“Suzie,” she says. With that, Susannah hops off the bed. She’s wearing a tight black T-shirt with the words Get Up the Yard slashed in white across the front. “Got anything to eat?” she says. “I’m starving.”
“And apparently shoeless.”
“My feet hurt. Plus I stepped in dog shit when I took Wilson outside for you. You’re welcome.”
“Where’ve you been, Susannah?”
“It’s Suzie,” she says. “Seriously, I’m fucking dying of hunger over here.”
* * *
DON’T GET ME wrong, I’m glad to see my sister. It’s just that her sudden reappearances can be jarring. She operates on her own timetable, rarely calls or emails, and disappears for months at a time, so seeing Susannah in the flesh is really the only confirmation I ever get that she’s even alive.
Whenever I would complain about something Susannah had done, like taking my books from my bedroom without asking or eating the last pack of peanut butter crackers in the pantry, Mom would commiserate, but she always ended those talks the same way. “I know it’s hard having a little sister,” she would say in her Irish lilt. “But she’s your little sister, Ethan. She’s the only one you’ve got.”
This was a refrain both of my parents often used to impress upon me the importance of being Susannah’s big brother, the unique role I was to play in her life. But once she was old enough to ride a tricycle, Susannah came to feel insulted by the idea that she could possibly need me to protect her. I was inclined to agree. People who messed with Susannah were more likely to need me to protect them from her. When I was twelve and Susannah was nine, a budding bully in our neighborhood named Jake called my curly-haired sister Brillo Head. The next day, Jake was riding his bike, a red Diamondback Octane, when the brakes failed to work and he crashed into a utility pole, breaking his forearm and collarbone. When Jake’s little brother Tommy told the rest of us on the cul-de-sac about Jake’s accident, I looked at Susannah. She gave me a ghost of a smile only I could see. More chilling than that smile was the pair of needle-nose pliers I found sitting on my dresser that evening, the perfect tool for snipping a brake line on a bike. I put the pliers back where they belonged, in the toolbox in our garage, but said nothing, partly because I couldn’t prove anything but also because I didn’t want to upset Mom and Dad—Mom because she would cry, Dad because I didn’t know how he would react.
A year after the bike incident, we were orphans.
* * *
SUSANNAH EATS A cheese-and-mushroom omelet and three pieces of toast. I settle for a glass of orange juice and more coffee. Afterward we sit on my front steps in the warm late morning and sip coffee as we watch Wilson explore the yard and chase chipmunks.
“Gotta love Atlanta,” Susannah says. “Middle of January and it’s like sixty degrees outside.”
“Global warming.”
“It’s a lie.”
“Global warming is a lie?”
“Straight-up liberal propaganda.”
“You know, I’ve never understood that,” I say. “The whole global warming conspiracy idea. What would be the point?”
“Political control. People who want to crush capitalism and introduce a world government. There’re documentaries and everything.”
I never know whether Susannah believes what she’s saying or not. I’ve found it’s safer to just listen and try not to start an argument.
“So, where’ve you been?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Around.”
“Around Atlanta?”
“Hell no.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Nashville. Cleveland for a little while. Saint Louis. Wanted to head out west, maybe Montana.”
“You didn’t?”
She shakes her head. “Didn’t feel right. So I ended up back here.” She speaks as if she has been on a summer road trip. I haven’t talked to her in over a year, haven’t seen her in two.
“You planning on staying for a while?” I ask, trying to sound neutral.
She shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe. Need to find a job. Your school need a substitute teacher?” When I look at her, she holds a hand up, palm forward. “Relax. Just kidding, Professor. Sheesh.” She takes out her phone and starts tapping at it.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Looking for a hardware store,” she says, still looking at her phone. “You need new locks.”
“Why do I—?” I stare at her. “Did you break into my house? I thought my neighbors let you in!”
She shakes her head. “Got in really late last night, figured you’d be home.” She looks up from her phone. “Speaking of, looks like somebody did the walk of shame this morning.”
“I was at a conference,” I say, feeling my cheeks redden. “There was a get-together last night. I stayed out late and crashed in someone’s hotel room.”
She smiles. “You’re a terrible liar. Relax, I don’t care. And I didn’t break anything. You just have shitty door locks. Oh, there’s an Ace Hardware just down the street. Perfect.” She slides her phone back into her pocket and looks expectantly at me.
* * *
AFTER I TAKE a shower, I walk over to my neighbors’ house to ask Tony if it’s okay for me to replace the front and back door locks at my expense. I tell him my sister’s visiting and she gets anxious about home security. Tony says sure, no problem, come over for a drink later if you want. I beg off, as I have no intention of introducing Susannah to anyone, let alone to Tony and Gene over drinks. Instead I bundle Susannah into my car and we drive to Ace Hardware, where Susannah—who insists that I call her Suzie, which I refuse to do—examines every dead bolt and door lock until she pronounces one brand acceptable. I buy two sets and spend the rest of the afternoon installing the things and doing what passes for my weekend housecleaning while Susannah washes a duffel bag of laundry and plays with Wilson.
Despite the fact that it’s a small house, we manage not to talk a lot to each other during the day, aside from the usual banter and bickering. Susannah is like a rare and edgy bird of prey—say the wrong thing and she’ll either claw you or take wing and vanish. I get the sense that she is tired and might like pretending to be domesticated for a couple of nights, so instead of inviting her to stay, I just assume that she will and don’t bother asking. But I am waiting for the right moment to ask her what’s going on, if she has any plans for the near future, and I figure dinnertime is it—she’ll be more relaxed, less likely to attack or bolt.
Dinner turns out to be pizza from Double Zero, which Susannah orders, has delivered, and pays for with cash, a gesture I appreciate. We eat on the couch, listening to the Lumineers and drinking beer. Wilson lies on the floor, happily exhausted from chasing his rope bone, which Susannah threw for him all afternoon.
Susannah is lying back on the couch, feet on the coffee table, eyes closed. I swear she’s even smiling. “So,” I say, deciding to tiptoe into this particular minefield, “you seen Uncle Gavin lately?”
Susannah snorts. “Fat chance. Thinks I owe him money.”