Luckily he was a sweet boy, Connor. He had Tim’s disposition, and the Murphy dimples; he was happy to be held, cooed at the girls. And they were sweet with him, relaxed, often doting: they’d been babysitting for years. But for all the playing and soothing, feeding and diapering, all the households to which they’d come and gone, neither Sara nor Delia had realized how much space a baby could claim. Now here was Connor, toys strewn across the living room, his extra changing space displacing the alcove drawing table; baskets of baby laundry in the kitchen, on the stairs, onesies fresh from the dryer dumped onto the sofa. The upstairs bathroom was overrun with ducks and blue boats (cute ducks, cute boats), baby wash, baby towels. Had Sara and Delia taken up as much space? (Yes and no.) Connor’s cries carried through the house, even when they weren’t babysitting: how could this be a surprise? They’d neglected to consider the hours during which they’d study or talk on the phone, the usual television times, the nights before meets or exams, when performance depended on rest; or that Connor’s moods would be tied to Katy’s. Together Connor and Katy were content; together they were miserable.
Nor had Sara and Delia anticipated all Katy’s ways of taking command—habits picked up, Sara guessed, from attorneys. Too often, her sentences began, Sara/Delia, I need you to _______. At first, Connor’s fragile newborn state seemed to justify peremptory demands. But they did not stop, and Katy’s tunnel vision did not broaden. She might hand the baby to Sara the moment Sara walked in from her swim meet. Just before the girls’ last visit to Beverly, Katy had called, “Delia, I need you to feed Connor,” even as Delia buttoned her coat to leave.
“We’re going to see Dad and Josie,” Delia said. “Get Tim.”
“Tim’s sleeping,” Katy said. She trudged upstairs to retrieve Connor herself, and from the stairs called, “When will you be back?” as if Tim was in fact awake.
Thoughtless but not angry, not Katy’s worst: her yelling could be stippled with rage, which Sara could not bear. Out of proportion, or in response to issues Sara failed to see. In those moments, Nora might speak sternly to Katy, then ignore her, or Delia might snap back; as usual, Sara would freeze until the tirade ended, or involuntarily flee. She found Katy’s melancholy less frightening, if as involving. You couldn’t get away from Katy’s discomfort: she needed, it seemed, to share every bit, as if her body were a country she couldn’t stand to live in alone.
When they were not watching Connor, the girls retreated to their now-shared room, often with homework. This was no guarantee: Katy might walk in and sit on Sara’s bed and begin with I need; or she might stretch out, exhausted, as if hiding out with them. Schoolwork was the best defense. Sara and Delia would leave textbooks open on their pillows, just in case.
This is my study time, Sara would say, it’s chemistry or it’s history or it’s math, and Katy would leave her.
Away in the shared bedroom, though hardly away. The girls listened to headphones connected to Walkmen. They were in a pink phase, Delia in particular: pink lip glosses, pink nail polish, pink stickers on the headphones. A pink-and-white bedspread (Sara’s plain white). They wore jeans; their hamper filled with pink and gray running clothes. Swim goggles hung on the doorknobs, blue varsity jackets, pink swim caps, pink sweatshirts. The pink and the goggles lent them the look of candied Martians. They took to keeping Cheerios and other snacks in their room, so they could hide longer when Katy’s moods filled the house, or when they needed to dodge unscheduled child care.
About Katy’s encroachments, they said nothing to Nora, who could see it all well enough for herself and had been up several nights with Connor. She smoked off-brand cigarettes on the deck, bought discount Cheerios again. No-Cheerios, Delia called them. Now and then Tim brought leftovers home from the restaurant, which counterbalanced the weirder foods their mother picked up: off-brand peas, dried kidney beans, canned mackerel, generic mac and cheese. She’d gone to a pantry somewhere. Once in a while they’d run out of milk, and a thinnish papery-tasting stuff appeared in a jug in the refrigerator. It turned the tea gray. At least, when Katy found it, she’d shop for two-percent.
Consulting, James repeated. For support he sent token amounts, or brief notes to Nora instead. No one talked about the college funds: Sara and Delia had snooped around in Beverly, they’d seen some of the bills. At least at James and Josie’s, they could relax; at least they always ate well. The girls did not ask for money or food, but late at night, while the others slept, Sara would raid the Beverly kitchen, just as Katy once did, slipping granola and maple syrup and sometimes cans of beer into her book bag. Did James notice? Josie said nothing. Here was one more kind of silence; most weekends, Sara found new jars of crunchy peanut butter, fresh boxes of granola, more Cheerios, and Delia’s favorite jam shelved in front.