Little Sister Read Online Free PDF Page B

He’s an all right kid, Beth thought for a second. Then she looked out the window.
    They drove along Main Street, passing the library, the laundry, the stationery store, and the luncheonette. The local doctor’s office was at the end of the street, and Beth was surprised to see that Dr. Morris’s name was still out front on the shingle.
    “Dr. Morris is still alive,” she said. “He must be a hundred by now.” She wondered if he had been with her father when he died, trying to revive him with those strong, bony hands she recalled from childhood.
    “Yeah, sure is. Are you from here originally?”
    “I grew up here,” said Beth. “My father was Martin Pearson. He worked for the electric company over in Harrison.” As she said it, she realized what a feeble epitaph it was. But she did not know how else to describe him to this stranger without sounding strange and bitter. “I have a sister who lives here too,” she added quickly. “You might know her, although she’s probably a little younger than you. Francie Pearson.”
    The boy shook his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “Where do you live now?”
    “Philadelphia.”
    “You came a long way.”
    “Yes. I had a hell of a time getting up here today.”
    The boy fell silent, and Beth wondered fleetingly if her mild oath had offended him. It didn’t seem like something that would bother a teenager, but he could be really religious or something. “By the way,” she said, “I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Beth.”
    The boy looked a little startled, for he seemed to have been carefully thinking about the little Beth had said. “Nice to meet you,” he murmured.
    Beth waited for him to introduce himself. “This is it,” the boy said suddenly. “Short trip.”
    He pulled the car up in front of the old, well-kept house which was the local funeral parlor. Beth had always thought it was one of the few handsome houses in town, except for the discreet signpost out front which reminded you that this was not a house for the living.
    Beth reached into the back seat and retrieved her bag, “Thanks for the lift,” she said.
    “Anytime,” said the boy, who waved to her as he steered the old Ford wagon away from the curb.
    Beth’s headache, which had abated somewhat in the car, now came back full force as she stood at the foot of Sullivan’s steps. She marshaled her strength as if it were a mountain she had to climb, rather than the six steps to the porch. It had been years since she stood here last, that terrible time when it had been her mother laid out in this house. Well, she thought, nothing could be as bad as that.
    Taking a deep breath, Beth climbed the steps and opened the door to the funeral home. The foyer was quiet and carpeted, the dark green of the walls faintly illuminated by lamps which resembled gaslights. The air felt stifling and had an antiseptic smell perfumed by flowers, like the smell of a hospital without hope. The walls were lined with pictures of woodland scenes in dark wooden frames. They were the kinds of pictures you would never really look at.
    Ahead of Beth were two sets of closed French doors curtained in white voile. Beside the doors on the left was a brass plaquette beneath a cross. The name Pearson was lettered neatly on a white card in the plaquette. Beside it was a lectern with a thin book for guests to sign lying open atop it. A bunch of white flowers in a permanent vase was attached to the lectern. The room was very quiet. The discreet strains of recorded organ music had not yet begun.
    Beth heard footsteps coming up behind her and turned to see Mr. Sullivan in his old but impeccable dark suit, white shirt, and tie approaching her, his freckled hands extended in greeting. He’s probably the only man in town, besides Dr. Morris, who wears a suit to work, Beth thought. She mustered a polite smile as Mr. Sullivan shook her hand.
    “It’s Beth, isn’t it? My, how you’ve grown up. So sorry about your dad,”