The Night Sister

“Yeah, you should see my little sis,” sang Chubby Checker, and then, as if on cue (wasn’t everything Sylvie did carefully choreographed to look perfect somehow?), Sylvie danced over and took Rose’s hand. Everyone was watching, waiting to see. Would the awkward, ugly sister who couldn’t dance join the radiant one? Or would she shake her head, pout, and refuse to budge, like a grotesque plaid ladybug? That was what people expected.

I’ll surprise them all, Rose thought, smiling widely, setting her soda down, and moving out into the middle of the room with her sister. Rose didn’t follow Sylvie’s movements the way everyone else did (or tried to); instead, she invented her own, faster and more frantic, a version that involved flinging her hair back and forth and swinging her whole body. It felt good to move like this. Like she didn’t give a damn. Like she was the girl who was full of surprises. Everything was a blur of light and color: the balloons Scotch-taped to the ceiling, the pink and white streamers, even the three girls who were tittering as they danced in a loose circle with Uncle Fenton. Her parents seemed to move in slow motion, their eyes on her for once; and Sylvie, who was fluttering in her green dress, looked less like a girl and more like the luna moth Rose had found once out in the tower.

“Rose, dear,” Mama said, stepping forward and placing her hand on Rose’s arm, “I’m afraid you’re going to hurt yourself.”

And the room erupted with laughter. Rose stopped dancing; when she pushed the hair away from her eyes, she saw that everyone was watching her and laughing.

Damn them all to hell and back again, she thought.

“That was some dancing, sis,” Sylvie said, laughing, covering her mouth with her hand.

And damn you most of all, Rose thought, backing away, to her corner and her warm bottle of soda.

Sylvie went over to choose another record—Elvis this time, “Stuck on You.” She asked Fenton if he’d dance with her, and the two of them moved into the center of the room, both glancing Rose’s way. Sylvie said something to him, and he doubled over laughing; when he stood back up, his face and ears were bright red. He collapsed on the couch, still chuckling, watching Sylvie and her friends dance.

Rose went to the window and looked down the driveway at the motel sign. They hardly ever had guests nowadays. Not since the highway came through last year, ruining everything. The truck drivers took the interstate now, as did the families on vacation, the tourists coming in droves. They’d even lost many of their regulars: Bill Novak, who’d come from Maine with a truck full of lobsters and fish; Joseph the shoe salesman; the families who had come each summer, eager to see the circus and look at the tower again.

It wasn’t that Daddy didn’t try. He sent out more flyers, paid for advertisements in every newspaper and magazine he could find. He even tried to put a motel sign along the highway, at the London exit, but the highway department tore it down. No matter what he did, the cars buzzed by.

Rose was no idiot. She knew that they were going broke. That they’d long ago eaten through whatever meager savings they’d had. Mama had taken on seamstress work, and Sylvie was always looking for more hours at Woolworth’s and the insurance agency.

Fenton now worked at a garage in town, repairing cars and driving the tow truck. And Daddy dreamed up new schemes, new ways to bring people back. But nothing he tried worked. No one came to see the chicken circus, the Tower of London, or Lucy the state cow. And Lucy wasn’t doing well—she’d been losing weight, sleeping all the time. This morning, Rose couldn’t even coax her to eat her breakfast.

Earlier today, Mama had been at work on the latest edition of The London Town Crier. It would be a thin issue, and the big news was the closing of Libby’s Market; people would now have to drive all the way into Barre to buy groceries. Mama tried to balance the bad news with one of her best recipes—this one for lemon-chiffon pie, which promised to be as light as a cloud.

The dancing was over now, and they all milled around the snacks.

“Presents,” ordered Daddy, thrusting a small, rectangular wrapped gift into Sylvie’s hand. Sylvie removed the bow and tugged gently at the shiny blue paper. It was a pen-and-pencil set in its own velvet-lined case.