Sisters

"Please, Mrs. Peterson, come in. Thank you."

Mrs. Peterson entered and set her purse on the table in the hall and carefully took off her light coat.

The tall woman who had opened the door took the coat, brushed it for some reason, and hung it in the closet. She turned to Mrs. Peterson and directed her toward the small parlor. Mrs. Peterson looked around the room, thinking that it was very tidy and would never need much cleaning. As she sat, she looked up and said, "I was surprised to hear from you, Miss Higgins. I thought we had said that my first day would be Monday.”

"Yes, well, I know, Mrs. Peterson, but a client meeting has come up suddenly." Miss Higgins looked at her wiggling hands, as though thinking of some way to keep them still. She asked about tea and then continued. "Mary -- my sister -- will not be home until later this afternoon. She has parent meetings at school. And we wanted the house to be tidied up for Mr. Moran and the new client who will be here tomorrow night."

Mrs. Peterson smiled. Miss Higgins had been speaking more slowly at the end, but what she was saying made little sense. Miss Higgins was an attorney, one of the first woman attorneys in Boston, and the senior partner of the firm was Clarence Moran, the flamboyant Clarence Moran, whose career as an attorney had eclipsed his brief term as the mayor of Boston.

"Well, of course, Miss Higgins. And as I mentioned, I can stay all day if you need me, but everything looks perfectly fine."

"I was really hoping that my sister and I would be here on your first day to make sure you were comfortable with everything in the house. You were not here very long on the day we hired you." When she stood, Miss Higgins appeared taller than she probably really was. Her slimness added to the image. She was firmer now, in tone, than she had been earlier.

Miss Higgins pointed to the keys and the telephone and the few appliances in the kitchen. The kitchen was too bright, Mrs. Peterson thought. Even the dark gumwood on the walls seemed to glisten with the coat after coat of shellac. By then, Miss Higgins had gathered her files and brief case and strode out the back door toward the small garage. She was saying something as she left, but Mrs. Peterson did not catch it.

Then there was silence. Mrs. Peterson found the large apron which she tightened loosely. She turned on the burner for tea and tried to find a radio station which was not fuzzy or faint. Something soothing would work, perhaps some band music and certainly not anything frantic like the new rock and roll tunes.

Miss Higgins had left a page of instructions, along with her business card and phone numbers. It was amusing to see a list numbered, apparently, in order of importance.

As she walked through each of the rooms, Mrs. Peterson had an odd sense that the house was a strange mixture of the new and the old. The Higgins' father had been a contractor and had built the house as a sort of model for show. The stucco exterior was probably not really suitable for a Massachusetts winter, but it did give the house an older appearance. She knew little about construction -- that had been her Dan's strong point -- but she guessed that the house had been built in the 1920's. The circular gravel driveway and thick trees suggested more land than was there now. Most of the acreage had probably been sliced off and built upon, especially in the brisk years after the war.

Mrs. Peterson glanced at the wide dining room, with its slender windows, and the rather cramped study with the single desk and shelves jammed with books, every sort of book from sturdy legal volumes to cheap paperback novels. She wondered if the sisters shared the desk and space or if this sturdy desk was used for household bills and documents. Of course each of the women would have their own personal work spaces in their rooms. Surely the forceful older sister would command this room.

As she crept upstairs, Mrs. Peterson thought that she could make as much noise as she wanted since no one was at home. Still, she felt that she was still the intruder. Probably, even if she worked here for several years, she would never feel comfortable or at ease.

She tried to guess which sister had which room. The larger room was airy and cheerful while the other bedroom seemed austere and almost monkish. Both had similar framed pictures of landscapes and religious settings. The wallpaper was faded in both rooms, and there were silver items and crystal vessels. She looked awkwardly at the books on the night tables and realized, with some embarrassment that Mary, the younger sister, had the larger bedroom. She was not sure why this was the case, but she would soon find out.

The bathroom was neat and clean as she would have expected. The small trash basket was empty. Perhaps the sisters emptied it every night. She wondered again why they needed anyone at all to care for the place. Perhaps their mother had been a careful housekeeper. Or maybe this was a reaction to a mother who was terribly slovenly. Then again there might have been no household help in the past at all. Their father had emigrated from Ireland, after all, and there might have been some aversion to hiring servants of any kind. The Irish, Mrs. Peterson knew, were among the worst of employers. As her own mother used to say, the rich Irish were always putting on airs.

As she descended the stairs again, she knew her own priorities, the polishing and the vacuuming. Neither would take very long. Then she could eat her small sandwich and drink a fresh cup of tea. She might even be able to watch a show on the small television.

