Nick leaned toward her. “What work do you do now for Betty Crocker?”

  Over the scraping of thin spoons against thick bowls, the family, minus Mother, who was sitting with John, turned toward June. Richard, so quickly deposed, frowned before he took a bite.

  June wasn’t sure how friendly to be to a fellow who was taking advantage of John’s illness to dally with her sister. She wondered if he should even be there at the table. But she would rather not have a confrontation. Already the atmosphere was uncomfortable enough with everyone waiting for John’s response to the medicine and it being so strangely hot outside, tightening the screw on this already-strained meal.

  “Tell him what you do,” Ruth said.

  June smiled at her, peeved. “We’re putting together a publication called Let the Stars Show You How to Take a Trick a Day. I just completed a photo shoot that illustrates how to set a table for an elegant supper.”

  Ruth burst out laughing.

  The kids half-smiled at their mother, ready to get in on the joke if she’d explain it.

  “You do see the irony,” she said to June. She lifted her jelly-jar of milk. “To our elegant family!”

  June blew out a silent breath. Curb your annoyance. Ruth was under tremendous pressure. “This particular publication mainly focuses on menus. Of course, there are recipes, too.” And illustrated table settings, which she was in charge of, but she knew better than to elaborate on that now.

  “Menus?” Ruth scoffed. “Just how many ways are there to serve flour?”

  “You’d be surprised,” said Richard.

  June would not get defensive. “We’re providing a service. A lot of women are looking for ways to make interesting meals. It gives them a chance to use their creativity.”

  “By aping—” Ruth made her voice dramatic. “—‘the stars’?”

  The kids turned back to June as if at a tennis match.

  “Betty Crocker has helped a lot of women,” she said. “She gives them something to think about other than—”

  Ruth spread her hand to encompass the threadbare room. “This?”

  June stared at her sister. She was spoiling for a fight. She must be terribly frightened—of John recovering, or of John not recovering, which, June didn’t know. She found herself yearning to check on him. Was the medicine working?

  Irene piped up. “I wish you worked for Betty Crocker like Aunt June, Mommy.”

  “I can’t,” snapped Ruth. “I have to run this farm. Or would you rather move to town and lose all your cats?”

  June stared at her sister. Was that necessary?

  “Would we have a toilet?” asked Margaret.

  “Would we have lights?” said Ilene.

  Ruth wouldn’t look at June. “We would not have a house like Aunt June’s, so get that out of your head.”

  Richard lowered his fork. “Listen, how would you girls like to come stay at our house this summer?”

  June flashed him a look of warning. He was throwing gasoline on the fire.

  “You could watch home movies every night and swim in our pool. Did Aunt June tell you that we have a pool now?”

  “The answer’s no,” said Ruth.

  “You and John could come, too. Or you might like that time together here alone, once he makes a recovery.”

  “I said no.”

  “Mommy, please!”

  “You can’t have my kids, too,” she snapped at June.

  Just then Mother came bustling in, waving a spoon.

  “He’s up! John’s up! He’s talking a blue streak! Come quick!”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Indiana-Michigan line, 1934

  They had gathered around Dad’s coffin just like this, Ruth thought. Mother’s pale eyes had been glazed with the same bewilderment. The girls had been similarly shying back like stray cats. Richard had been considering the body with his typical medical detachment, a puffy-haired Dr. Tulp conducting an anatomy lesson for Rembrandt. Only now it was John who was laid out, on his back on his bed but alive, so much so that he was touching his nose at Richard’s command.

  “You should be up there,” Mother told Ruth, standing in the back of the room with June.

  Ruth eased forward a few steps. Richard reached back and grabbed her, then handed her next to John. The wife’s place. Regardless if she had betrayed him.

  “John?”

  He turned his face to her. “Hi.”

  His wide eyes, his flushed cheeks, made her gasp. Was he really back? Miracles like this did not happen to her.

  Behind her, June asked, “How long has it been now?”

  Ruth heard the silken swish of Richard’s shirtsleeve as he consulted his watch. “Seven minutes.”

  “Oh, he talked to me longer than that,” Mother said.

  “Why didn’t you come get us sooner?” Ruth cringed inside as he gazed up at her. Do you know about me and Nick?

  Richard stepped next to her, then cleared his throat into his fist. Give the patient’s wife some room. “It won’t take too much longer to finish examining him.”

  She moved aside.

  Richard flipped down his head mirror and leaned over John. Outside the hot room, the sky had darkened. Mother lit the lamp next to the bed and was turning down the wick when Richard stood up, then patted John on the shoulder. “Hello, friend. Looks like you’re back.”

  “Well.” John cleared his throat. “That was some nap.”

  Everyone laughed, even the kids, who’d been hanging back at the door. The laughter of relief.

  “You want to sit up?” Richard asked.

  From the foot of the bed, Mother warbled anxiously, “How do you feel?”

  “Good.” John looked around the room as Richard helped him sit up. Her pounding heart deafening her, Ruth followed his view of the children squeezing hands, of Mother covering her mouth, of June, the yellow shoulders of her suit bunched toward her ears with anxiety. He stayed with June for a long moment before dragging his gaze to Ruth. “Alive. Finally.”

  Richard thumped his stethoscope over John’s chest, then his back, listening. “Swing your legs around.” He helped John hang his legs over the bed.

  “Just a moment, big fellow, before you take off. I want to test your reflexes.” Richard took his rubber hammer to John’s knees. Each
leg swung out in turn. “Excellent. I believe you’re ready for a stroll.”

  Leaning on Richard, John trudged to the washstand, his bare feet scudding against the wood floor.

  Ruth could see her children’s openmouthed astonishment, her sister’s growing delight. What if this was just a flash in the pan? People could be getting their hopes up for nothing. How many times had she hoped and wished and prayed over the past eight years, only to be crushed. Counting on good things happening was a setup for pain.

  “He’s always walked,” she snapped. “He just hasn’t much. It has been too hard for him.” Trips across the floor usually resulted in his sinking into a chair, dozing.

  Richard guided John to Ruth, where he stood looking down on her.

  “But I’ve never felt this good.”

  She looked away first.

  Without Richard’s help, he crept over to a wooden chair, where he carefully lowered himself and then held out his arms. “Kids. I promise—I don’t bite.” He glanced at Ruth. “Do I?”

  * * *

  June held her breath as John trudged across the stifling bedroom. Once he made it to a wooden chair, he grabbed the back, then, his lanky body quaking, lowered himself until he could drop. He grinned as if proud of his achievement. “Kids. I promise—I don’t bite.” He looked to Ruth as he opened his arms to them. “Do I?”

  June saw her sister shrink into herself.

  Anger flared. Don’t show him how guilty you are, Ruth. You owe him that much.

  June hugged herself as she stepped forward, smiling. “Don’t trust him, children. I distinctly remember him taking a bite out of me, once, years ago. He’s got terribly sharp teeth.”

  John showed his teeth to his children. “What do you think?” To June he said, “I’m sorry, Miss Crocker. I thought you were one of your cookies.” He winked at one of the twins. “A sugar cookie.”

  The children giggled. Gap-toothed Ilene sidled toward his knee. “Daddy.” She paused, as if shy about using the term. “How’d you know Aunt June is Betty Crocker?”

  He shifted her on his knees. “Your grandmother told me. She likes to chat when she brings me lunch.”