And she added at the last, Reid misses you, Bethany.
When Ninea had read the letter, she stood silent and staring at Bethany. She wanted to say, They’re right you know, the words stood clear in the air between them. She said nothing, though there were tears in her eyes. At last she said, to change the subject, “Grandfather is holding something back, something about us.”
“Yes. Can you tell what?”
Ninea shook her head. “I get a thought sometimes, of you standing in the wind on the grass tower, only your hair is long again and you’re older, almost a woman,” she said, puzzled. “Or is it me?” And they had heard Grandfather pause in conversation several times as if his thoughts were suddenly elsewhere. “Do you see it in his mind? He—”
“No,” Bethany said jealously, “I don’t get as much from him as you do.”
Even Corrinne said, “Your Grandfather has a sadness, you can see it in his eyes.” She looked at them sternly. “You two must try to bring joy to his life. You must not be a trial to him.” Corrinne made them a very special dinner on their last night in Panama, and Bethany felt a terrible lump in her middle at leaving the old lady. She kissed her good-by the next morning just as tearfully as Ninea did. The parting with Senora Ruiz was not nearly so painful.
They left the house before sunup to board their flight for San Francisco, and as the plane took off, the sky was streaked with a deep pink. They were wearing their new red plaid skirts and red sweaters so they were stared at for their twinness more than ever. The stewardess grinned at them, asked Grandfather how he told them apart, and gave them special breakfasts from the first class section. If there were tensions between them, if there were questions, these things were still momentarily. Even going through customs in Los Angeles, when they had to get off the plane and open their luggage then get back on, they were stared at and remarked over, and when at last they came down the ramp in San Francisco, and Justin saw them, Bethany could not contain her glee. You could see it in Justin’s face, as if, even knowing they would be alike, she had not been able to imagine they would be so alike as this. And when Reid, working on the new wing— golden lumber against the dark weathered gray of the old house—heard the car and came to open the doors for them, Bethany thought he would not know her. “Are you Reid?” she asked in her best imitation of Ninea’s accent. She put out her hand. “I am Ninea.”
He looked deeply at her, then turned to look at the real Ninea, then turned once again to Bethany and took her hand firmly. “How do you do?” he said very formally. “May I kiss you hello? Or should I only kiss Bethany?” And he let go her hand and put out his arms to Ninea so that Bethany, outdone, shrieked, “No!” Then she saw the laughter behind his eyes, and flushed.
The new rooms, already framed and roofed, made three sides around a little deck. The sitting room was at the back, on the inland side, and Bethany’s and Ninea’s rooms flanked the deck and thrust their bay windows toward the sea. The sitting room opened to the kitchen, and had its own fireplace and a skylight. The girls stood breathing the scent of new wood and staring upward at the rafters and the filtered light, and outward at the sea, and Bethany could feel the serenity in Ninea then, as if she had come home.
Chapter 13
They were standing in front of the empty mercantile, their red sweaters reflecting in the dusty windows, windows that seemed, to Bethany, still to hold a smeared image of candlelight in their depths. Show me the ritual, Ninea thought eagerly. Make the drapes pull back, make her say the words—
No. I don’t want to. She turned to face Ninea and said aloud, “I really don’t.” But in spite of herself the words seemed to hang on the air between them—
“Yes!” Ninea whispered, “—as the sea rises and the winds tear at the heavens. And then Selma made the signs over the candles, and you—”
“Oh, don’t,” Bethany pleaded. “Please don’t.”
Ninea drew back and dropped her head, looking up at Bethany through her lashes for an instant, then turned away. “Yes. All right.” But her thoughts went heavy; she wanted the darkness to come around them. Bethany stared.
“Ninea, don’t! You can’t want—” She put her hand on Ninea’s arm, and felt, in spite of her anger, a terrible tenderness for her sister. As if Ninea truly couldn’t help it, as if the very anger and hurt that had colored her childhood had made her somehow so susceptible to the darkness. But Ninea didn’t want sympathy. She spun away then turned to face Bethany with her dark eyes huge with quick fury, searching Bethany’s face belligerently. Changeable as quicksilver, she was. “You can’t!” Bethany said, almost screaming, “You can’t feel like that, want that!” She was furious.
“We could—” Ninea breathed, a devilish look on her face, “Together we could do anything.”
Bethany stared back at her stubbornly, and they stood glowering at each other. Then quite suddenly Ninea looked down and all her fierceness was gone, like the stuffing out of a doll. She moved to touch Bethany’s hand. “I’m sorry, I— Sometimes, I don’t know, it’s as if I do things to make people hate me, to make you angry. I’m sorry, Bethany.” Bethany put her arm around her, and they stood quietly.
This morning, yesterday, it had been so lovely, Ninea had been so eager with the newness of the village and the dunes; Bethany had seen her own world come alive all fresh through Ninea’s eyes, the dunes, the grass tower beckoning, alive with silver spider webs and dew-laden blades and with the scurryings of small animals. She had seen freshly, as Ninea saw, the great rolling breakers leaping and pounding along the endless shore, had seen the village for the first time, its gutters blown with sand and eucalyptus leaves, a village coming alive suddenly across the shadowed impressions in Ninea’s mind. She had watched Ninea run across the deserted early morning street turning cartwheels in the sand, and they had stood together on this street and watched, surprised, as the old man came out from the alley, hitched up his trousers, and spat, his baseball cap hanging crooked across his stringy hair. They had watched apprehensively his approach, felt his sudden fear of them. Then seen, in his spinning hazy thoughts a scene which lay, now, against some cool gate of Bethany’s mind.
A vision of the grass tower had come to them sharply from this old man, a vision with the wind blowing hard, lifting and tearing the grasses in great tides. And in the wind, running along the shore like a red bird blown before the gusts, came a woman: a young woman, her red hair ripping and tangling like a great cloak, a woman—the shock of her made them tremble: it was as if each were seeing herself as she would grow to be; she had climbed through the whipping grasses and stood on the peak looking out at the storming sea.
Through the eyes of the man watching from below, they knew wonder and desire. Then a terrible fear. And then hate.
“What made him?” Ninea said now, turning, “What made him—?”
“Hate her? I don’t know. But who— Who is she?
They stared at each other trying to see past what they knew into what lay hidden still in darkness, trying to see past this time to a time when, perhaps, it would be one of them standing, beautiful and free—and hated.
“It wasn’t the future, though,” Bethany said. “It was — Didn’t you feel the strength in him, like a young man? It was a time past.”