“Yes. He sent me another card and this packet of money.”
She handed me the money to admire. I turned it over a couple of times and gave it back. “What’s he doing in Pittsburgh?”
“I believe he’s doing very well.”
Then she stood up from the couch and brought a shoe box from the bureau and set it on my lap. “Open it,” she said.
“Now, Edith,” I said.
“It’s all right. There’s no secret between us, Sandy.”
So I opened it. Not that it was any surprise to me; I knew what I’d find inside—all those packets of unused, unspent dollar bills, all of them twenties, all still wrapped like a seven-year-old kid might wrap them in red bows. It was obvious which packets had been sent first, too. The bows tied around the earliest bills looked frayed and ragged, as if they had been handled too often in the long silence of evening, as if they had been fussed over—not for themselves, though, because I don’t think for a minute that the actual fact or worth of the money meant a piddling thing to her. I doubt that she even counted it. It wasn’t money she needed; she had all the farm profits. Instead, those damn bungled packets of green stuff seemed to represent something else to her, something more, and just because they had been tied, stamped, and mailed by Lyman’s hand. I suppose she thought they were proof of something.
“But why don’t you spend some of this?” I said. “Buy something. You could take a trip yourself. Get away for a while.”
“Oh, I will,” she said. “When he comes back.”
“But that might not happen, Edith.”
“Of course it will.” She looked at me like I was a little slower than usual. “Of course he’ll come back.”
“Okay,” I said. “He will then.”
She took the shoe box from me and put the lid on it. “There wouldn’t be any point if he doesn’t,” she said. “Would there?”
So it was then that I put my arm around her. I felt so damn sorry for her. It seemed to me she had lost so much of her life to waiting, and she was still waiting even now. And for what? For nothing, I thought. For a wandering bum, a damn mush-minded permanent escapee, her brother. So I pulled her close; she rested her head against my shoulder. She was thin and small. Under the cotton of her dress I could feel the points of her shoulders and the clean edges of her shoulder blades. Her hair had grown a little gray at the temples but it was still curly and still primarily dark, and her eyes were still clear brown, though behind them there was a kind of pained, distant look. The skin of her cheeks, with threading wrinkles beside her eyes, was smooth. So we sat together for a moment on the couch, and I ran my hand over her hair, cupping her head, and out of affectionate concern for her I kissed the top of her head, and then—smelling her hair—I began to kiss the side of her face, her smooth soft cheek, and then it was not just concern that I was feeling, and suddenly I was pressing against her mouth and she was not resisting or stopping me but allowing it to continue and maybe even returning some of it. I slipped my hand into the back of her dress and felt the silk there, the points of bone along her spine and her bra strap, and then it stopped. I stood up.
I walked over to the doorway and stood with my back to her. “I didn’t intend for this—”
“Sandy,” she said. “Look at me.”
I turned to face her. She was still seated on the couch with the shoe box of Lyman’s money beside her. Her dress was low on one shoulder.
“You didn’t mean any harm,” she said.
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I’d better go.”
“Yes, but only if you promise you’ll come back. We’ve been more than friends for a long time; I couldn’t stand it if that ended too.”
“I’ll stop by tomorrow. Or the next day.”