All for a Sister (15 page)

Luckily, neither man sought to bring the familiar rancor to the crowded sidewalk. Instead, they merged themselves into the neat, single-file line at the box office window, where Daddy handed money through the oval cut into the glass to pay for their tickets.

Inside, the warm lobby smelled of salted peanuts being dispensed from a roaster one small, white bag at a time. This was hardly Celeste’s first time to visit, but still the opulence of the interior struck every young, romantic chord within her. Rich red carpet, stripes of black velvet on the walls, and plush, round sofas with potted palms seeming to grow right out of their centers. Daddy led the family through it with authoritative familiarity, eager, as always, to secure what he said were the only seats worth having in any movie house, anywhere—five rows from the floor, smack in the middle. Having taught the formula to Celeste, he set her free to run ahead and twist her way through the crowd to claim their seats.

She relished the freedom, zigging and zagging, dodging elbows and nimbly stepping over feet. Still, she was far from invisible, as at least three people from the time she left her father’s side to the time she found their seats commented on her beauty upon her passing by. She’d trained her ear to the compliments. The sharp intake of breath, the whispered
“Oh, my!
What a lovely little girl,”
the cooing and clucking over the richness of her curls or the perfection of her features. When she was with one or the other of her parents, strangers would stop them on the street and declare aloud that she was the most beautiful child they’d ever seen. She liked it best when she was with Daddy because he would beam right along beside her in agreement. Mother, though, would ask the stranger kindly not to fill Celeste’s head with such nonsense, lest it grow too big for her own good.

Celeste, however, was so keenly aware of her beauty as to
take it as a fact of being. She didn’t have any singular feature shared with either parent. Her father had brown hair, and so did she—almost—with traces of gold, prompting Graciela to declare it
caramelo
. She and her mother had blue eyes, but Mother’s turned down at the corners and were prone to a pale, grayish hue, while Celeste’s had been described as looking like circles from a summer sky. But that was when she was a baby. Lately, they’d been settling into something more like a mossy green.

She’d once asked Graciela what her mother looked like, and she’d said,
“Oscuro. Como yo.”
Dark, like her. Celeste had thought how much easier it must be if everybody in a family looked just alike. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Brown skin. She and Mother and Daddy and Calvin all looked like they’d been assembled from leftover dollhouse families, Calvin with his jet-black hair and Mother’s tendency to being fat. And so, when strangers on the street would declare her beautiful, or when photographers on the beach would ask Mother’s permission to take her picture, or even when she caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and spent a minute or so in admiration, she knew it to be a gift that had been singularly bestowed upon her; therefore, humility seemed an inappropriate response.

She walked up the aisle, counting the rows to herself until she reached five, then used her experience to gauge the center. Satisfied she’d picked what would be pleasing to her father, she sat down and began listlessly kicking the seat in front of her, continuing until what had merely been the top of a hat rose up, turned around, and became a face twisted with irritation.

“Hey, kid. Do you mind?”

“Sorry.”

She pulled her feet close and pouted, making her eyes as round as she could.

Immediately the man’s expression softened. “Say, you’re pretty enough to be Alice in this picture. Are you in the movies?”

“Not yet.” It was the answer she always gave, followed by, “But my father is in the business, so it’s only a matter of time.”

If they were ever in the company of somebody who was already “in the business,” she knew to say something like
“But my father is working on a colorizing process that will make it so everybody can appreciate the color of my eyes.”
Then she’d stare wide and blink so that they couldn’t look away. If the inquiry came from one of his university colleagues, she said,
“No, but I hope he makes a breakthrough soon so that he can bring chemistry and art together and make a colorized film of me!”
That one had been more difficult to memorize, mostly because her father had given her so many different versions of the response before landing on something satisfactory.

If she were in the company of her mother and asked the same question, she simply said,
“No.”

“Your father’s in the business, eh?” The stranger looked amused. “What’s he do?”

Before Celeste could reply, Mother was crossing in front of her, blocking the view of the man, lingering long enough that, by the time she sat down, he’d turned back and was nothing more than the top of a hat again.

