Little Sister by Patricia MacDonald Page A

embarrassed her. She was sure he did.
    “Come on in,” Francie whined. “It’s cold out here.”
    “Go get your shoes,” he said. “We’re going for a walk.”
    “But it’s raining,” Francie protested. Then she looked at Beth and back to Andrew. “Well, yeah, I guess so.”
    “Are you aware,” Beth said in a disapproving tone, “that there has been a death in this family? Do you really think this is the time to be out strolling around town?”
    “We aren’t strolling around,” said Francie in a shrill voice. “We’re just going out for a walk.”
    “Well, pardon me for saying so,” Beth said, clenching her fists, “but it seems a little tacky to me. People generally show a little restraint, you know. A little respect for the dead.”
    Francie turned on Beth indignantly. “We aren’t doing anything wrong.”
    “Never mind, babe,” said Andrew. “Your sister’s the boss. If she says it’s not cool—”
    “Who cares what she says?” said Francie.
    “No, no. I probably shouldn’t have come over. Look, I’ll see you tomorrow anyway. It’s no big deal,” said Andrew, backing away with his hands raised. “You do what your big sister says.”
    Beth looked down at Andrew as if to acknowledge his good sense and thought she saw his eyes piercing her with a look of rage so intense it made his face muscles twitch. But it was gone in a thrice, like a lightning bolt that flashes so quickly that you cannot say for sure if it was really there.
    “Good night now,” he said, smiling politely.
    Beth looked uneasily into the bland, guileless face. “Good night,” she said, but her voice sounded shaky. She pulled her sweater tightly around her, as if to protect herself from his vicious glance, even though it was nowhere in evidence.
    Francie watched him go with a stricken look and then turned and ran into the house.
    Leaving the screen door to flap, Beth slammed the front door behind her and locked it. She pulled her dress off the banister and went into the kitchen. She tossed the dress on the rocker and leaned back against the sink, pressing her fingers to her eyelids as if she could wipe away the image of Andrew’s menacing gaze. Oh, stop imagining things, she thought. You’re so tired, you’re exaggerating this.
    She turned and began to rummage through the cabinets until she found a box of stale saltines. She reached into the box and numbly began to transfer the crackers to her mouth, shaking her head and staring vacantly out into the kitchen. She felt her face redden as she relived the encounter.
    It was embarrassing to admit to herself that she had tried to belittle Andrew in front of Francie, wanting to pay him back because she had felt humiliated by the boy. But in a way it was a relief to acknowledge it.
    She glanced over at her dress heaped on the chair and decided to hunt up the iron. With a sigh she put the saltine box on the counter and then crouched down and scanned the collection of odds and ends under the sink until she located the iron. Then Beth went to the broom closet, pulled out the ironing board, and set it up. She plugged in the iron and stood waiting for it to heat.
    If she wants to wear an old ragged dress to the funeral and run around all night with her boyfriend, what difference does it make to you? Beth thought. She’s the one who’s got to stay here, not you. And she obviously feels that she’s got nothing to prove.
    Let her be. Let her do what she wants. She’s gotten along without your interference all these years. She and your father. They did just fine without you. So butt out.
    The iron did not hiss, and Beth felt sure it must be broken. She reached down to touch it, and the hot metal burned her finger instantly. She squeezed her hand into a fist and held it to her chest, resisting the pain.
    She walked over to the sink and turned on the cold water with her other hand. Then she stuck her finger under the stream and held it there, staring out the window into the