The Sacrifice. Joyce Carol Oates
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Sybilla tugged the window a few inches higher so that she could lean out, to pull Martine up and inside. Gave a little gasp of pain, blood rushing into her face must’ve been hot and heavy, and just leaning down the way she was seemed to be hurting her back. Martine grabbed hold of the window ledge and swung her legs up like a monkey, crawled through the window and fell into the room giggling into Sybilla’s arms.
“Oh M’tine! It’s you.”
“Yah I been missin you, S’b’lla. Why’re you here?”
“Mama made me come here.”
The girl-cousins were the same age. Same height and same size except Martine registered shock, hugging Sybilla tight and feeling that Sybilla was skinny.
“Fuck baby, who hurt you so bad?”
“Jesus, M’tine! Shh.”
Sybilla wriggled out of Martine’s arms. Had to pull down the damn window quietly so Grandma wouldn’t hear and bust in on them.
Pearline Tice was some ancient age but sharp-eared and sharp-eyed. People said admiringly of Pearline you can’t put anything over on that lady. She’d had seven children, twenty-one grandchildren, more great-grandchildren than anyone could count scattered through the State of New Jersey and beyond.
“You OK, S’b’lla?”
“Yah. Aint gonna die, I guess.”
Sybilla climbed up onto the big bed which took up most of the room. Only a few inches so the door could be opened, and a few feet for a battered old chest of drawers and an ugly old radiator. Martine climbed up beside her breathless and dazed.
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