by Ani Katz
And butter?
Yeah.
Good. You’ll help me, won’t you?
My sisters nodded, suddenly docile.
Perfect. But let’s clean first.
That’s how Miriam was. She made everything better. Easier. She brought life and order to things in a way that I couldn’t. She wasn’t like other women I’d met in New York—the crazy and seductive ones. The ones who ordered round after round, the ones who made you meet them in bathrooms, the ones who swept you into cabs and laughingly bawled out the next destination—a bar, a hotel, her place, your place. Those women would take control of you, but their good times were always on the verge of anarchy. They would say they needed you, they would beg you to stay. But when they were done with you, they’d drop you.
Even with her bedroom games, Miriam was different. Not at all frivolous. She made everything more enjoyable, more meaningful. You felt clean somehow, content in ways you’d never thought possible. Whenever she entered a room, she didn’t just light it up. It was more than that. It suddenly felt as if her absence had been intolerable and unthinkable, her presence absolutely necessary. I could tell that my sisters were responding to her favorably, that soon they would adore her as much as I did.
An hour or so later, when my mother finally descended the stairs in her dressing gown, the smell of smoke was gone, the kitchen was clean, and the new cake was in the oven. My mother entered the room cautiously, wide-eyed, as if she were a guest in someone else’s home.
Happy birthday, Mommy, my sisters droned, their voices oddly flat.
Look what we did.
Isn’t it nice?
Very nice, my mother said, kissing each of her daughters. Very nice. Thank you, my dears. You really shouldn’t have.
She pretended to be happy, but I could tell by the shape of her mouth that her pleasure was tainted, that the sight of the clean kitchen had thrown her own negligence into relief—that our thoughtfulness was its own kind of rebuke. She looked around, perhaps noticing the rich peach color of the backsplash now that the tiles had been scrubbed of grime, or the way a brighter light hovered on the newly shining teakettle, or how spacious the counters seemed once they’d been cleared. Then she regarded each of us with a doubtful, close-lipped smile, as though she were trying to remember who we were.
* * *
—
We ate breakfast. We swam in the pool. Miriam wore a white bikini. I told myself to relax, that everything was fine. I told myself that I would find the ring.
But my sisters wouldn’t leave Miriam alone. They complimented her ceaselessly and pestered her to smear sunscreen on their backs, leaning too sensuously into the caress of her palms when they easily could have taken care of each other without bothering her. They followed her from pool to chaise and back again, as if she were a toddler they couldn’t let out of their sight, taking every opportunity to touch her bare skin.
Then they got bored with the pool and insisted Miriam come and see their art, tying towels around their waists and tugging her by the arm up the stairs. Their shared bedroom was a junk shop of porcelain dolls, stuffed animals, art supplies, and piles of clothing that must have dated back to the decade the house was built. They still had the same enchanted forest wallpaper they had picked out when they were six years old, wan fairies and spindly unicorns peering out at us from a gothic wilderness of elms. One wall had been swallowed up by a mural of the twins’ own making—a thin, dark-haired girl with angel wings, suspended in a starry sky with the city at her feet. I averted my eyes when I realized who the angel was supposed to be.
My sisters dragged out their sketchbooks, their acrylics on wood panels, their oils on buckled canvases, and soon the bedroom was awash with young girls whose breasts and heads dissolved into butterflies or smoke, girls who were torn apart by flocks of outstretched hands, girls who sprouted tails and scales, girls who clawed their way out of gardens of succulents, girls who gazed into mirrors and saw monsters staring back, girls who embraced androgynous boys, their bodies bleeding together in swirls of shadow.
I leaned against the doorway while Miriam, still in her bikini, sat on one of the narrow beds and looked at everything my sisters showed her. She paged through their sketchbooks, letting her eyes linger on each work for the appropriate number of considerate seconds. She laid paintings down on the faded Persian rug, made a fuss over a few choice works.
I love this one, she said, examining an oil of an anemic couple floating together in a stormy sky. It reminds me of a Chagall. The colors and the gestures.
Oh, that’s Bella and Edward, Kit said. From Twilight.
I’m not familiar, Miriam confessed.
You don’t know Twilight? Seriously?
I’ll explain, Kit sighed. So Edward is a vampire, but he won’t drink Bella’s blood because he loves her.
And he won’t have sex with her either, Deedee added. Because he’s afraid he’ll kill her if he does.
I see, Miriam said, winking at me. How romantic.
They want to so badly though. It’s insane.
Then when they finally do he knocks her unconscious and she gets pregnant but since it’s a vampire baby it breaks all her bones and almost kills her and Edward has to, like, cut the baby out of her belly and finally turn Bella into a vampire.
You’re too old for this garbage, I told the girls, but they ignored me.
They still didn’t want to let Miriam go. They searched the room for other things to show her, rummaging through their belongings until Deedee opened a dresser drawer and let out a little gasp of delight.
Oh, Miriam! she cried. She held up a small battered box decorated with an evil eye. Can we read your tarot cards?
