The Sisters

The Sisters

Commencement,  June 1927 -- Juniper, Kentucky
 
 It was a lovely dress, soft and pink as a cloud at dawn.  Bertie admired the way the chiffon draped from her neck in long, light, curving folds, seeming to narrow her square shoulders, and it pleased her to imagine how the skirt would swish around her calves when she walked to the stage to get her eighth-grade diploma, but she was most fond of the two buttons, small silver roses, that fastened the sleeve bands just below each elbow.   Two months Mabel had worked for the dress, going into Kendall’s an hour early every day, fixing it with Mrs. Kendall so, come commencement week, Bertie could choose any one she wanted.  Bertie twirled before the mirror, then lifted her hair to see how it would look pinned up and, yes, suddenly she was taller, almost elegant.  She couldn’t remember feeling pretty before.  In this dress, she did, and it was wonderful.  She even felt a little sorry for Mabel.  Her sister had always been beautiful—slim and doll-like with big eyes and glistening bobbed hair, Juniper’s Clara Bow—so Mabel couldn’t appreciate the wonder of suddenly feeling transformed, caterpillar to butterfly.

 Bertie swooshed out her arms, letting her hair fall again down her back.   Stooping to pull open the bottom drawer of the dresser, she reached into the far back corner for Mabel’s photograph—the one made specially for the stereopticon, with two of the same view, printed side by side.  There was Mabel, sitting on a swing, a painted garden behind her—a pair of Mabels, as if she were her own twin—looking like an exquisite, unhappy bride in a lacy white dress, her dark hair, still long then, longer and fuller than Bertie’s had ever been, spilling round her shoulders. 

 Bertie slid her fingertips across her own hair—not heavy, but fine and smooth.  Very soft.  Sometimes, just before he kissed her cheek, Wallace stroked her hair like this.  He’d never told her if he thought it was pretty—but he must think so.  Why else would he have made her a Christmas present of the pale green ribbon she’d pointed out to him in the window at Kendall’s?
 
 She’d never worn it, not once.  It stung her suddenly to realize this must have hurt Wallace, made him think she didn’t appreciate him.  No one but the two of them knew about the gift—not even Mabel.  Bertie had brought it home and hidden it, taking it out to hold against her cheek only when she was alone in the house—too afraid of her stepfather’s angry questions, demanding to know how she had come by it.

 Well, she would wear it.  This Saturday, her graduation day.  She would wear Wallace’s ribbon and not care what anyone said.  Such a pretty green to go with her dress, pretty as the Spring-fresh stem of a rosebud.  She would wear it and Wallace would know that she loved him…
 
From THE SISTERS by Nancy Jensen, copyright © 2011 by the author, and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Press, LLC