The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [15]
“Textbooks are expensive everywhere,” Rose said.
“I’m sure not all the students were shoplifting,” our mother continued. “In any case, I don’t know what they were thinking. All those parents coming into town, wanting souvenirs, and now they are going to the booster store on campus instead for their sweatshirts and what-have-you.”
“So they closed?”
“Not at first. First they opened one of those coffee bars, which was a good idea, but Maura hadn’t the slightest idea how to run one. Barnwell Beanery is still open, you know, and the competition was too much.”
“Oh, you know who runs the Beanery now?” Rose asked. “Dan Miller. Didn’t he graduate with you?”
“Yeah,” Bean said, and she blinked a few times in surprise before she shifted and hopped off the counter, carrying the small bowl of discarded strawberry greens over to the trash can. She pressed her foot on the pedal and the lid popped obediently open. “Man, he’s still living here? That’s crazy.”
“Bean? Compost?” our mother said, raising her eyebrows and gesturing with the knife toward the container to the left of the trash can. Too late. Bean shook the last of the strawberry tops into the trash can. She shrugged, as though it had been out of her hands, and walked the bowl over to the sink.
“It’s not so bad living here,” Rose said, stung slightly.
“Oh, stop. I’m not talking about you. We grew up here, it’s different. It’s not like you went to college here and then just decided to stay because it was so bucolic.”
“It is bucolic,” our mother said.
“Not everyone wants to live in a city like New York,” Rose said.
“And that’s a good thing. It’s crowded enough there already,” Bean said, and dropped the bowl in the sink, where it clattered enthusiastically.
“What is the city but the people?” Rose quoted.
“So you’re going to go back?” our mother asked.
Bean shrugged. “I’m not staying here, that’s for sure.” The knife slipped in Rose’s hand, making the tiniest nick in the fleshy pad of her thumb. She lifted it to her mouth, sucking sour salt, sweet tomato.
“You really quit your job?” Rose asked, pulling her thumb from her mouth and examining the cut.
Bean looked at her. “Yes. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just thought you might have mentioned it to us or something. That you were planning to.”
“What, in our chatty once-a-week phone calls?” Bean sneered. “I didn’t realize I had to keep you apprised of my five-year plan.” She could feel the meanness welling up inside her, but was helpless to stop it. It was anger that should have been directed at herself, but for crying out loud, couldn’t Rose ever leave anything alone?
“You don’t have to bite my head off,” Rose said. “I was just asking.”
“You never just ask, Rose. You just want to criticize me.”
“I’m not criticizing. Forgive me for showing a little interest.”
“Girls,” our mother said. We ignored her.
“I quit my job. I didn’t want to work there anymore. I was sick of New York. What more do you want? Take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh.”
“Don’t get dramatic. If I were going to quit a job I wouldn’t just up and do it without planning. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. But we just can’t all be as perfect as you are, Rose.” Bean walked over to the refrigerator and yanked the door open, staring blindly at the contents inside. The cold air pushed the tears in her eyes away. She closed the door and turned back to face them.
“You can stay as long as you want. It’s nice to have you girls home,” our mother said, as though she hadn’t heard our fight, rinsing her hands and shaking them dry. The last of the sunlight drifted through the window, illuminating the lines on her face, and Bean was surprised, as she always was when she came home, by how our parents were aging. Like the changes in the furniture, Rose hardly noticed it. It was gentle as erosion to her. To Bean, it was a seismic shift.