Miriam looked to me again, eyes mirthful, as if we were sharing a joke.
You don’t have to, I said. Don’t feel obligated.
Sure, she said, rolling the word over her lips. Why not?
This was how my sisters chose to spend their time. Tarot cards, horoscopes, natal charts. Slightly preferable to hours of television, on par with their overwrought art making, but not nearly as respectable as dipping their toes into the Western canon or hazarding some GED prep. They were very strange girls, would-be teenage witches, too old to act like such adolescents. And they were related to me. They arranged themselves with legs carelessly akimbo on the rug to begin the reading.
Okay, Deedee said. Miriam has to shuffle the deck first.
Miriam took the oversize cards in her hands and rearranged them, her long slender fingers transformed into crawling arachnids.
Okay, Deedee said. Now, think carefully about any questions you wish to ask the cards, and cut the deck for me. Choose five cards and lay them facedown in an arch. Like that. Exactly.
Just the five-card reading? Why don’t you do Celtic cross?
It’s too complicated. I forget what all the positions mean.
Deedee turned over the first card to reveal a woman in blue robes seated on a throne, a crown on her head, a scroll in her hands, and behind her, a veil of stars.
Uh-huh, Kit said, nodding to herself. That makes sense.
What? Miriam asked, looking puzzled.
So this first card is supposed to represent how you are at the present moment. And it’s the High Priestess.
It means you’re secretive and mysterious, and you trust your instincts above all.
You’re, like, typical High Priestess material. One hundred percent. Don’t you think so, Thomas?
Secretive and mysterious? Perhaps. There were things about Miriam that I did not know, dark corners of her childhood and certain adventures from her years of travel that we hadn’t yet explored together. But I knew she would tell me everything eventually. We could tell our stories slowly, judiciously, dealing cards from our decks and laying them on the table one by one. We had plenty of time.
So that’s who
you are right now, Deedee said. This next card is your present desires. The things that you want.
She turned over the card to reveal spears sailing through an open sky, their shafts budding with green leaves.
Eight of Wands.
What does this one mean?
It means you are moving with great haste and hope toward happiness.
You have a sense of urgency, but in a good way.
Miriam looked up at me and grinned.
Oh, she said lightly. I wonder what that could be about.
No idea, I said. Maybe you’re going to meet someone special soon.
Oh, Thomas, she sighed. Don’t do that.
Just ignore him, Kit said. He’s trying to ruin the atmosphere.
Now, Deedee continued. Here at the center we have the card that represents the idea of the unexpected in your life.
She turned over the card and nodded thoughtfully at the ivory hand clutching a crowned sword.
Ace of Swords. Very interesting.
Why interesting?
This is a very strong card, but it can represent force in both love and hatred.
Basically it symbolizes the triumph of something, but it could be either good or bad. So the fact that it represents the unexpected is interesting.
It’s, like, double intense uncertainty.
I sighed audibly and my sisters glared at me. They wanted Miriam all to themselves, and I was ruining their fun.
Okay, what’s the next card?
It was Adam and Eve, naked, flanked by trees of fruit and fire, gazing up at the terrible yet beatific visage of an angel.
The Lovers!
This is your immediate future. It means you’ll find love and overcome your trials.
I’m sensing a pattern, Miriam laughed.
I’d begun to sweat. The air in the room had grown close, hot and humid from the wet bathing suits and the sticky warmth of bodies and breath. Somewhere outside a dog began to bark, and a lawn mower started up. Not in our yard, of course.
Yeah, sometimes it’s like that, Kit said. Let’s see what we have for outcome.
This is how things will end up for you, not just in the immediate future.
The card showed the great arc of a rainbow, a husband and wife holding each other close in rapture, two small children dancing beside them—seemingly oblivious, but apparently content. Beyond, a cozy house tucked into a copse of trees.
Ah, Ten of Cups.
That’s a good one.
Classic happy-ending card.
This means you will have a perfect home and a good marriage.
All your dreams will come true.
I didn’t realize the cards could be so clear about happy endings, Miriam said.
Sometimes it works out that way.
The happy ending was an appealing vindication, tempting to believe, but I didn’t buy it. You couldn’t put your trust in these kinds of things. You could try to convince yourself that the cards applied to your life and that they had special significance for you and you alone, but really everything was completely bland and generic. Any fool could see themselves in those stories, and any fool should be able to understand that promises of happy endings meant less than nothing. I looked up at the mural again and decided the angel didn’t look like Evie at all.
Deedee collected the cards and had begun to shuffle them back together when Kit gasped and threw up her hands, almost striking Miriam in her panic.
Wait, Deedee!
What?
You didn’t do it right!
What do you mean?
You read them all upright, but they mean different things when they’re turned upside down.
Oh shit, you’re right!
Like doesn’t the Lovers mean the total opposite when it’s facing the other way?
Was that one upside down?
I don’t remember.
Don’t worry, Miriam said. I’m sure it won’t matter.
Of course it doesn’t matter, I said. It’s all nonsense.
Thomas!
You’re rotting your brains with this stuff.