She thought she heard footsteps, but she could not be sure.

Mrs. Peterson stood silently in the dining room, where the sound seemed loudest. The sounds were not directly above her, but higher than that. There must be an attic. Then the sounds stopped.

Mrs. Peterson returned to the kitchen and sat awkwardly, hesitantly near the back door. She might have imagined the sounds. The house was old with the odd sounds of old houses. It might have been a mouse or some other animal. She smiled thinking that any mouse that produced that sound must have had very large feet. Certainly no one, no burglar, could have gotten into the house. When she heard the sounds again, she began to be alarmed. These were not discordant sounds but more deliberate. Someone or something was pacing upstairs. The footsteps would start and then stop. There was a back-and-forth quality to them.

She was surprised that she was not frightened. There were several floors between her and whoever or whatever was making the sounds. She was not, she thought, an especially brave person. Dan had handled all of the rough encounters with surly store clerks or desperate drunks. And she certainly would not know what to do. Although, with Dan gone, it would have been good to speak to a son or daughter, just for comfort. But that was not possible either.

Then the sounds stopped. If they started again, she could call the police, but that would be complicated. The officers might regard her as a batty middle-aged lady who was imagining something on a beautiful spring afternoon. And Mrs. Peterson was sure that the Higgins sisters, especially Elizabeth, would be furious that their house had been exposed to police and humiliation.

The footsteps started again and then stopped and then started again. In the end, since the sounds were not getting any closer, Mrs. Peterson simply decided to wait.

When Mary Higgins entered the kitchen, swinging her thin briefcase and panting slightly, the two women looked at each other.

After a few moments of silence, Miss Higgins said quietly, “You know, then."

Mary Higgins looked carefully as Mrs. Peterson let her arms hang to her sides. "I didn't know what to do, what the sound was." Then she continued quickly, "I was sure that there was an explanation, some explanation."

Mary Higgins sat down slowly and indicated that Mrs. Peterson should sit, too. "That was -- is -- my sister, my sister Alice."

"Your sister. How?"

Mary shook her head. "I'll tell you a little now and can say more about it later." She turned slightly, clasping meaty hands. "Alice is the oldest you see." She laughed. "Everyone assumes that Elizabeth is the older than me, but Elizabeth is the baby." She waved her hand. "You should have seen Alice in those days. She was brilliant, with concerts at Symphony Hall and promises of world tours. And then the break. And what a break."

"Was there nothing that could be done?"

"No, not in those days. Perhaps now. My father knew the best doctors, but nothing could be done. Oh, she still has lucid moments as I'm sure you will see." Miss Higgins smiled uneasily. "But we thought this was best."

Mrs. Peterson waited and then asked what she meant.

"Well, we keep her here, in the attic. It's quite safe, really, we let her down to bathe and eat and to play the piano." She nodded toward the living room. "But we don't have many visitors and when we do Alice knows enough to stay still, to stay quiet. I'm not sure why she was pacing today. Perhaps she knew that someone was in the house, someone who should not be here."

Mrs. Peterson stood. "Do you want me to keep coming? I mean, if I am disturbing things."

"Of course you should come. She will get used to your presence, your rhythms. Just as she has for the others."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course." Then she smiled. "Would you like to meet her?"

There was a real peacefulness in the weeks that followed. Alice Higgins remained locked in the attic, but her sisters had ensured that her physical needs were satisfied before Mrs. Peterson arrived. One of the sisters would have left a plate for lunch and made sure, during the chilliest of mornings that the small heater was plugged in and carefully located out of Alice's way.

When she met her, Mrs. Peterson was surprised at how large she was. She was not what you might have thought of as fat, but she was, as they say, big boned. Her thick hair was chopped short, but it was still an original color. Perhaps her life was not encumbered by stress or worries, the kinds of things that shrivel one or turn one's hair white. Her clothing, though, was shapeless, nothing like the gowns and costumes she would have worn years before. Alice’s fingers had remained oddly supple and thin, like tapers of ivory.

"Thank you for visiting, Mrs......"

The small ceremony was always the same. Usually Mary Higgins was the one who would let Alice out of her attic room and help her descend the stairs. This would only happen on certain weeks when they all could be assured that the mailman had been by and no others visitors were expected.

Mrs. Peterson and Alice bowed slightly to each other as Alice sat, wiggling at first, on the piano bench. Then she would nod and begin to play, always something short and simple, such as Bach's "Prelude in C."

