Mother of Pearl, a novel

Mother of Pearl

A novel, published by British American 1989

An excerpt from

Chapter One

  The elderly McAlister sisters, Pearl in khaki pants and Wanda Gay in an organdy dress, sat on the wedding porch of their family house swinging and arguing over the placement of the new rose bushes that had arrived in the afternoon mail. The argument had begun as soon as the mailman, who always approached the McAlister residence with caution, had delivered the package, which required a signature. Both sisters had been determined to sign for it, and both had been determined to open it. With two signatures on the delivery slip – one written with the delicacy of a spider’s web and the other with a heavy hand that sliced through the paper – the postman had left the sisters, each brandishing a pair of scissors, to open the package the best way they could. Together they had attacked it with scissors and clawing fingers until the string and wrapping was strewn about the porch and the rose bushes had tumbled into the yard.

  “The one labeled Blood Red is mine,” Wanda Gay said, going for the bush of her choice.

“You have always gone for blood, Sister.” Pearl, whose hair was winter white, cradled a bush marked Pink Beauty in her arms. “I prefer softer colors myself.”

  Then came the argument over ownership of the third bush, as well as the proper place for planting. Wanda Gay favored the backyard, but Pearl preferred the front. The argument would continue, their neighbors knew, into the afternoon and possibly the night.

  As expected, Pearl, rawboned, and Wanda Gay, round and heavily powdered, carried their planting dispute through supper, the feeding of the cats, and the washing of the dishes. Famous for their perpetual spats, each sister hardly ever had a kind word for the other, yet both were easily angered by any suggestion of hatred between them.

  This was their last spring together. Wanda Gay, a diabetic, was to take ill in the late summer and die in the Morehope County Hospital, and Pearl, accused of her sister’s death, was to last no longer than St. Valentine’s Day the following year. But that early spring evening when the fireflies were swarming about their bare legs, and the candle moths were clinging to the screen door, neither sister thought of dying. Into the night they sat on the porch where their parents had been joined in wedlock and argued vociferously over placement of the Tyler roses. Their neighbors across the fence listened to every word.

  “I intend to plant one of them under my window and the other two on either side of the sidewalk.” Pearl held a cigarette she had just rolled herself between her tightly pursed lips and spoke around it. “I also intend to have my way, Sister. It’s my green thumb not yours.”

  “You’ll get your way over my dead body.” Wanda Gay spoke in the most threatening tone her lack of energy would allow. “I will not have those rose thorns ripping my fine dresses when I decide to take the sidewalk.”

  “Then perhaps, Sister, you will not be taking the sidewalk anytime soon,” Pearl said, attempting to read the planting instructions by a shaft of light from the nearest window. “After the roses are planted you will be expected to change some of your daily habits. For example, when leaving or returning to the house you will be expected to remind yourself to use the driveway instead of the sidewalk. That won’t hurt you, will it?”

“I don’t see why I, a sugar diabetic invalid, should be the one to alter my daily routine,” said Wanda Gay. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “If you don’t wish to ruin your dresses, it makes sense,” said Pearl. Giving her total attention to the planting instructions, she abandoned the argument while Wanda Gay sulked.

  Presently Wanda Gay opened a can of mixed nuts. She picked out the Brazil nuts and threw them into the street. Then she amused herself by wondering out loud what they would be doing if their brother Frank were still alive.

  “Oh he’s not dead,” Pearl said, slowly lifting her cigarette to the center of her lips. “Not to me.”

Many years earlier, while sitting on another porch in another place, she had been forewarned of her brother’s death, but had never been able to accept it. To Pearl, Frank was still alive and her husband Teddy was alive as well.

  “Some people don’t really die,” she told her slightly older sister as thy sipped their evening tea on the porch swing. “They go on living someplace else and not all of them in the same place either. Sometimes you have to go to a lot of trouble to find them. Sometimes you have to go to a lot of trouble to keep them alive. Sometimes there’s no choice. Oh, there’s so much confusion on this subject, but it’s perfectly clear to me.

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