Stop ruining it!
I’d had enough. I stepped out into the cooler air of the hallway and crept carefully past my mother’s darkened bedroom, where she’d been napping since breakfast. I hovered at the top of the stairs, waiting for Miriam to follow me, counting the long beats of silence until I heard the muffled, mouth-covered giggling of three girls.
I went downstairs alone.
* * *
■ ■ ■
I always considered Miriam to be an attractively rational person. She always expressed herself with cogent economy, never giving in to sulks or spasms of uncontrolled emotion. She was clear-eyed, almost cold in the way that she assessed every situation, gathering facts and proceeding with educated caution, with dignity, with regard for propriety and the feelings of everyone involved. She made lists of pros and cons, talked things through, never made important decisions without asking how I felt.
She was always so rational, and yet sometimes there were quiet glimmers of a sentimental nature that seemed to be at odds with what I knew of her. Secretly, when she thought no one was looking, she would get misty-eyed over the most absurd things, things she’d see online—a video about the plight of elderly shelter dogs, a news item about a man with a deteriorating brain whose stepdaughter asked him to adopt her, a car commercial depicting a family road trip to scatter the ashes of their dead patriarch into the Pacific.
Miriam would admit these moments of emotion to me later, laughing, as if she knew they were silly, but even as she tried to laugh it off her eyes would glaze over anew with fresh tears. And then I would worry she was too soft, too childlike, too much like the women of my blood.
Years later, I would wake and catch her praying one desolate winter night—hands clutching her elbows, body bent toward the frail glow of the ice-slicked bedroom window, her lips quivering with whispered words I did not understand. It reminded me of something I’d seen in an art history class, a painting of a girl reading a letter at an open window—weak sun on her profile, her somber face the only point of light in a darkened room.
I can’t remember why she was praying. It’s possible that I never asked her.
* * *
■ ■ ■
Late that afternoon I took my sisters in the car to go shopping. We needed to pick up a few more things for dinner that I hadn’t had time to get in the city, and I figured it might be good for them to get out of the house for once and go for a drive.
Miriam stayed behind. I told her to relax and gather her strength for the evening ahead.
I regretted the excursion immediately. My sisters fought over the front seat, screeching and shoving each other out of the way like little children, then fought with me over the radio station, then fought with me again when I wouldn’t stop at the ice cream parlor or the used clothing store on Main Street. At the Italian market in the next town over I ordered lamb chops from the butcher counter and the girls wandered through the aisles, shouting rude observations about what looked good and what didn’t, fingering packages and produce. When I turned and saw Deedee lolling her tongue along an eggplant I chased them down.
Don’t do that, I hissed.
Do what?
Touch everything!
Kit yawned and stretched the thin prongs of her arms skyward, revealing that beneath her oversize T-shirt she wasn’t wearing any shorts, just the damp bikini bottom she hadn’t bothered to change out of.
We’re just seeing what they have.
Just checking out the wares.
You don’t have to get your hands all over everything, I seethed. Not to mention licking a fucking eggplant!
Chill out, Thomas.
You’re making people uncomfortable!
I think you’re the one making people uncomfortable, Deedee retorted.
Yeah, can you keep it down? Kit hissed theatrically, lifting up her shirt and running her hands over her exposed ribs. You’re kind of making a scene.
Deedee laughed, snorting loudly into her wrists.
It had been a mistake to bring them. A mistake not to buy all the food in the city. I grabbed a head of romaine and a quartet of beefsteak tomatoes.
We’re leaving, I said. Let’s go.
Why?
Because you embarrass me.
I felt ashamed as soon as we got in the steaming car. The girls both climbed into the back, took out their iPods, plugged in their pearly earbuds, and slouched in their seats, intent on tuning me out. I drove toward home, past the repeating pattern of pizza place, gas station, nail salon; pizza place, gas station, nail salon. We overtook a platoon of preseason cross-country runners from the high school, the girls with swinging ponytails, the boys shirtless, their chests red and hairless. I could hear the tinny, frantic beat of my sisters’ music, the distant sound of wailing.
This wasn’t me. I was the good older brother, the role model, the nurturer, the protector. I was here to help my sisters, not antagonize them. Clearly they needed all the help I could provide. They’d always looked up to me, had always loved me—clambering into my lap, drawing pictures for me, somersaulting on the lawn to show off (Thomas, watch me! Watch me! Watch me, Thomas!), hungry for the affection that I gladly gave. I was the doting father that none of us had ever had.
As we were about to reach our street, I had an idea. I drove past the turn and kept going until we saw signs for the Ocean Parkway.
Just a quick ride, I murmured to myself.
The girls looked up briefly, registering without comment that I had decided not to take us home. Soon we were trundling over the bridge, the choppy blue bay beneath us. Once I turned on the radio and let the girls pick the station, they finally began to relax. They rolled down the windows and loosened their topknots and let the faded, gem-streaked strands of their long hair whip around their heads. They stretched their bare, sun-slashed limbs. Ocean air thundered through the windows, vibrations pounding in our chests.