They would all clap softly at the conclusion. Elizabeth Higgins, if she was there, would stand and pace until Alice rose and agreed to be led back upstairs. Sometimes they would sit and drink tea. Alice would speak about her recital piece and her experiences.

"Oh, I do remember," she would begin slowly. "Isabella Gardner came back to see me once. Very flamboyant. And Toscanini was in the audience once. Many others. Many."

It was as though, Mrs. Peterson thought, that she was searching for nuggets of the past. She mentioned other names, but sometimes these were garbled.

Not all of these small home recitals were peaceful, though. At times Alice would stop playing and rage that she could not remember where she was in the score or what would come next. Sometimes she would slam the lid down on the instrument or swear the most horrifying curses.

When this happened, both sisters would be needed to control Alice and take her away. Elizabeth would glare at Mrs. Peterson as though she were to blame for the outburst.

Mrs. Peterson loved the smell of chocolate. Even if she hadn't she would have been forced to like it. Baker's chocolate mills churned out the stuff year round. It was worse, if you could call it that, on damp and moist days, when the aroma draped over everything like a cloud.

"You'll get used to it, Mrs. Peterson,” Miss Kelly said as she showed her through each of the rooms.

"Please call me Doris, Miss Kelly."

The small landlady nodded as if to say that yes, she would call her that but not now.

"My nephew Tom has just painted the place -- papered, too. I'm sure you will find everything satisfactory." Doris Peterson had already given Miss Kelly the rent check. They had shaken hands carefully, and Miss Kelly had reminded her about the due date for the rent, adding quickly that she did not really need to remind a sober-looking middle aged woman about such matters. The landlady had pointed to the spires of St. Gregory's and mentioned the times of the masses.

When Doris Peterson did not respond, Miss Kelly smiled slyly. Perhaps, she thought that she belonged to some other parish or perhaps, unfortunately, she was a Protestant. In any case, one could not pry about such things.

When the landlady had left, Mrs. Peterson lay on the bed for a short time. She was not tired, but since it was the middle of the afternoon, she could have slept. Really, though, she was not the sort of person for a nap. She liked the apartment. One of Dan's nephews, a friend of Miss Kelly's Tom, had told her about the vacancy. Even in late winter, the move would be advantageous. The apartment was smaller but cheaper than the larger one she had lived in with Dan. There was no need, now, for a larger place. Dan's nephew had been eager to help her move the furniture and even more eager to take the few dollars she had given him.

This was a real apartment, built that way, not one of those old mansions cut into awkward strips of rooms. She assumed that Miss Kelly had lived there for some time, and the neatness of the exterior and tiny yard were good omens. This would be a good place to live out her final years. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she could see a face more careworn than old. Her family health was good, and she neither drank nor smoked. It was possible that she could live several decades more.

It would have been good if she had not had to work. Dan had been the full-time worker in the family, but she had always had the small side jobs, such as housekeeping and caring for elderly people. He had spoken eagerly about making his mark in the world and saving enough, since they knew there would be no children. He could retire early and travel.

But then there was the heart attack, and everything turned.

The small insurance checks would keep her afloat, but she would still need to work. She walked back into the bedroom, anxious for some reason, to make sure that Dan’s photograph was where she had placed it. She did not treat the picture as a memorial in any sense, but it comforted her to see Dan in his uniform, with his cap cocked to the side. She never thought that he was looking at her. It was as though he was looking beyond her.

When she moved in, she hoped that her next work assignment would be close by. Mr. Eliot had died, and his heirs, eager for her to finish sprucing up the old man's house, had been just as eager for her to be gone.

Sitting in the small parlor, she thought of picking up a book to read. It was at silent times like this that her miscarriages haunted her. One followed the other until she and Dan reached the final understanding. He had tried to be brave, kidding her oddly and teasing her about more attempts. She knew that he must have wept somewhere, but he never said. Nor, she realized, did he really inquire about her.

Three months after she moved in, she had seen the ad in the paper and called the Higgins sisters.

"Be careful, Doris." The man shook his head. "Be careful." He put the rake down and then suddenly seemed to be hugging it. The image, she thought, was almost comical.

"I am grateful for the warning, Mr. Fitzgibbon."

"Jim, Doris. I told you to call me Jim."

"Well, then, Jim. Thanks."

They were standing on the edge of the garden. Mrs. Peterson had decided to cut a few sprigs of lilacs for the front hall. Jim Fitzgibbon was probably ten years or so older than her. His shirt and blackish pants, both dirt-stained, were not ripped. His boots were battered, and he had a ridiculous red handkerchief stuffed into his back pocket. She always admired his hands, which, though rough-looking, nevertheless were gentle enough for delicate hedge trimming.

