FullReads

III THE SISTER

Can you remember, Eugene, how Grover used to look? I mean the birthmark, the black eyes, the olive skin. The birthmark always showed because of those open sailor blouses kids used to wear. But I guess you must have been too young when Grover died. . . . I was looking at that old photograph the other day. You know the one I mean—that picture showing mama and papa and all of us children before the house on Woodson Street. You weren’t there, Eugene. You didn’t get in. You hadn’t arrived when that was taken. . . . You remember how mad you used to get when we’d tell you that you were only a dishrag hanging out in Heaven when something happened?

You were the baby. That’s what you get for being the baby. You don’t get in the picture, do you? . . . I was looking at that old picture just the other day. There we were. And, my God, what is it all about? I mean, when you see the way we were—Daisy and Ben and Grover, Steve and all of us—and then how everyone either dies or grows up and goes away—and then—look at us now! Do you ever get to feeling funny? You know what I mean—do you ever get to feeling queer—when you try to figure these things out? You’ve been to college and you ought to know the answer—and I wish you’d tell me if you know.

My Lord, when I think sometimes of the way I used to be—the dreams I used to have. Playing the piano, practicing seven hours a day, thinking that some day I would be a great pianist. Taking singing lessons from Aunt Nell because I felt that some day I was going to have a great career in opera. . . . Can you beat it now? Can you imagine it? Me! In grand opera! . . . Now I want to ask you. I’d like to know.

My Lord! When I go uptown and walk down the street and see all these funny-looking little boys and girls hanging around the drug store—do you suppose any of them have ambitions the way we did? Do you suppose any of these funny-looking little girls are thinking about a big career in opera? . . . Didn’t you ever see that picture of us? I was looking at it just the other day. It was made before the old house down on Woodson Street, with papa standing there in his swallow-tail, and mama there beside him—and Grover, and Ben, and Steve, and Daisy, and myself, with our feet upon our bicycles. Luke, poor kid, was only four or five. He didn’t have a bicycle like us. But there he was. And there were all of us together.

Well, there I was, and my poor old skinny legs and long white dress, and two pigtails hanging down my back. And all the funny looking clothes we wore, with the doo-lolley business on them. . . . But I guess you can’t remember. You weren’t born.

But, well, we were a right nice-looking set of people, if I do say so. And there was “86” the way it used to be, with the front porch, the grape vines, and the flower beds before the house—and “Miss Eliza” standing there by papa, with a watch charm pinned upon her waist. . . . I shouldn’t laugh, but “Miss Eliza”—well, mama was a pretty woman then. Do you know what I mean? “Miss Eliza” was a right good-looking woman, and papa in his swallowtail was a good-looking man. Do you remember how he used to get dressed up on Sunday? And how grand we thought he was? And how he let me take his money out and count it? And how rich we all thought he was? And how wonderful that dinkey little shop on the Square looked to us? . . . Can you beat it, now? Why we thought that papa was the biggest man in town and—oh, you can’t tell me! You can’t tell me! He had his faults, but papa was a wonderful man. You know he was!