The Same Sky(51)

“I wish she’d get the test,” I said. “The test for the gene that …” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t say the word: cancer.

“Got a new boy in the stockroom,” said my father. “Bill Fernandez’s boy.”

“Oh,” I said. “How’s he doing?”

“Fine,” Dad said with a shrug. He turned on the radio, found a country-western station. We drove the forty-five minutes to Ouray without a word. “You staying with Jane or me or what?” Dad asked as we pulled into town.

“I don’t know,” I said. He did not respond. “Jane, I guess,” I said.

Dad pulled up in front of Jane’s house and parked, carrying my duffel to her door, then gathering groceries from the backseat. “What’s in the bags?” I asked.

“Jane likes those Sara Lee pound cakes,” said my father. He let himself inside Jane’s quiet house, put the cakes on the kitchen counter, kissed me on the cheek, and left.

Dennis had left a note saying that he and the children were at the store and that Jane was resting. I called for her. When she did not reply, I climbed upstairs. My sister was in bed, her hair unwashed and greasy on the pillow. I lay down next to her, and she turned to face me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” said Jane. She started to cry. “I’m really sad,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

“You do know,” said Jane. “I’m sorry for being sad.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” I said.

Jane nodded, still crying, and closed her eyes. This was how we’d bunked as children, in one bed. I brought my forehead close to my sister’s, and we slept.


“Our names are so plain,” said Jane as we sat in bed that night, waiting for the boys and Dennis to bring us dinner. “I mean, Jane and Alice? What could be more dull?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I like my name.” I’d changed into pajamas and we’d settled in for a long evening of watching Lifetime Television for Women. Jane kept the volume low so she could talk over the movie, which was about a waitress in a seaside town who falls in love with the fry cook, who, unbeknownst to the waitress, is also a serial killer.

“I just feel like Mom and Dad could have branched out some,” said Jane, waving her mug around. I watched her hand nervously, waiting to get a scalding slap of Nighty Night tea.

“Jane and Alice were their mothers’ names,” I said.

“That is my point!” said Jane, lifting her arm.

“Please,” I said, “can you watch your hot mug there, sister?”

“You watch your hot mug, sister!” she said. She spoke gaily but also seemed a bit unhinged. I did not point out that I was drinking a mug of whiskey, which Dennis had handed me without comment.

“Dinner’s ready!” called Rick, entering the room. He was so tall now, still thin as a rail, wearing athletic shorts though it was cold outside. It was strange to look at him—so sweet, grinning at his mom—and realize that he was just two years younger than Evian and the other Chávez kids, who seemed so world-weary. Rick’s face, covered with pimples and rosy-colored from his culinary efforts, was open and trusting. I wondered if mine had ever been that way.

Part of me was glad to have learned the tough lesson early—life could take everything from you when you weren’t paying attention. So I watched. Like the Chávez kids, I was ready for disappointment. But looking at Rick, I felt a hot jealousy. I yearned to feel at ease but didn’t know how.

“Okay,” said Rick, his voice deeper than I remembered. “We have your broccoli here.” He gestured to a bowl of overcooked greens with a pat of cold butter on top.

“Oh my God, amazing,” said Jane.

“And I carried the noodles,” piped up Gilmer. He tried to climb on the bed with a bowl of spaghetti, and spilled only some on the floor and in our laps. The strands were clumped together, half cooked and seemingly without sauce or flavoring of any kind.

“I love noodles!” said Jane. “How did you know?”

“I brought the forks!” screamed Benjamin, throwing them in the air. We ducked, and the utensils landed safely at the foot of the bed. Jane reached for them and said, “You are so smart to bring forks, Benji.” He beamed and began to jump in place.

“Last but not least,” said Dennis, entering, “fresh trout.”

He placed a tray of fish, perfectly sautéed in garlic and butter, on the bedside table.

“Oh, man,” I said. “This looks delicious.”

When the children had gone, Dennis shooing them out of the room so they would miss the scene of the fry cook stabbing someone on a beach, Jane said, “He fishes every night now. It’s how he copes.” She sighed, all her goodwill spent.

“Napkins!” screamed Gilmer, throwing a roll of paper towels from the hallway. “I’m not allowed to come in!” he added.

With effort, Jane climbed from bed. She went to the door and kissed her son. “I was just asking Aunt Alice what we were going to do without napkins,” she said. Gilmer hugged her tight, clasping his pudgy hands together around her head.

“Gilmer! What’d I tell you?” Dennis thundered.

“Yikes, bye!” said Gilmer. Jane closed the door quietly and climbed back into bed.