Cheat and Charmer by Elizabeth Frank

Author:Elizabeth Frank [Frank, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-58836-497-5
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2013-12-17T16:00:00+00:00

Night after night, the light stayed on in Veevi’s room. When Jake and Dinah turned off their own light and closed the door connecting Jake’s office with the dressing corridor that led to their bedroom, Veevi’s light was always on, and at two or three in the morning, on the way downstairs for his insomniac’s snack, Jake often saw the flicker of the television Veevi had asked them to get for her when they bought her a car. If he knocked on her door, he told Dinah, and asked why she couldn’t sleep, or invited her downstairs for a snack of vanilla ice cream, Hershey’s chocolate syrup, and kosher pickles, she always said no thanks, complaining of pain in her shoulder, her neck, her arm. She had pain pills, she said, but she didn’t want to take more than she had to. She always added that she hated to take medicine of any kind, even an aspirin for a headache. There was still a bottle of gin under the bed, but Gussie had reported to Dinah that it was going down only a little every few days. All the same, Jake sometimes saw her quickly shove it under the covers when he knocked. At the same time, Veevi never seemed really drunk. At least not to him.

It was the smoking that terrified them both. Jake found her smoking in bed, watching television, and begged her to put out the cigarette. Veevi’s room was right next to Lorna’s; what if Veevi fell asleep or passed out with a lit cigarette in her hand? The thought was horrifying enough to wake Dinah out of her own sleep. Once Dinah crept down Jake’s dressing corridor toward Veevi’s room and, seeing a streak of light under the door, gently turned the doorknob. She found her sister sitting cross-legged in bed, her head bent forward and her once lustrous dark hair hanging by the sides of her face in great unbrushed clumps. With one hand holding a cigarette and the other clasping the bottle of gin, she sobbed and sobbed as the television flickered with a movie called Little Boy Lost.

“It’s Bing Crosby, in Paris,” Veevi said. “Trying to find a lost kid after the war.”

Dinah sat down beside her. Veevi didn’t look up. Dinah put her arms around her sister and held her, as she had often held a sobbing Lorna, or Peter. Veevi felt small and shrunken in her arms. Ugly sounds hemorrhaged from Veevi’s chest—horrible squeals and coughs, hoarse moans, and hiccups. Dinah felt pity and revulsion at Veevi’s late-night staleness—the smell of booze and smoke and sweat that steamed damply upward from her nightgown. “There, there,” she said, pressing her sister’s body to her own. “It’s all right. Just cry, honey. Just cry as much as you want. We’re going to fix you up, lovey.” She stroked Veevi’s hair and pushed it back from her damp forehead. “It’s going to get better.”

Neither of the sisters saw Jake standing behind the open door of the corridor.

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