Mother leaned close and hissed in her ear, “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”

“I’m sorry.” Celeste knew better than to try the wide-eyed routine on Mother.

Daddy took the seat on the other side of her, and Calvin next to Daddy, where he immediately took a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it with a match struck against the bottom of his shoe.

Mother leaned forward. “Really, Calvin. Must you?”

He shook the match to a glowing ember. “If I gotta sit through this mess, I mean to enjoy it.”

A small group of musicians dressed in tuxedos that had seen far better days assembled in the small pit in front of the screen. They set their scores on the music stands and struck a single, strong note. Immediately the conversation in the theater fell to a hush, then to silence as the heavy red velvet curtain opened, revealing the silvery screen behind it.

Celeste scrunched her face, holding her breath and closing her eyes just long enough to say the quickest prayer to God that she might be on a screen someday, and then opened her eyes to see the opening credits fade away into a scene of a small kitchen, a woman baking tarts, and a young girl walking through the door.

That could be me.

As if reading her mind, Daddy leaned over and whispered, “You’re a hundred times prettier than that little girl.”

Celeste beamed in agreement. The Alice on the screen was tall and gangly, her hair not curly at all. But soon she forgot all about any sort of comparison, getting lost in the fantasy unfolding on the screen, clutching at her father’s arm in fear of the evil Queen of Hearts. When it was over, and the theater filled with light to allow a safe exit, she began an immediate recap, extolling the wonders scene by scene. The way Alice’s shadow walked away from her body, almost invisible, into dreamland?

“How did they do that, Daddy?” But before he could answer, she’d moved on to how the rabbit’s eyes blinked and his nose twitched, the silliness of the Dodo bird, the terrifying Gryphon, and the Walrus, and the Mock-Turtle, and—

“They’re all nothing but some two-bit actor in a costume,”
Calvin said. By now they’d reached the street outside the theater, where Daddy beckoned for a taxi to take them home.

“Must you be so unpleasant?” Mother sounded weary and distracted.

“Off with your head!” Celeste hoped to lighten the mood but drew only a scowl from both Mother and Calvin, though several people milling around them chuckled their approval at her display.

Daddy ignored her, stretching his hand out and shouting, “Taxi! Taxi!” His efforts were rewarded by a honking horn as an automobile approached the curb. Upon arrival, it turned out to be a topless roadster packed with four young men, one of whom hung over the side, shouting, “DuFrane!” into the already-noisy street.

“Russel!” Calvin broke away from the family and rushed toward the car, up and over the door, and wedged into the backseat without its ever coming to a full stop. Mother called out to him, but he merely glanced over his shoulder and shouted a promise to be home sometime before dawn as the car wove itself into the pattern of automobiles on the street.

“I don’t like those boys,” Mother said to whoever might be listening. “I don’t trust them.”

“They’re just boys.” Having convinced a cab to take them home, Daddy held open the back door and they all three piled in—Celeste comfortable and warm in the middle—for the short ride home. “No different than I was at that age.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to take any comfort in that.” Mother’s voice was flat, without humor or flirtation.

“Take what you will, Marguerite. You always do.”

He gave their address to the driver, and the rest of the ride was silent, with Mother and Daddy each staring out their own windows while Celeste stared at the driver’s shoulder. Celeste closed her eyes and let the rumble of the engine lull her into a
half dream, where she imagined the transparent shadow of herself escaping this car—maybe slipping through that narrow opening at the top of the window—and into the city streets, mingling with the people and the noise and the lights. Anything but this stifling silence. She still had so many questions about the movie. How did they make the Cheshire Cat disappear? How could that old man accomplish all those acrobatics? Questions she knew her father could answer, and would do so with genuine, generous attention. But even as she inhaled, preparing to ask the first one, Mother patted her arm softly and said, “Please, darling. I’ve developed quite a nauseous stomach,” clapping and trapping them to death like the poor Mock-Turtle in his soup.

