Barefoot: A Novel

fur wrap. “We’re stil friends, right?”

Josh paused. He didn’t want to say yes, but if he said no there would be a barrage of sad-sack nonsense and he would never escape. “Sure,” he said.

“So you’l lend me the money?” she said.

This was another classic Didi trick: to refer to something completely out of the blue as if it were an already decided-upon fact.

“What money?”

“I need two hundred dol ars for my car,” she said. “Or they’re going to repossess it.”

“What?”

“I’m a little behind on my bil s,” Didi said. “I bought some summer clothes, my rent went up, my credit cards are maxed . . .”

“Ask your parents for the money,” Josh said.

“I did. They said no.”

“I don’t have two hundred dol ars,” Josh said. “Not to spare, anyway. I have to save. Col ege is ex-pen-sive.”

“I’l pay you back at the end of the month,” Didi said. “I promise. Please? I’m in real y big trouble. Would you drop it off at the hospital tomorrow?

I’m there eight to four.”

“I work tomorrow.”

“What about Tuesday, then?” Didi said. “Tuesday’s your day off, right?”

Josh let his head fal forward on his neck. How did things like this happen? He should just say no and leave.

“If you lend me the money, I’l leave you alone forever,” Didi said. “I swear it.”

This was as blatant a lie as was ever spoken, but it was too tempting to ignore.

“You’l stop cal ing?” he said.

“Yes.”

“And you’l pay me back? By the first of July?”

“With interest,” Didi said. “Ten dol ars interest.”

Josh managed to get himself on the opposite side of the door. Lola scratched at the screen.

“Fine,” he said. He was absolutely certain he would never see the money again, but if he could get Didi out of his life once and for al , it was a smal price to pay. “I’l see you Tuesday.”

According to Aunt Liv, there were only three kinds of women in the world: older sisters, younger sisters, and women without sisters. Aunt Liv was a younger sister like Brenda; Aunt Liv’s older sister, Joy, had been Brenda’s grandmother. Joy was prettier, Liv always thought, and luckier. They both got jobs working at a fabric store during the Second World War, but for whatever reason, Joy was paid a nickel more per day. The owner was sweet on her, Liv said, even though I was the one who made him laugh. Joy then married a boy from Narberth named Albert Lyndon, and they had four children, the oldest of whom was Brenda’s father, Buzz. Liv, meanwhile, inherited her parents’ stone house in Gladwyne, she attended Bryn Mawr Col ege, she taught literature there for years. She read, she lavished her nieces and nephews with attention and love and money, she kept meticulous documentation of the family history. Aunt Liv was the only person Brenda had ever confided in about Vicki because she was the only person Brenda knew who would understand.

I spent my whole growing-up thinking Joy was born a princess and I was born a scullery maid, Liv said. But then I realized that was my own delusion.

Brenda had cherished those words at the time of their delivery (Brenda was ten, Vicki eleven), but there were no delusions about what was happening in Aunt Liv’s cottage this summer. Brenda was not only serving as Vicki’s scul ery maid, but also as her nanny and her chauffeur.

Because Vicki had cancer! If Brenda wanted to throw a pity party for herself, she would be the only one attending. More than once already, Brenda had sat on her bed in the old nursery, hoping to absorb some of Aunt Liv’s strength, patience, and kindness.

On Tuesday, Brenda drove Vicki to chemotherapy in the neighbors’ ancient Peugeot with the kids strapped into the backseat. Taking the kids had not been in the original plan; however, over the weekend, one thing had become clear: If the children were left in Melanie’s care, they would die in a kitchen fire or drown drinking from the garden hose. Melanie was going to stay home and “rest,” she said—and if she attempted another escape and was successful, so much the better in Brenda’s opinion.

Brenda tried not to appear martyrish in her role as servant, because she knew this was exactly what Vicki expected. They had argued about Melanie on Sunday afternoon. Brenda expressed her discontent while Vicki made what Brenda could only think of as the “she’s becoming our mother” face. Brenda couldn’t stand that facial expression, and yet she sensed she would see a lot of it this summer. In the end, however, Vicki had

—surprise!—agreed with Brenda, and apologized. Melanie probably shouldn’t have come. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but maybe we were hasty. I’m sorry. Yes, we’ll look for a babysitter, and no, you won’t get much of your screenplay written until we do. Brenda had been impressed by Vicki’s admission of her own poor judgment. It was, in thirty years of sisterhood, unprecedented. Vicki was always right; this was a fact of her birth. She had been born right—as wel as pretty, talented, intel igent, and athletic; she was a model daughter, a natural-born leader, the gold-medal/blue-ribbon winner in whatever she did, a magnet for girlfriends and boyfriends alike. She was the sister people preferred. Again and again and again while growing up, Brenda had screamed at her parents: How could you do this to me? They had never once asked her to define the “this”; it was understood. How