Read Online Little Sister by Patricia MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B

leaning against the wall. “Beth,” said May sharply, “how could you say that?”
    “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” Beth said hurriedly.
    May’s face had become very pink, as if she were going to cry again, and she shook her head at Beth. “Your mother’s death was an accident. You don’t mean to tell me that you think Francie was responsible—”
    Beth was patting her aunt on the shoulder and trying to quiet her. “No,” she insisted, “I didn’t mean that. Please, Aunt May. I only meant…these things just happen. Nobody’s to blame for them.”
    “That’s right,” said May. “It’s God’s will. He never gives us more problems than we can bear.”
    “I know, I know,” said Beth. “Listen, maybe we’d better get back downstairs. All these people have been nice enough to come.”
    “Well, yes, you’re right,” said May, composing herself like a plump bird rearranging her feathers. “I’ll decide about the room later.”
    She went down the hall and started down the stairs. Beth followed her, greeting the various people they met along the way and responding numbly to the introductions. She could not tell, from May’s calm demeanor, whether she had believed Beth’s explanation of that chance remark. As soon as she said it she had wished she could snatch it back from the air.
    “Did you eat something?” May asked when they again reached the kitchen.
    “I’m not hungry,” said Beth, but a woman in an apron decorated with a print of squirrels wearing frills and hair ribbons was handing her a sandwich. Beth accepted it passively and began to eat, although the food was tasteless to her. As she stood by the kitchen table, chewing dutifully, the sound of guitar music wafted into the house from the backyard. May excused herself from conversation with a neighbor and walked over to the back door, looking for the source of the music. Beth put the sandwich down and walked up behind her to look out over her aunt’s shoulder.
    A group of kids, huddled together in their heavy coats, whispering, giggling, and poking one another, were gathered outside in the cold gray afternoon. Seated on the front hood of one of the cars in the driveway was the young man from the garage, his long hair pulled into a messy ponytail, with stray bunches of hair being lifted by the wind. The boy’s guitar was perched on his lap, and he seemed to be wrapped in the cocoon of oblivion that often surrounds people at their instruments as he strummed away, singing along to his tunes in a nasal voice. A little apart from the others, Andrew had one elbow propped on the car’s roof, his shabby coat collar pulled up almost to the tips of his ears, which were red from the cold. Francie leaned against him, the ragged hem of her sweatshirt dress hanging out from under her parka. Occasionally she leaned up and whispered at his coat collar, and Andrew nodded with a bored expression.
    May took in the scene with a deep frown of disapproval, which Beth noticed immediately. She felt a flash of anger at the braying guitarist, who clearly would take any opportunity to find an audience. Francie looked up and saw them in the doorway. Beth motioned for her to come over.
    Francie walked over to where her sister and aunt were standing and looked up at them questioningly.
    “Who is this guy?” Beth demanded in a low voice.
    “Oh, that’s Noah. He’s a friend of Andrew’s. Doesn’t he play good?”
    “Tell Noah,” said Beth, “that this is a funeral, not a hootenanny.”
    “A what?” said Francie.
    “Never mind.” Beth sighed. “Tell him to quit playing that guitar. It’s very rude.”
    Francie’s face contracted into a bitter pout. “We’re not hurting you,” she said.
    “I thought you were the one who was so upset about having a party after the funeral.”
    Francie glowered at her, but Beth could see that her remark had hit home. The girl turned her back on Beth and went over and spoke to Noah. The boy put his guitar down