around the edges and she started walking like she couldn’t keep still. I’ll kill him , she kept saying. I’ll kill him. She paced the length of the living room with her tennis racquet in her hand, looking ready to start smashing things. Bethie was the one who calmed her down, the one who said, truthfully, that Uncle Mel had never touched her underneath her clothes, or made Bethie touch him under his. He’d just say that he was comforting me, or that I was misinterpreting things , Bethie said . And Mom needs the money. You know she does. Jo paced, and glared, and told her, We have to come up with a plan. We need to get him to leave you alone, and we need his money. That night, for the first time in months, Bethie ate her dinner and did not sneak out of bed to eat, and Jo told her a story, not about Princess Bethie in the dark woods in search of a magic chalice, or in the high tower, but Princess Bethie in Uncle Mel’s house on a quest for cash, and the sisterstalked late into the night.
The next night, Bethie and Jo waited until six o’clock, when Uncle Mel was sure to be home, and drove to Southfield. Jo parked in the driveway, and the sisters walked to the door. Shirley’s expression went from annoyed to surprised when she saw that both sisters were there.
“Is Uncle Mel at home?” said Bethie. “Jo and I need to speak to him.” Her hands, her knees, even her neck, everything was quivering, but her voice was clear and steady. Shirley gave them a curious look, but she said, “Of course,” and led the girls into Uncle Mel’s office, which had bookshelves full of medical texts, and an imposing dark wood desk, where a fancy black and gold pen rested on a leather blotter. A minute later, Uncle Mel, in his suit pants and white lab coat, walked in.
“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise! What can I do for you young ladies?” he asked.
Bethie’s stomach felt fluttery, the way it did when her teachers handed out exams facedown, in the minutes before they said, “Begin.” She wanted to get up and run, out of the office, past Aunt Shirley and her cousins, through the gleaming kitchen, all the way back to the car. As if she’d read her mind, Jo took her hand and gave it a squeeze, and Bethie forced herself to breathe and tried to remember all the stories her sister had told her. Princess Bethie had faced the dragons and the wicked queen. She’d tamed the wild stallion and ridden on its back; she had hacked her own way through the forest of thorns before the prince ever showed up.
Uncle Mel was looking at her. Bethie swallowed, then started to speak. “You talked to me about ‘The Road Less Traveled’ at my father’s shiva. Remember? ‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood’?”
Uncle Mel gave a cautious nod. Bethie felt her belly uncoil. The sick, sinking feeling she’d carried all summer was evaporating. What was left in its place was rage. Her chest and throat and cheeks felt hot. She kept her face still and made herself smile, and tilt her head, and speak sweetly.
“Our father didn’t choose, though. He didn’t get to choose. Your parents chose for him. He didn’t get to say, ‘Maybe I’d like to finish high school and maybe I’d like to go to college.’ He had to drop out of school and go to work, to help the family. To help you. It wasn’t his choice to die before he turned forty-five.” She paused to take a breath, before delivering her final blow. “Or to have his daughter get pawed by his brother once a week.”
Uncle Mel’s face darkened. He raised his hands. “I think you misunderstood—”
“I think she understood fine,” Jo interrupted. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. We should report you to the board in charge of eye doctors.” Jo glared at him. “Or maybe your wife.”
In his study, behind his gleaming desk, Uncle Mel’s mouth was moving soundlessly. “I didn’t mean . . .” he finally managed. He gulped, then said, “I was distraught!”
“I bet Aunt
The next night, Bethie and Jo waited until six o’clock, when Uncle Mel was sure to be home, and drove to Southfield. Jo parked in the driveway, and the sisters walked to the door. Shirley’s expression went from annoyed to surprised when she saw that both sisters were there.
“Is Uncle Mel at home?” said Bethie. “Jo and I need to speak to him.” Her hands, her knees, even her neck, everything was quivering, but her voice was clear and steady. Shirley gave them a curious look, but she said, “Of course,” and led the girls into Uncle Mel’s office, which had bookshelves full of medical texts, and an imposing dark wood desk, where a fancy black and gold pen rested on a leather blotter. A minute later, Uncle Mel, in his suit pants and white lab coat, walked in.
“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise! What can I do for you young ladies?” he asked.
Bethie’s stomach felt fluttery, the way it did when her teachers handed out exams facedown, in the minutes before they said, “Begin.” She wanted to get up and run, out of the office, past Aunt Shirley and her cousins, through the gleaming kitchen, all the way back to the car. As if she’d read her mind, Jo took her hand and gave it a squeeze, and Bethie forced herself to breathe and tried to remember all the stories her sister had told her. Princess Bethie had faced the dragons and the wicked queen. She’d tamed the wild stallion and ridden on its back; she had hacked her own way through the forest of thorns before the prince ever showed up.
Uncle Mel was looking at her. Bethie swallowed, then started to speak. “You talked to me about ‘The Road Less Traveled’ at my father’s shiva. Remember? ‘Two roads diverged in a yellow wood’?”
Uncle Mel gave a cautious nod. Bethie felt her belly uncoil. The sick, sinking feeling she’d carried all summer was evaporating. What was left in its place was rage. Her chest and throat and cheeks felt hot. She kept her face still and made herself smile, and tilt her head, and speak sweetly.
“Our father didn’t choose, though. He didn’t get to choose. Your parents chose for him. He didn’t get to say, ‘Maybe I’d like to finish high school and maybe I’d like to go to college.’ He had to drop out of school and go to work, to help the family. To help you. It wasn’t his choice to die before he turned forty-five.” She paused to take a breath, before delivering her final blow. “Or to have his daughter get pawed by his brother once a week.”
Uncle Mel’s face darkened. He raised his hands. “I think you misunderstood—”
“I think she understood fine,” Jo interrupted. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. We should report you to the board in charge of eye doctors.” Jo glared at him. “Or maybe your wife.”
In his study, behind his gleaming desk, Uncle Mel’s mouth was moving soundlessly. “I didn’t mean . . .” he finally managed. He gulped, then said, “I was distraught!”
“I bet Aunt
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