When Women Were Dragons(69)

“Okay,” I said. The baby’s scream increased in pitch, and the toddler opened up its throat into a siren-like wail. I decided to talk fast. “Normally, when unexpected expenses crop up, I let Dad know, and he puts a little extra money in the mail.”

“Oh. Does he now,” my stepmother said, her voice a quiet seethe. Something crashed in the background, but it didn’t seem to faze her. I heard her draw in a long, slow breath, like a flat hiss.

I kept my own voice light. “Yes,” I said. “Beatrice is wearing last year’s coat and boots—actually two winters’ ago—and they are absolutely too small. I’ll need to buy new ones. I’m wondering if Dad can send the extra money to help with that.”

Or maybe he can show up with it, I thought bitterly, in person. Like he promised.

“I’m not sure that will be possible,” my stepmother said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“You know,” she said, changing the subject. And then she paused, a sibilance marking the silence between us, like a breeze across a field of grain. “We have several boxes of your mother’s old things. Clothes and coats and shoes. I can’t wear any of them—she was no bigger than a child, after all. And her books too. So much . . .” Another pause. Another crackling, hissing sound. “Math.” I could hear her look of disgust. “Why don’t you come by this afternoon and pick them up?”

I held the phone to my ear for a moment or two. In that moment, I had completely forgotten about the money. “My mother’s . . . old . . . things,” I said, trying to make sense of it. “How many boxes?” I asked.

“Five or six. I’m assuming some of the boxes belong to you, as well. I haven’t looked that closely. And perhaps also to your . . .” Another pause. “Your little friend.”

“Beatrice,” I prompted. “My sister?”

“Sure,” she said.

So she knows too, I thought. Of course she does. I wonder who else?

My stepmother coughed. “I had attempted to bring the lot of it to the secondhand shop, but your father prevented this.” Another whirring hiss. Was it her breath? I imagined her nostrils flaring. “He said that he thought it should go to you when you are more fully on your own. And no longer a burden to . . . others.” Another hiss. I realized she was probably smoking a cigarette. My mother never smoked. My aunt did, but not all the time, and never in the house. She made the sound again, and I could hear the crackle in the center of it. The baby continued to cry. “Anyway, you need things, and it seems silly to buy things when we have things—for you—right here in the basement, and I need the room. So I’ll just plan on seeing you this afternoon.”

“Wait!” My mind raced. I thought about how long it would take to walk across town in the snow. And trudge back. I calculated a schedule and shook my head. How could I make any of this work? “But,” I said. “How can I get everything back over here? Do you have a car?”

Another long hissing sound. “No,” she said with a dull laugh. “Your father doesn’t let me drive. It’s unladylike, apparently. But your old sleds are in the basement as well. And we have rope. You’re a smart girl. Mechanically inclined, I hear. Your teachers call all the time and tell me about it, so I’m sure you can figure out something.”

I gasped. “They do?”

And she hung up.

I stood next to the phone for a long time, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up in alarm. My stepmother has been having conversations with my teachers. What did she even say to them?



Beatrice and I arrived a little after one. I had hoped my father would have returned by then. I’m not sure why. Maybe a part of me hoped that he would be a voice of reason, but why would I think such a thing? My father was not a reasonable man. We knocked on the door. Beatrice bounced on her toes.

“I remember this house!” she said.

“Do you?” I said absently. When I was a little girl and my mother disappeared, my aunt and my father simply didn’t mention it. They hoped I would forget. And I didn’t, obviously I didn’t . . . but, to be truthful, sometimes I did. I went entire days without thinking about my mother. It’s a fact that seems astonishing to me now—the older I get, the more I realize that I can’t get through an hour without thinking of her at least once.

The door opened and my stepmother stood in the entryway. I expected her to be dressed impeccably, the way my mother always was. But no. Even though it was the afternoon, she was still in her robe—it was made of a shiny fabric with embroidered flowers and tied tightly around her middle. Seeing her standing up for the first time, I could see that she was tall—even taller than Auntie Marla was—and far more voluptuous. Her hair—a chemical blond—was pinned in rollers and fastened with a sheer scarf. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and stared down at Beatrice and me the way an ancient god would peer down from her mountaintop at misbehaving acolytes. She was pretty, too, despite the look of contempt pressed into her face.

Beatrice, despite her earlier enthusiasm, was suddenly shy. She slipped behind me and hung on to my coat.

“Is my father in?” I asked. It suddenly didn’t feel safe for Beatrice and me to walk into the house with this hostile woman all by ourselves. I hesitated.

“No,” she said, turning her back to me and walking through the entryway. “Business trip.”