"That's my advice, Doris. You never know when things can turn on you -- on anyone." His oddly gentle voice had definite traces of Ireland. She was too polite to ask about his origins or to inquire about his wife. He had mentioned his wife once or twice, hinting that she was not well. There was a son also, but the father only spoke of the boy laconically, with an edge to his comments.

Suddenly silent, they looked at the pale green grass which bordered the rose of think plants. Jim had been the gardener for years, hired by the old man himself, as he put it, when Mr. Higgins no longer was able to care for the plants. Jim had followed the same patterns and accustomed plantings, though, not wanting to disturb or alarm the sisters with anything new.

"We've done it the same for years," he said slowly, "with annuals and bulbs arranged to have a full growing season of colors."

"You must be proud."

He shrugged and struggled to smile in the way that people with poor teeth do. He had showed her earlier where, in each patch of ground, the new plants would be set. She was never sure what Jim's full-time job was, but he seemed to show up, strangely, during the late mornings as was suitable. He had started to turn to the section of ground he was preparing, letting his long back curve with the rhythm of the tool. He looked thin, she thought, and good-looking in a way very different than Dan.

She shook her head. "I just don't know what you mean about being careful."

"You think you know them, and I suppose that you do, in a way. Not the last woman before you, but one before that. She started out being cautious with Alice. But then she got drawn in. It ended badly." He gave a quick laugh. "For both of them. Really." He paused and then added, "They are not like you -- or me."

Puzzled, she shook her head, hoping that he might say more. But he said nothing as he placed the rake down and took up the spade. She wanted to ask him more, but hesitated. This might be some sort of test. Perhaps he had been asked by the sisters to probe her, to see what she might suspect or do.

He kept moving his hands, and she understood that he wanted to return to his work. She said one or two things to him, and then she turned toward the house, letting the lilac branches droop slightly from her hand. As she did she looked toward the house and the attic floor. She was certain that she had seen something move against the dark window. But then she realized that the window was nearly completely closed, and it would have been impossible to make anything out.

It was enjoyable, she thought later. Odd but enjoyable. Doris Peterson became more used to the routine of the house, its rhythm, really. Elizabeth and Mary kept to their schedules. They passed in and out of the house on the days that Doris was there. There seemed to be a level of trust, Doris thought, and an element of comfort. She did her best to keep the rooms tidy, but there was little dirt to actually clean. When her chores were done, she would sit in the kitchen, comforted, somewhat, if she heard the pacing overhead.

And then Doris grew bolder. She was careful to plan things when she knew that neither Elizabeth nor Mary would be home. Elizabeth's legal duties kept her away from the house for extended hours. Mary had the teaching schedule, but she remained at school often, finding it difficult, she said, to correct papers and plan at home. On these days, when there was little risk of a stranger at the door, Doris would climb to the attic and let Alice out.

It was frightening at first for both of them. Doris saw that the small, bare set of rooms was clean. The castoff furniture was not damaged or faded. One of the rooms had been turned into a sitting room of sorts, with shelves of books. Musical scores were spread across the low table, but there would be no instrument in that room. That would have been too risky.

The bedroom had only a bureau and a narrow single bed. A little crucifix hung above the bed. Heating pipes ran across both rooms so that the space would be tolerable in the winter. There were two windows at either ends of the attic. Both seemed darkish, with heavy curtains obscuring most of the daylight. Alice must have been warned against opening those curtains lest Alice be observed by someone who might cause trouble.

Alice had been terrified at first, avoiding Doris's outstretched hands. But Doris had encouraged her with soft words. After all, this was a Christian thing to do, to help the poor woman, to expose her to a more normal environment.

"Come, dear, it will be all right. We can have you play some music and you can tell me about those concerts of long ago.”

"All right, then. Doris, is that your name?"

"Yes, Alice dear, it is. Come now."

Doris thought it was like leading a child. Alice was a child really. She had bursts of fierce concentration, as her fingers flew across the keys or as she described, carefully, the arrangement of pieces from her concerts, or the decorations in the halls she had performed in. But then, suddenly, she would tire and let her hands drop and not be sure what words or words should come next.

Sometimes Doris would bring Alice’s little lunch tray down from the attic so that the two of them could eat in the kitchen. But this could be too stressful since Alice was bothered by the noises of the appliances and the brightness of the colors.

