Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [48]
She liked the finer things, and had her ways of getting them every now and then. She would occasionally order a nice dress from the Lord & Taylor catalog, cash on delivery. As soon as the courier arrived, she dashed upstairs and watched from the second-floor landing as one of her younger brothers—Timmy, Jack, Michael, or Paul—fought with the kid, saying they hadn’t ordered any goddamn dress, and they sure as heck weren’t going to pay for it.
They’d shout, “Alice! You know anything about a new dress?” and she’d shout back, “Ha! I wish!” as innocent as a lamb.
The delivery boy would insist he had the right address, tough and unwavering because he knew the fate that awaited him if he returned to the store without the cash. On two separate occasions, her brothers had been so flummoxed that they’d actually paid up, and Alice had gotten a brand-new dress for free.
In her heart, she knew that she was sinning every time she assumed she was entitled to another, better life. She knew it because her mother told her so, and because the Bible preached modesty and sacrifice. She had written a quote from Philippians on the inside of her nightstand drawer, and when she opened it to put her rosary away before bed each night, she read the words slowly: Do nothing from selfishness or conceit, but in humility count others better than yourselves.
If only it were that easy. Alice believed in Jesus and knew that he would save her if she could try harder, pray more. She prayed to be selfless and content, like her sister. But the selfish parts of her seemed built in, every bit as much as Mary’s kindness.
If Mary ever got a new dress, she was more likely to donate it to the church clothing drive than she was to wear it. Once, she had babysat for a neighbor’s kids for twelve hours and been paid with a hard-boiled egg. Alice was livid on her behalf, but Mary just said, “I suppose it was all they could afford.”
Mary had always been plain. She wore a long gray cotton skirt and a simple old blouse to school every day of the week. She never went on dates, staying home to read a book while Alice and her girlfriends went to the square for ice cream with a group of boys from their class. Alice would suggest that Mary come along—she’d even tell her date that she’d go out only if he’d find someone for her sister. But Mary always refused.
“I don’t want to be anyone’s pity date,” she’d say. “Besides, all the guys are younger than me. I’d feel ridiculous.”
When Alice came home at night, she would tiptoe into their darkened bedroom, pulling her stockings off as Mary whispered, “How was it?”
Alice hoped the stories might spark something in her sister, but Mary would always respond, “I can’t imagine what I’d say.”
After Mary fell asleep, Alice would pray for her: Let my sister come out of her shell, Lord. Let her be happy.
Once she finished high school, Mary got a typing pool position at Liberty Mutual and started to bring in a bit more money for the family. Their parents were glad, though Alice, still a junior, thought she would die of boredom at such a post. And she believed that the money her sister earned should belong to Mary, not to everyone else. Imagine what the two of them could do with those paychecks! But when she spoke these words aloud, Mary said, “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of keeping it for myself,” which made Alice feel rotten, all the way through.
Alice saw less of her sister once Mary began working. She liked to go into Boston and pick Mary up at the office on Friday nights. Afterward, they’d go see a movie or split a sandwich in the Public Garden. Sometimes they would walk into a dark bar and drink a beer before heading home, though Mary had to be persuaded to do that.
When Alice’s graduation came around two years after her sister’s, her mother told her to put on a dress. “I’m taking you into town today to look for jobs.”
Alice shook her head. “Pop said I could go to art school.”
Her mother sighed and whispered quietly,