It was all Mother’s fault, really. She was always so protective of my little sister, her baby Lorene.
Lorene, don’t do that! Lorene, be careful! Lorene, that’s too much for you, dear!
It’s a wonder that Lorene ever married, even. But for things to turn out like they did…well….
Lorene and Peter seemed like a match made in heaven…she being so delicate and ladylike, him so protective and determined. It just sort of worked out that she stayed home and kept house while he fended off the outside world, including running all the errands on Saturday. Every once in a while, he would take her to the grocery store as a treat, but she mainly stayed home.
I don’t know how she stood it, myself. But when I would take Mother over for a visit, Lorene seemed happy enough. She had her TV and mail-order catalogues and the newspaper. She read that paper cover to cover and knew all about every disaster or shooting or accident statistic almost before anyone.
Well, they went on like that for years. Lorene doted on their baby George. She raised him to be clean-cut and well-mannered, for sure. She would walk him to the park every afternoon until she read in the paper that children were being kidnapped and molested in public parks. After that, she stayed home and kept George home. She would have taught him at home, too, but Peter finally put his foot down. His boy was going to be a regular kid. He did agree to send George to a private school, though.
Meanwhile, Peter was climbing that old ladder at his job, finally becoming regional manager, which meant a lot of travel. Lorene was alone more and more, as Peter traveled and George grew older.
I was really worried about her when George finally went off to college. I told her she ought to go back to school or get a job, but she would have none of it. She just stayed in the house, barely venturing out to tend her vegetable garden or get the mail. Even then, she’d have been all right if Peter hadn’t insisted on redecorating and adding the pool.
The next thing you know, my sister, who hadn’t been anywhere for years, much less talked to strangers, was having to supervise this huge group of plumbers, painters, carpenters, and backhoe operators. She had to let them in, give them Peter’s instructions, and watch them to be sure every task was carried out to the letter — when all the time, what she wanted to do was lock the door, hide in the quietest room in the house, and pull the shades. Meanwhile, the backhoe was going all day long in the back yard, except for when the men had to blast for rock.
I should have seen the strain she was under that last time I ran by her house to see how things were coming along. She was pale, had lost weight, and the tic she had had in high school was back. But like everyone else, all I could see was the remodeling.
When I asked her how the work was coming along, Lorene looked at the floor and muttered, “It is constant — cleaning up the dirt and leaves that foreman tracks in from outside. I try but he won’t listen. He just looks at me. I can’t stand how he looks at me.”
The next time I saw her was at the police station after she was arrested for the foreman’s murder. She was frozen in the corner of her cell, with her now-blood-soaked apron still tied snuggly around her waist, repeating over and over, “Cover his eyes….”
*****
This story is a companion piece to my story Fellow Traveler, previously published on Medium in 2024 and recently here on Picking Up the Pieces of Me.
Did not see that coming!
Great turn at the end, clean and sharp!