I can almost have a conversation with her, Doris thought at times. If she had had siblings -- or even close friends -- she would have known what to do or say. As it was, they were both feeling their way to a relationship, with no real roadmap in front of them. Dan had encouraged Doris to find friends and take up hobbies, but she had not. Now, she knew, Dan had been right. And her closest companion was a mad woman

One August afternoon, Elizabeth and Mary had called Mrs. Peterson into the parlor. Elizabeth had decided to work from home that day, and Mary's class had ended early. When she entered, Mrs. Peterson was surprised to see them both sitting together on the couch. They did not seem especially angry or upset, but neither was smiling either. Elizabeth pointed to the chair, holding her hand aloft until Mrs. Peterson had sat down.

Mary, surprisingly, was the one who spoke first. "We wanted to talk to you, Doris, about a couple of things. Well, we know you have been letting Alice come downstairs on the days you are here. I know that you watch her at these times, but we are concerned."

When Mary paused, Elizabeth continued quickly. "She could hurt herself -- or you. You know how strong she is and how strong she can be when she is agitated."

"We know you mean well, Doris," Mary added.

When neither sister spoke, Mrs. Peterson sighed and started to speak. "I feel bad for her. She seems so lonely up there, day after day. I know she stays up there except for those times when I am here. And I think she could stay out and down here when I am able to be with her."

Elizabeth was standing, swinging around behind the sofa, placing her hands on the back of the sofa, so that it looked, comically, as though she had her hands on her sister's shoulders. "I'm afraid that this is serious, Doris, and we will have to insist. It is all just too dangerous."

Doris nodded, waiting. She saw that Mary was looking up and back at her sister. "This is hard for us, Doris. You see, it is almost as though Alice was already dead. She still breathes, of course, but if you had seen her in her younger years. Well, it was something to admire."

Doris was thinking of many things. How the years passed for Mary and Elizabeth? How would their lives been different if Alice had been a famous artist or if she had not survived. Perhaps, despite their careers, they might have married. But then, as things became clearer, they could have no personal lives. Alice would need continual care and supervision. And if either of them had a serious gentlemen, perhaps that person would have been frightened off by a crazy sister. One always feared that such a condition might have been hereditary. Now, at least, there was the understanding that the family line would end when these ladies died.

In the end, Doris was the employee, and she knew she would need this job. "I do understand, and I will be more careful." She saw that the women were ready to snap back at her. "No, I will not take her out."

Elizabeth had dropped her hands. She was turning toward the door. Mary was standing, too, and she looked straight at Mrs. Peterson. "Thank you, Doris. This will be for the best. We all know that it will."

Doris controlled her rage. The sisters did their reading and research for the rest of the afternoon. Doris thought that they were ignoring her, but that may have just been a fantasy. As if stung, she tried to work even harder with her cleaning and straightening. She took her break for tea, but made sure that she was quick.

Later, in her own apartment, she thought about Alice. The day of the "talking to" Alice had seemed especially quiet. There was no rhythmic pacing in the attic. Perhaps she had been warned off by the sisters, told to stay quiet and docile. Perhaps she had been punished, maybe with additional restrictions or loss of privileges. She could not imagine that the sisters had used stronger methods, like beatings, but she supposed that anything was possible.

When she came to house the following week, she thought that she had no real energy or desire to go there at all. She listened as the door closed behind her, but she did not hear any sounds from above. This was not a surprise. She was tempted to creep up and open the locked door just out check on the woman, but that would have been a betrayal of her promise to leave things alone.

She had gone out to the garden in the afternoon to snip some flowers that were fully blooming. Jim had tried to approach her and had smiled and waved his arm. But she had ignored him.

That September morning was like many of the others that season. The air was warm, pleasant. She had taken the trolley to Mattapan and had decided to walk the mile or so to the Higgins house. The trees were still full and thick, and the sky was an especially rich blue that morning.

Jim was not outside, but now that the fall was approaching, he had been there less often than in the past. The recent dry days had made the grass yellowish and brittle, eliminating the need for trimming.

She slipped off her light coat and turned the burner on for tea. Carefully, as she always did, Mrs. Peterson replaced the small key in the small pocket of her purse. She had thought about getting some sort of large key ring to hold it, but that would have made her seem like a jailer.

With a small sigh, she thought about her task for the day, the sweeping and the straightening up. To vary things and make them more interesting, she had alternated rooms on each of her visits. And even within the rooms, sometimes she dusted first; sometimes she swept or vacuumed first. The tasks were predictable and boring, but she challenged herself by singing popular songs or trying to recall the names of actors or actresses.

