Brother and Sister Read Online Free PDF Page B

really notice anything about him. But now she saw the profound changes.
     
    He was older, but that she had expected. It was more than that. There was a hardness about his face, a bitterness in his eyes, that she had never seen before. She had the feeling that he was a much different person from the brother who had left here less than two years ago.
     
    Part of the change would be because of the wife, of course. Angie wasn’t really clear about what had happened there; her mother had always refused to give her the details. All she knew for sure was that Paul had met a German girl, had written glowing letters about her and had finally married her. Then, all of a sudden, he had divorced her and her name had no longer been mentioned in any of his letters. He had written to Mom and Dad about what had happened, Angie knew that much, but that was all.
     
    Aunt Sara gave her the toast and coffee. She ate slowly, neither tasting nor noticing the food.
     
    Uncle Edward came for them at nine-thirty, to drive them to the funeral home. He was a big, bluff, red-faced man, almost always smiling, the man Angie always thought of whenever she heard the word “jolly.” Today he was encased in a dark blue winter suit and wore a serious expression -- both looked out of place.
     
    On the way to, the car, Angie paused on the sidewalk to look at the neighborhood. It was July and school was out so there were a lot of children around, most of them down at the far corner playing hide-and-seek. There were people walking around in the sunlight, bright and cheerful, wearing the light-colored clothing of summer. And here were Angie and the mourners so dreadfully out of place in their dark, drab winter clothes, cold and solemn beneath the sun.
     
    Angie got into the back seat of Uncle Edward’s Plymouth with Paul, while Aunt Sara sat up front. The Plymouth was pastel, three different shades. No amount of mourning or grief could change that. It looked like a Japanese toy, happy and plastic, much more suited to the day than were its occupants.
     
    The funeral parlor was full of relatives -- all of Mom’s and all of Dad’s. The people in the two families who were angry at one another were quietly avoiding each other. There was a sickening smell of dying flowers in the air, and not enough light, and a heavy cloying Victorian atmosphere about the room, like baroque quicksand.
     
    Angie hated Mister Mordenthall. He was the undertaker -- he called himself a mortician -- and he was a damp, pallid man with clammy hands and a false, toothy smile of sympathy.
     
    There was nothing to do at the funeral parlor but wait. At last, they all went out again, following the two caskets, getting into their respective cars, and driving slowly through, the sunlit streets to the church. Angie and Paul sat alone in the back seat of the long black limousine, directly behind the hearse.
     
    And then there was the requiem mass which dragged dolefully on and on and on.
     
    All during this time, Angie’s brain raced wildly. There was nothing she could do -- there was no way to avoid the thoughts that crowded her mind. All she could do was sit and watch the thoughts crowding through in dogged repetition.
     
    She hadn’t loved her parents. Not enough. She hadn’t loved her parents enough.
     
    The evidence was clear and the memory of the evidence was crisp and loud.
     
    In the very moment when she had heard of their death, her only thought had been for herself. Her only thought had been of relief, that now she wouldn’t have to make any decision about Bob.
     
    When she had heard that Paul would be coming home on leave, she had been happy; she had been delighted at the idea and the thought had crossed her mind unbidden: That’s one good thing, anyway. Paul wouldn’t be coming home so soon, otherwise.
     
    Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal. She remembered the story in the New Testament about Saint Peter, in which Our Lord told him, “You will deny me thrice before the