Rather than stopping at the curb, the cabbie took the car through the rounded driveway and dropped them all right at the front door, where soft yellow light shone through the arched windows. Celeste broke free from her mother and bounded up the steps, opening the door to see Graciela waiting, arms outstretched. Celeste wanted to run into them for warmth, and would have, had her mother not been on her heels crossing the threshold.

“How was the movie, Señora DuFrane?” Graciela’s arms became a rack across which Mother draped her coat. She took Celeste’s and did the same.

“Delightful,” Mother said. “Celeste, I’m sure, will talk your ear off about it as you’re getting her ready for bed. Then if you’ll please send up some warm milk to my room? I’m quite tired and retiring early.”

“Sí, señora.”

Daddy slipped in and gave Graciela an apologetic look along with his overcoat. His hand was warm from his glove, and he laid it alongside Celeste’s cheek. “We’ll talk about the movie a little more in the morning. Maybe Graciela will make pancakes.”

He walked off in the direction of his office. At Graciela’s prompting, Celeste followed her mother upstairs. Within just a few minutes, she’d washed her face and changed into her warmest flannel nightgown. With her feet tucked down in the sheets, she took her tattered copy of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
and let it fall open in her lap, merging the scenes from the film with the words from the story, speaking Alice’s dialogue aloud.

“I’m not quite myself, you see.” She held her arms dramatically akimbo, not the least self-conscious when Graciela came in. She was carrying a tray with two slices of buttered toast cut into triangles and a tall glass of milk. Celeste puffed herself up and assumed the character of the Queen of Hearts, demanding her tarts.

Graciela didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re nothing but a deck of cards.” They’d read the book together more than once.

Celeste tried to appear fearsome but soon collapsed into giggles. She scooted to the edge of her bed and nibbled on the toast as Graciela ran the hairbrush through her curls, slowly and steadily smoothing them against her wide palm. Between sips of milk, Celeste recounted the film in all its detail, wishing Graciela had been able to come with them and see it for herself.

“Maybe I will go.
Jueves. Semana próxima.
” She paused, giving Celeste an opportunity to translate.

“Thursday. Next week?”

She nodded, confirming. “My day off.”

“Can I go with you?” Often, they’d gone to a matinee together after a lunch at a little restaurant owned by Graciela’s cousin.

“
Veremos.
You have school.”

Celeste wrinkled her nose, even though the manipulative nature of the expression would be lost on Graciela, who sat behind her. “I’ll bet Viola Savoy doesn’t have to go to school.”

“Come on.” Graciela got up from the bed and nudged Celeste to do the same. “Let’s say prayers.”

Side by side, they knelt, elbows propped up on the soft mattress. Eyes closed, Celeste prayed thanks for her home and asked blessings on her family and Graciela. “And please, dear heavenly Father, bring Calvin safely home.” At this, she felt Graciela’s soft touch on her back. “And, Lord, before I die, let me be in a movie.”

Beside her, Graciela made the familiar sign of the cross, saying,
“En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo, amén.”

They said
amén
together, though long ago Graciela had discouraged Celeste from making the sign of the cross, saying it wasn’t a practice of her family’s church, though Celeste had argued that they only had a church at Christmastime.

Prayers said, Celeste snuggled under her covers, at ease with the darkness that settled around her, even as it was softened by a stream of light seeping through the door left open a tiny crack. Graciela kissed the top of her head, and her mother and father would likely come in to do the same later in the night.

Most nights, after all of this, she would succumb to sweet sleep, but tonight a restlessness took root, holding her captive and awake—waiting. Though the image of what she was waiting for remained as elusive as the mysterious Cheshire Cat. Immediately, she supposed, she was waiting for her mother or her father to kiss her good night, even though Mother had certainly gone to bed herself by now and Daddy was known to work in his office until the wee hours in the morning. Calvin’s abrupt departure had cast such a pall on the evening, perhaps she was waiting for him, too, hoping there might be some sort of restoration before they all went to sleep. Not that such a scenario was anywhere near likely. She couldn’t remember the last time her older brother had apologized
for anything, nor when either of her parents had compelled him to do any such thing.