S: Sister's Stack of Change

Chapter: Kid, Little Sister's Stack of Change

I find the quarters in neat little stacks under the couch. In fact I am
looking for change, but I didn't expect to find what looks like several
dollars hidden away like this. The quarters are stacked on top of a
paperback book, which I pull slowly out from under the couch. Some of
the quarters fall over as I pull.

At the sound of the clinking change, my little sister looks away from
the television and at me. The look on her face tells me that this money
is hers. At first I don't say anything, pushing the quarters with my
fingers. Another stack falls over. There are eight quarters for each
pile. And there are a lot of piles.

"Whose is all this?" I ask, even though I know the answer.

My sister stares at me, the corners of her mouth in the same frown she
wears in every picture we have of her. Her hair is cut with the bangs
making a straight line across her forehead. She doesn't say
anything.

"This is a lot of money," I say. Behind my sister, the television sound
is so low that I can barely hear it. A cartoon version of Wonder Woman
is speaking, her mouth the only thing that's moving while the rest of
her body stands still. Wonder Woman looks flat, a bad drawing that I
know I could do better. My sister turns around so that she's facing
me.

"It's mine," she says, finally, her voice a whine. But there's
something else. She looks afraid. She picks at the carpet with her
fingers.

"Where did you get it?" I ask. "Did you steal it?"

She shakes her head. I turn over a stack of quarters, which are all
face up, checking to see if they are my mother's Bicentennial quarters.
My mother keeps those special quarters in a jar, hidden in the closet,
and we are forbidden to touch them. Sometimes we take them anyway, but
all of my sister's quarters have the regular eagle on the back. There
are old quarters and shiny new ones. Satisfied that they are not my
mother's, I put the stacks neatly together again.

"Why are they all quarters?"

At this my sister shrugs, then shuffles towards me on her hands and
knees until she is sitting directly across from me, the quarters
between us. She reaches out her hand, but I slap it away.

"Where did you get them?" I pull the book closer to me, along with the
quarters, because if my sister manages to grab some of them and make it
out the front door, I know from experience that she will be hard to
catch. I watch her closely.

"Nowhere," she tells me, "I saved them up." She looks down, and I know
she's lying.

"Saved them up? From where? And why didn't you say anything when I
asked you if you had any money?" I'm not mad at her, because I would
say the same thing. But I'm curious, and wonder if she has piles of
change hidden away in the apartment, maybe the dimes and nickels that
are missing from these stacks. She would have plenty of hiding places
in the apartment, too many for me to find.

"From the store," she answers, still looking at the floor. What she
means is that she has saved her change when my mother has given us a
dollar to two to buy sodas, or candy. She knows I won't believe this,
either.

I decide to try something different. I say, "Well, if that's true, then
really this belongs to both of us, since it's Mama's money." Finally
she looks up at me, her face folding in on itself like she might start
crying.

"No," she whines, and I catch her arm as she makes a grab for the
change.

"Then tell me where it's from," I say, holding her arm. Her shoulders
sag, but she's not crying yet. I don't want her to, because if she
starts crying, I may never find out where the quarters came from. Also
I'm worried that my big sister might come out of her room any minute
now, and take the quarters. My little sister crying is sure to bring
the big one.

My sister stays quiet for a few more seconds. When I let go of her arm,
she says, "From that man over there," her hand pointing towards the
front door.

"What man?" I ask, but I think I know who she's talking about. The man
is somebody's uncle and lives in one of the basement apartments with
another kid and her parents. As far as I can tell, he never works. He
sits on the sunken patio outside of his apartment, sometimes playing a
guitar. There are always neighborhood kids around him. He gives out
candy, or plays songs on his guitar while they listen. Sometimes he
lets the kids hold his guitar, always keeping one hand underneath in
case they drop it.

"The one who sits outside all the time? Playing the guitar?" I ask,
wanting to make sure. My sister nods.

I think about this man. I don't know how old he is, but he has black
hair with some gray in it, and sideburns that puff out on the side of
his face and meet up with his moustache. When it's getting dark he sits
on his patio below the sidewalk, looking like a werewolf that watches
people passing by. He smokes, one thin brown cigarette after another,
and throws the butts out onto the grass, where they sit and sometimes
swell up from the rain until somebody picks them up.

What makes me stand with the other kids in front of this man is that he
always wears the same cut off jeans, the frayed edges up against his
furry legs. Sometimes when he shifts, or puts his leg up on the patio
ledge, I can see the dark hair and skin of his private parts. He
doesn't wear underwear, and doesn't seem to notice that he is giving us
all a show. With all of the other kids around I am free to look, but
also I am amazed, because I am always so careful when I'm wearing
shorts to make sure no one can see up there. Even if I do wear
underwear.

"Why did he give you money?" I ask my sister, who is back to staring
down at the carpet. She breathes a little loudly, but I don't think
she'll start crying. She shrugs, a tiny lift of her shoulders, the
carpet making tearing noises under her fingers.

"You can tell me. I promise I won't tell anybody else." This isn't
really true, because I don't know what I'll do with the answer she'll
give me.

"He looks at my butt," she says quickly, this time looking me right in
the face. I look back, embarrassed, and then it is me who is staring at
the carpet. I feel like laughing out loud, but not because it's
funny.

"Looks at your butt? Where?" I ask finally.

"In his room."

"In his room? How many times have you done it?"

"I don't know," she answers. She is close to crying again. I could ask
her how much he pays her, and then divide that into the money sitting
between us. But I'm not sure I really want to know how many
times.

"What else does he do?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says. This question makes her look up, scared. "You
can't tell anybody. You promised."

I think about this, listening to my sister pull on the carpet. The
ripping sounds she makes mix with the voices from the television. The
voices sound phony, like all of the superheroes in cartoons who save
men and women from the bad guys. The bad guys always laugh too much,
and have high, scratchy voices.

I push the book holding the quarters back under the couch, just as
slowly as I pulled it out. I don't look at my sister, who has stopped
tugging on the carpet. Her hands are spread out in front of her. I can
see them out of the corner of my eye. I know this money will disappear
the minute I leave the room.

"Don't do that anymore," I tell her. When I look at her she nods
quickly, her eyes wide but not so afraid, like we are playing a new
game, or telling secrets.