She would not now even check on Alice. It was not so much that it was risky but it became too much of a burden. She would look into Alice's often distant eyes, but they would suddenly become fierce, even angry. It was as though, in a way, Alice was blaming Doris for what had happened. Alice was no longer freed during the day or allowed to play.

There was noise upstairs, shouting and the sounds of someone punching something. Doris thought of going up, but suddenly things were quiet again

At three-thirty, Mary opened the front door and dropped her thin leather case against the nearest wall. She and Doris spoke quickly, and Mary bushed off the offer of tea. They spoke but without intimacy. After all, Doris thought later, theirs was a business relationship and nothing more. If you got close to your employers, she had learned painfully in the past, things would not be good.

Suddenly, there was more noise and screaming from the attic. Both women ran, racing up the staircase. When they opened the last of the doors, Alice, all bloodied, was moaning.

"What happened," Mary shrieked.

"It was her, her." Alice shook her hand at Doris, who drew back toward the door.

"Whatever do you mean, dear?" Mary whispered.

"She did it, she did."

Then, as if in a movie scene, Mary turned toward Doris. Both were at once horrified and confused.

"I don't know why she is saying that, Mary." Doris stopped, realizing that she addressed Mary by her first name. She stepped back again.

"Alice, why would she do that?"

"Angry at me. I got her into trouble." Mary had taken a small towel and wiped the blood from Alice's lips. As she lifted Alice's short hair, the dark bruises on her face became more obvious in a horrible way.

"I don't know. I don't know, “Doris muttered. She took a short step toward the woman, but Mary raised her hand.

"Stop," Mary said. "Don't come closer."

"But why would I hurt her? It makes no sense."

Alice was weeping softly now although she did howl from time to time. Mary had draped her hand on her shoulders and spoke quietly to her. Doris continued just to stand awkwardly, hands loosely at her side.

After the next burst of weeping, they all turned as Elizabeth strode into the room, snapping questions. As Mary spoke, Elizabeth turned toward Doris, not saying anything, but nodding severely.

Before a question could be asked, Doris spoke hurriedly. "Why should I hurt her? I wouldn't."

"I don't know,” Elizabeth replied, "but she has never accused anyone before of hurting her. Why would she make something like that up?"

Mary, too, had turned toward Doris as she held Alice tightly, as a mother might do. Doris could only nod and begin to turn in retreat. Elizabeth followed her down the stairs. Once or twice they both turned toward the attic as they heard the deep wails.

"You can leave the key, Mrs. Peterson," Elizabeth said briskly.

"I can't believe this, that you would not believe me."

Elizabeth paused in the hallway and stared at Mrs. Peterson. "To be honest, I'm not sure what I believe. But we certainly can't take the chance, can we?" She scribbled out a check. "Don't worry." She smiled. "We won't contact anyone about this."

Mrs. Peterson felt that she was stumbling out the door which was closed slowly behind her. Oddly, she thought that the day was especially warm, and she noticed the colors on the bushes which would soon fall to the impending frost.

Jim was raking in the back. He noticed her and nodded as if he knew what had just happened inside. He must know, she thought. He must have heard it all. She wanted to speak to him, not so much for sympathy, but only as someone she might give her side to. But he turned and bent forward and continued with his raking.

She thought that she might wait for the bus, but instead the long walk to Mattapan Square might be the most therapeutic of options.

She wondered, as any normal person would have, what she had done wrong or how she might have behaved differently, she thought about the look Alice gave her as she left. There was a grin in her expression, the grin of an impish child.

Mrs. Kelly looked oddly at her when she returned home that afternoon. Mrs. Peterson wished she had not had to speak to her landlady, but the old lady was too observant not to make a comment about the early afternoon. Mrs. Peterson answered briefly but brusquely until the older lady turned toward her own apartment

In a few weeks, Mrs. Peterson had found another position, as housekeeper for Mr. Tucker on Adams Street. He was a widower and a Methodist, more suitable for her. And she could walk to his house.

When the fire happened, Mrs. Peterson was not really surprised. The true cause was never really confirmed. There might have been a frayed wire or a flame not attended. The house had burned quickly, the papers said, and none of the sisters had survived. As the firemen crashed through the first-floor rooms, neighbors thought they heard frantic cries and screams from the attic rooms. But some swore that they heard laughter from the attic as well.

Article © Jeremiah Minihan. All rights reserved.
Published on 2023-08-14
Image(s) are public domain.