Little Sister (31 page)

Francie’s estimate of a half hour drive proved accurate, and Beth felt her customary impatience with rural distances and inconveniences by the time she arrived. At first glance DiAngelo’s monuments looked almost like a roadside souvenir stand. The front walk to the office was flanked on either side by crowds of stones and statues.

There were angels and virgins, urns on pedestals, granite scrolls carved in stone, animals, birds, and even a horse’s head among the gravestones. The clutter of gray effigies was almost cheery in appearance. Beth walked up to the door, pushed it open, and walked in.

Loud, jerky-rhythmed music that sounded as if it had been written by a computer blasted out of a portable radio on the lone desk in the room. Behind the desk, a T-shirted fellow of about fifteen contemplated a submarine sandwich, which was spread out before him on waxed paper, dripping grease. He looked up and gave Beth a wan grin when she came in.

“Do you work here?” Beth asked.

The boy turned the radio down and said, “What?”

“Do you work here?”

The boy looked around the room as if he were unsure of the answer and then shook his head. “Not really. I’m just filling in for my grandfather. He’s out putting a stone in.”

“I see,” said Beth.

“He should be right back, though.”

“What’s right back?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know. Ten, fifteen minutes. Why don’t you wait?”

Beth looked at her watch in annoyance. Half an hour to get here, and there’s no one to take care of you, she thought. She sighed.

“Here,” said the boy cheerily, “have a seat. You can look this over while you’re waiting.” The boy handed her a buff-colored folder. “A Permanent Memento of Love” was the title emblazoned in gold lettering on its front. There was a grease stain on the corner, an apparent runoff from the hero sandwich.

“Thanks,” said Beth in a flat tone. She took a seat and looked around. The office was decorated like a living room from a mail-order catalog. Everything from rugs and drapes to furniture coverings had a synthetic, highly flammable look to it. The walls of the office were adorned with calendars, topped with color photos of headstones, most of them profusely banked by flowers. Despite the flowers, the photos had, at best, a static appearance.

The boy at the desk gave her another smile. “Do you mind?” he asked, pointing to the sandwich. Beth shook her head and opened the folder she was holding. The boy turned up his radio again and dived into the sandwich. Beth began to read the long, wordy explanation, abundant with euphemisms, of the importance of picking the right memorial.

What am I doing here? she thought, throwing the folder down on an end table beside her. Fm the last person who should be picking a memorial for him. An enduring memento of resentment. I don’t know why I agreed to do this. She sighed again and looked out the window. DiAngelo’s statues stood like sentries in the icy rain. You’re doing it for Francie, she reminded herself. You promised.

The tune on the radio ended, and the half-hourly newscast began. “Our top story today,” intoned the announcer, “is the brutal slaying of an area dentist and his wife in an apparent robbery-homicide this morning.”

“Did your grandfather say what time he’d be getting back?” Beth asked above the voice of the announcer.

The boy wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and swallowed. “I don’t know exactly. He left about half an hour ago. It’s not too far from here where he’s going.”

FRANCIE HELD HER UMBRELLA UP HIGH
and tried to angle it in such a way that the spill-off would not land on Andrew’s back. She did not really want to get too close to him because of the strange odor that was coming off him, even outside in the windy cold.

“It’s a terrible day,” she said. “I’m sure more people would have come except for the weather.”

Andrew nodded and looked around the cemetery with an indifferent expression on his face.

It was practically empty except for the two of them. Francie felt embarrassed and hurt for him that the turnout had been so scant. Besides herself and Noah, there had only been three other people. One of them was a lady from Harrison who said she was a patient from Dr. Ridberg’s. And then there was an old couple from the church who went to all the funerals as their macabre form of entertainment. At least Andrew had not seemed to notice. He had shifted from one foot to the other as if he had had to go to the bathroom and had kept his eyes on Francie, seemingly oblivious of Uncle James’s simple elegy. When it was over, he had all but elbowed the old pastor out of the way, explaining to him that he had to talk to Francie and assuring him that he would bring her safely home, despite Francie’s nervous protests.

Now he stood gazing happily down at her. “I got a car for us,” he said.

“Oh, good,” said Francie in a flat tone.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s over there.”

Francie looked over to where he was pointing and saw the ancient green Pontiac parked in the dirt roadway of the graveyard. “That’s great that you got a car,” she said. “I know you needed one.”

“She’s gonna be good to us,” Andrew said proudly. He started picking his way along the paths between the graves toward the car.

