The Night Sister

“What’s happening?” Rose asked. “Is there a festival or something?”


“It’s a surprise,” Fenton reminded her. “It’s something big. Something your sister’s going to love.”

What about me? Rose wondered. Will I like it, too? Her teeth had started to ache from the cold, sweet milk shake. Her toes felt pinched, because she’d worn her good Sunday shoes. As exciting as it all was, she was getting tired and cold.

Sylvie, on the other hand, danced through the crowd, face flushed with excitement.

“Hey,” Fenton called to her, “you stick with your little sister, here. I don’t want anyone to get lost. Your parents would never let me take you out again.”

Reluctantly, Sylvie came back and took Rose’s hand, squeezing it a little too tightly before pulling Rose along like an uncooperative dog. Pest, her grip seemed to say.

Fenton had asked Mama if he could take Sylvie into Barre. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing,” he’d said. Mama agreed, but insisted they bring Rose along, too. Though Sylvie had protested, Mama was firm.

Now, up ahead, bright lights swept across Main Street and the sidewalk. All Rose could think of were the stories her father told of spotlights over Europe during the war, used to light up enemy aircraft.

“Are we at war?” Rose asked, suddenly frightened. Was that why everyone was out on the streets? Was there a squadron of German bombers on the way, ready to destroy Vermont? An atomic bomb could do that, Rose knew. Her daddy had told her about them, about what had happened when the United States bombed Japan, leaving a mushroom cloud where a city had been.

When a bomb like that hits, her daddy told her, there’s nothing left; people just turn to vapor. It sounded like something out of one of Fenton’s science-fiction books, not anything that could happen in real life. She tried to imagine it: a whole human being, flesh and blood and bones, turned to vapor, a puff of greasy smoke, something you could take into your lungs and hold there.

Without warning, Sylvie grabbed her sister’s jacket, jerking her back.

“What’s happening?” Rose asked, angry and frightened. She’d been pulled off balance, had nearly fallen on the wet sidewalk. The worst part was, Fenton hadn’t noticed and was now far ahead, lost in the thick crowd in front of the Paramount Theater.

Sylvie tugged Rose back out of the street, into a small, dark alley between two brick buildings. Was she right? Were they at war, and here was brave Sylvie, saving her young sister from disaster? Rose started to duck down, to cover her head with her arms, but Sylvie pulled her up.

“Look,” Sylvie said, turning Rose’s head so that she was facing across the street.

“What?” Rose asked.

“Don’t you see him?” Sylvie asked.

Rose stared a minute, scanning the crowd through the drizzling rain. On the other side, amid the jostling strangers, stood a familiar figure: their father in his long black coat, hat cocked on his head.

Friday night was his bowling night, and he’d left the house before they did, carrying his black bowling bag. But now here he was on Main Street in Barre, and Rose saw he wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him, holding his arm, leaning in to say something to him. She had red hair and wore a green coat with matching hat. Whatever she said made their father shake his head, then smile.

“Who is that?” Rose asked.

“Daddy.”

“Well, I know that!” Rose snapped. “But who is he with?”

Sylvie didn’t answer.

The woman their father was with leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

Rose blinked, and blinked again, more slowly, watching them go in, then out of focus as her eyelids closed.