The Weird Sisters by Brown Eleanor

Author:Brown, Eleanor [Brown, Eleanor]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin USA-CA
Published: 2011-01-20T10:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

Sunday morning, thunderheads loomed above, thick and rich with rain. Cordy had been up before us all making pancake batter with blueberries purloined from the neighbor’s bushes, their delicate bodies splitting against the wooden spoon, staining the batter with violent violet. Lately she had been a culinary one-woman band, serving up symphonies of simple, delicious food. Even Bean could not resist, but she limited herself to two pancakes, with only the delicate veil of a sneer touching her lips as she watched Cordy, her arms still stick-thin, but her skin blooming pink again, devour an enormous stack until her chin was sticky with syrup.

Our mother ate with us, though she could barely finish one serving, and mostly drank water, complaining of heartburn. After breakfast, without discussion we changed and headed to church together, as we had done every Sunday morning of our childhood. Whenever we came home, our parents just assumed we would join them at church, probably assumed that we were all going regularly even when we weren’t at home. And because it was important to them, because though their faith never came out in bombast or brimstone, it was just as much a part of who they were as the books they read, we always agreed.

Our father and our mother went in the car—she was still too weak to walk even as far as St. Mark’s—but the three of us headed down the path we’d walked a million times, the trail that curved through the silent woods behind the church and spilled out again between the houses of our street. When the path narrowed, we walked in a line, Rose at the head, small puffs of dust bursting from her heels each time she put one comfortable sandal in front of the other. Bean followed behind, her cardigan, ready to preserve the modesty of her haltered vintage dress, swinging from the tips of her fingers, the skirt brushing against her knees. And last, of course, came Cordy, humming to herself and dragging a stick along the bushes lining the inside of the path.

“Who owns this?” Cordy asked, her voice breaking the still of the air.

“The town,” Rose called over her shoulder. A tiny curl had escaped from her taut bun and bounced cheerfully as she strode. Bean watched our older sister’s clunky steps, her hips wide and heavy, weighing her down, and tightened the muscles in her own calves.

In the heart of the woods, the buzz of insects grew quieter, muffled by the waxy green of the leaves. Bean paused to hear the symphony above them. Cordy, staring at the tip of her stick bouncing along the bushes, nearly bowled her over. “What?”

“The birds. I never hear birds like this in New York.” Oddly, she’d gotten used to it. When she was little, she would wake up and lie in bed, listening to the conversations of the wrens outside, the flutter of angry wings as the blue jays strutted into each other’s territory. We had built a house

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