“I wish I could hang out with you,” Francie said, following behind him, “but I’ve got so much to do.”

Andrew did not answer. He had already reached the car and was unlocking the front door. Francie walked up beside him and turned around, looking back at the field of gravestones. “It’s unbelievable,” she said. “To think we were here last week for my father. And now your mother. We must have a jinx on us.”

Andrew grabbed her by the sleeve of her jacket. “Hurry up. Get in.”

“Don’t. You’ll tear it.”

“How long are you gonna stand around here?” he demanded.

“Sorry to keep you,” Francie muttered as she climbed into the front seat. Andrew went around to his side, slid in, and tried to start the engine. He cursed as it refused to turn over.

Francie pressed her face to the window and looked at the graves. Bare trees stooped by the weather stretched empty branches out like supplicating arms. She felt guilty leaving her father’s grave here, knowing that she might never be able to visit it or even to see the headstone. She felt as if she were abandoning him to endless loneliness and silence.

“There,” Andrew said exultantly as the engine started its raggedy hum. “Let’s get out of this creepy cow pasture.”

Francie sighed and looked over at Andrew. “You know, you don’t seem very sad, considering this was your mother’s funeral.”

Andrew smiled, and his eyes glittered as he turned out of the cemetery gates and onto the road. “I’m not sad. I’m happy. This is the happiest day of my life.”

“That’s terrible,” said Francie. “What a terrible thing to say.”

“AD right,” he said. “I’m sad. I’m crying. Boo-hoo.”

Francie shook her head. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”

“Babe, how can I be sad when we’re on our way?”

Francie made a face. “I said, ‘Never mind.’ Just drop me at my corner, will you?”

“No, no,” he said. “We’re going for a ride.” As if to emphasize his words, he whizzed past the turn for Francie’s street and headed toward the back roads out of town.

Francie sat up and looked indignantly at him. “Stop it, Andrew. I haven’t got time to go for a ride. I have to get back.”

“Babe, we’ve got all the time in the world. This is it. We’re taking off.”

“What?”

“Right now,” he said. “Bye-bye, you dirtbag town.”

“Taking off where? I’m not taking off anywhere.”

“Look in back,” he said pleasantly.

Francie scrambled up and looked over the seat. There was a packed duffel bag wedged in the well behind the seat. Francie stared at it for a minute, pushing her glasses back up on her nose. Her heart thudded in her chest. She looked over at him with wide eyes.

Andrew met her gaze with a leering smile. “California, here we come,” he said.

“This is stupid,” she said uncertainly. “Take me back right now.”

“All right,” he said. “I know it’s a surprise. But I had to do it this way. It’s the only way we could get away without your sister screaming. So I decided we would do it today. It was what we planned anyway. Right, babe?”

“Andrew, I told you in the letter I changed my mind about all that.”

“Oh, the letter. I knew she made you write that. She’s been plotting against us from the very beginning. She tried every trick there was to keep us from being together, but luckily I didn’t buy it. What if I had believed her?” Andrew slowed the car as they approached the junction of a two-lane highway going south. He put his turn signal on and peered up the rainy intersection.

“I’m not going away with you,” said Francie. She reached for the door handle and jerked it up. “I’m getting out.”

“Don’t open that door,” he said, “or I’ll wring your neck.”

Francie’s hand froze on the handle. She turned and stared at him, a sickening sensation in her stomach.

Andrew flashed her a false, skeletal grin and stepped on the gas. The car lurched out onto the main road. There was silence in the car for a few minutes, and then Andrew’s voice assumed a light, cheery tone. “I know it’s late in the day to get started, but I figure we can cover a few states before we stop for the night.”

Francie did not say anything. She stared out the window, gripping the door handle with bloodless fingers, as the familiar landscape shot past them. At first it was all she could do to breathe, so constricted did her chest feel. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be having a

heart attack. She thought, in that instant, of her father and then was overwhelmed by a sense of weakness in all her limbs.

“See, I figured she’d be keeping watch on you,” said Andrew, leaning back against the seat as if he were relaxed, although his neck and arms were stiff and taut. “That’s how I thought of the thing about the funeral. I figured if you could get up there, that would be our chance to get away. It was perfect.” He gave a harsh, angry laugh. “Now, once we get far enough away, we can be married. They’ll never find us. We can use false names. It’s just like we planned. Right, babe?” His cold eyes turned on her, demanding a reply. “Right?” he repeated.