My One and Only

“Did you wet the bed?”

She just kept stuffing. Perfect. This was just great. Now my room would smell like pee, just in case everything else wasn’t enough.

“Don’t hide them,” I muttered, kicking off my own sheets. “We have to put them in the wash or they’ll stink to high heaven. Change your pajamas.”

She obeyed silently. I went downstairs with the dirty laundry, ignoring the nasty sounds from the master bedroom. Willard trailed after me like a pale, skinny ghost. I put the sheets in the washing machine and poured in detergent and some bleach—I’d become bitterly adept at housework in the past year. Then I turned around and opened my mouth to say something mean and authoritative, to make sure she’d know her place, recognize her status as an interloper and stay out of my way.

She was crying.

“Want some ice cream?” I asked and, without waiting for an answer, I picked her up—she was tiny and scrawny, like a malnourished baby chick, her short, straight blond hair sticking up all over the place. Carried her into the kitchen, set her down at the table and pulled two pints of Ben & Jerry’s from the freezer. “I think I’ll call you Willa,” I said, handing her a spoon and the Triple Caramel Chunk. “Since you’re so pretty, you should have a girl’s name, don’t you think?”

She didn’t answer. Wasn’t eating any ice cream.

“Willa? Is that okay?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her eyes on the table, and a hot wave of shame and regret washed over me, and longing and sadness and hell, everything else, too.

I swallowed hard, shoved those knife-sharp feelings aside and took a bite of ice cream. “Sounds good, don’t you think? Willa and Harper. Willa Cather and Harper Lee are both great American writers, did you know that?”

Of course she didn’t know that. I myself had just learned that this past summer, practically living at the tiny library, trying to fill the panicky void my mother had left, avoiding the terrible kindness of the staff. All summer, I’d hid in the stacks and prayed for invisibility, losing myself as best I could in books. And even though I’d exchanged fewer than four sentences with BeverLee, I guessed (correctly, it turned out) that the most intellectually stimulating literature she read was Us Weekly.

“I think it sounds good. Willa and Harper, Harper and Willa.” I paused. “I guess we’re sisters now.”

She met my eyes for the first time, and there was a tiny flicker of hope. And just like that, I loved her. And I had been taking care of her ever since.

I shook off the memory. BeverLee was talking about when they’d fly out to Montana, what kind of trousseau she could put together for her babykins on such short notice, and Dad was staring out at the boats.

I cleared my throat. “Is anyone else concerned that Willa’s getting married for the third time?”

“Well now, your daddy’s my third husband, isn’t that right, sweet knees? So I guess I don’t see nothin’ wrong with it, sugar. Third time’s the charm!”

“She just met this guy,” I reminded them.

“Well, they met at your wedding, darlin’.”

“For six hours,” I pointed out.

“And Christopher must be good people if he’s Nick’s brother.” I suppressed the flash of hurt that comment inspired—the immature part of me wanted her to say If he’s related to that stupid ex-husband of yours, Harper, he must be a real ass.

But no, BeverLee was off and running. “Christopher seemed real nice when we spoke on the telephone! Such good manners, and I think that says something about a man, don’t you, Jimmy, honeypot?”

My father didn’t answer.

“Dad? You got anything here?” I asked.

My father glanced at me. “Willa’s an adult, Harper. She’s almost thirty.”

“She married an ex-con and a gay man. Perhaps one might suggest that she’s not the best judge of character when it comes to men?” I said, trying to stay pleasant.

“Oh, listen to you, Harper, sugar! Don’t you believe in true love?”

“Actually, no, not in the sense you mean, BeverLee.”

“Bless your heart, Harper, you don’t fool me. I bet your big ol’ Dennis has something to say on the matter of true love! You’re just fussing. I think you’re a secret romantic, that’s what I think. You just fake bein’ all cynical ’cause of that job of yours. So lavender’s fine, then? I’ll do your hair, of course. You know how I love to do hair.”

There was really no point in talking to BeverLee. Or Dad, whose failure to have an opinion was a well-documented trait. “Lavender’s fine.” I sighed. Hopefully, Willa would see sense before then.

“Should we all fly out together? Willard and her young man are getting out there a week from Wednesday, and your daddy and I, we want to get out there ay-sap! He’s just dyin’ to see his little Willard, aren’t you, Jimmy?”

“Sure am.” That was probably true. Dad had always gotten on better with Willa than with me.

“So we’ll make a reservation for you and Dennis, how’s that? We can all sit together, God willin’!”

While technically I did love both my father and BeverLee, the idea of being trapped on a plane with them for five or six hours was as appealing as, oh, gosh…being locked in a sweatbox by al Qaeda. Plus, if things went well, I wouldn’t have to fly anywhere. “The wedding’s on a Saturday?” I asked. BeverLee nodded. “I think Dennis and I will probably fly out Thursday or Friday, then.”

“Come on, Harper, honeybunch, it’s your baby sister!”

“And I’ve been to two of her weddings already!” I said, smiling to soften the words. “I’ll come as soon as I can, how’s that? Now, I hate to be rude, but I have work to do,” I said, standing up.

“Sure now, you are a grade-A workaholic! We get the hint! We don’t have to be told twice!” BeverLee hugged me against her breasts, which were the size and consistency of bowling balls, kissed me twice on the cheek, leaving a smear of frosty pink, fluffed my hair and managed to sneak in one last blast of Jhirmack. “Let’s grab us some lunch this week, okay? We can talk about all the details. Should we get a stripper for her bachelorette party? Do they have Chippendales out there in…where is it again?”

“Glacier National Park, she said.”

“I wonder if they have male strippers out there.” Bev pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“I’m guessing not in the park itself,” I said. “Teddy Roosevelt would’ve frowned on that.”

“Then I better get on it,” she said, and left, my father in tow, a miasmatic cloud of Cinnabar in her wake.

Three seconds later, she was back. “Honey, now may not be the time to discuss, but sweetie, I need a favor.” She glanced furtively behind her. “Um… Okay.”

“I need to unburden myself, shall we say, on someone.”

“Sure.” I took a deep breath, assumed good listening posture and braced for the worst.

The worst came. BeverLee wrung her hands, her acrylic, orange-painted nails flashing in the dimming light. “Your daddy and me…we haven’t had sex for quite some time. For seven weeks, in fact.”

“Oh, God,” I said, flinching.

“I’m just wonderin’, do y’all have any idea why?”

I choked. “BeverLee, you know…well, Dad and I don’t really talk about…that. Or anything, really. And maybe you should tell—”

“What should I do? I mean, usually, he can’t get enough—”

“Okay! Well. I think you should talk to one of your girlfriends. Or Dad. Or, um, your minister. Maybe Father Bruce?” Sorry, Father. “Not me. You two are my…you know. My family.”

Bev mulled that over, then sighed. “Well, sure, you’re right, honeybun. Okay. But if he does say anything—”