Carson takes a seat on one of the benches of the picnic table. “Will,” she says. “I got fired.”
Willa inhales. “You did? What happened? When was this?”
“End of July,” Carson says. “I was inappropriate at work.”
“Inappropriate, meaning…”
“I did shots with a customer. I French-kissed a customer. I did cocaine in the bathroom.”
“Carson!” Willa says. “Tell me you’re kidding. Please tell me you’re kidding!”
Carson bows her head. When she looks up, her eyes are like two flashing emeralds. Willa remembers when they were little girls, their father would come into their room in the mornings and say to Carson, “Wake up and show us the jewels.” He never said this to Willa; her eyes are brown.
“Not lying,” Carson says. Her voice is taut and Willa relaxes. There’s going to be a fight, which Willa is prepared for. “I suppose you’re going to judge me now,” Carson says. “Because you’re perfect—by which I mean you’re sheltered and unadventurous, and although you’re three years older than me, I’ve lived a far more exciting life.”
Willa wants to ask more questions about Carson getting fired—getting fired, how mortifying; what is she doing to the family name?—but instead, she cuts to the chase. She pulls the thong out of the pocket of her floor-length prairie skirt （she’s surprised Carson hasn’t yet made a crack about Laura Ingalls Wilder） and places it between them on the picnic table.
“That yours?” Willa asks. She eyes the thong with distaste. It’s a scarlet scrap of lace with a hole in it. Tawdry.
Carson picks it up, pokes a finger through the hole. “What the hell, Will? Did you come home and raid the laundry? What’s going on?”
“What’s going on,” Willa says, “is that Pamela found that in Zach’s pants pocket.”
Understanding sweeps across Carson’s face like passing headlights through a dark house. “It’s not mine.”
“It is so. You just admitted it.”
“I have underwear like that,” Carson says. “But if they were in Zach’s pants pocket, they obviously aren’t mine.” She brings her eyes up to challenge Willa. “Are they?”
“They are,” Willa says. She turns to face the dunes, the ocean. The breeze lifts her hair, stirs the loose material of her skirt. “It’s you. You’re the one who’s sleeping with Zach. The one person I chose to confide in, ironically. He’s forty-two years old, Carson. He’s my sister-in-law’s husband!”
Carson stands and Willa is afraid she’s going to walk out. That would be a very Carson thing to do—drive off without another word. “Don’t run away, you coward!”
“I’m a coward?” Carson says. “You’re the one who married your childhood sweetheart.”
“Don’t change the subject,” Willa says. “I want to hear you admit it. You’re having an affair with Zach.”
Carson says nothing.
“You realize that’s disgusting? And immoral?” Willa steps right up to her sister and lowers her voice. “Mom would be so disappointed in you. You’re dishonoring her, you’re disrespecting me, you’re destroying the family that I’m trying to hold together.”
Carson screams, “Not everything is about you, Willa!”
Willa slaps Carson hard, right across the face. Carson doesn’t flinch. “You know nothing about what happened with Zach and me,” Carson says, “and if I explained it to you, you still wouldn’t understand. Because you aren’t a human being. You’re a…robot, a housewife robot, whatever those are called. You’re miserable in your life because you can’t grow a baby so you make yourself feel better by judging everyone else.”
“I’m judging you because you’re my sister and you’ve been screwing things up your entire life as a cry for attention and so people would look at you and tell you how pretty you are—”
“Ah,” Carson says. “Now we’re getting to the real issue. You’re jealous of me.”
Again, Willa slaps Carson hard, so hard her hand stings. She can’t believe the fury that overtakes her. She’s trembling; her ears clog, her eyes water. She pulls her hand back to hit Carson again, and Carson grabs Willa by the forearm and pushes her away.
Willa steps backward and her foot gets caught in the hem of her skirt. She tumbles down the deck stairs.