The Girls

by Lori Lansens

  When we first moved to the city, I hated the sameness of the cinder-block homes, the awful squared-up gardens, the nosy neighbors (except Nonna, of course). There were no wildflowers on Chippewa Drive. No orchids. Or bergamot. No wild strawberries or yellow pimpernel. But I’ve come to appreciate the subtle shades of difference, the way people state their uniqueness with splotches of color, split-rail fences, garden gnomes, and craft-show mailboxes. I miss my wildflowers, but I’ve trained some gorgeous fluted ivy to climb up the bricks around the living-room window. And there’s the trellis of pale yellow roses on the wall that faces Nonna’s. (Aunt Lovey showed me how to pinch off the dead heads, a chore in which I find great satisfaction.)

  Back then, after high school graduation, I’d been sad to leave the orange farmhouse. I’d miss the long pine table, and mourn the crumbling walls, and long for the corn and the creek and my childhood and Larry Merkel. My sister and I didn’t talk about Larry so much then. He was a playmate we’d outgrown. But he sat like a lump in our throats as we packed up our box on that heat-wave summer day and prepared to say good-bye. We waited near the apple tree in the driveway for Uncle Stash to come around with the car. When Ruby asked if I thought Larry was there, I told her I didn’t believe in ghosts anymore (I was twenty years old) and I didn’t kid myself that Larry was alive. The truth is, I couldn’t deny I felt him watching us from behind the goldenrod and through the black eyes of the crows. Ruby and I whispered good-bye out loud. I insisted we keep the little red fire truck (the one we’d found the day that Ryan Todino baptized us in the creek) instead of bringing it to Cathy Merkel. Ruby imagined the toy might bring her comfort. I was certain it would only revive her grief. And, selfishly, I didn’t want to make that trip to Merkels’ cottage, through the field and along the creek and over the little bridge. I didn’t want that particular journey to be the last we took on the farm. There’s a memory associated with that trip. A memory that I’ve managed to ignore most of my life. I saw something. And never told a soul—not even Ruby. I couldn’t explain, and have never fully understood what I saw. Like most things unfathomable, I don’t think about it much.

  One day, on a trip to bring the eggs when Ruby and I were still in grade school—so we were just around twelve or thirteen years old—Ruby asked Mrs. Merkel if she thought Larry missed his blue bike. (To put this in context, Mrs. Merkel often spoke of Larry to us. She would talk about how Larry loved blackberry jam or how Larry was a natural on skates or how he could write his own name—first and last. She’d even shown us a picture he’d colored for her and signed on the back with two backward Rs.)

  I saw immediately that Ruby had done the wrong thing asking Mrs. Merkel about Larry’s missing his bike. Mrs. Merkel stood very still for a very long time, sorrow deepening the lines on her forehead. Her eyes were filled with the reflection of Ruby and me and the unmistakable flicker of revulsion. I’ve never exactly been fleet-footed, and I was wondering how I might dodge around the table if she raised her arm to strike Ruby or me, because it looked like she wanted to. But Cathy Merkel didn’t raise her arm. Instead, she sank to a chair and said, “I’m going to throw up.” Which she did. Causing Ruby to throw up too. Which would have been somewhat amusing had I not read Cathy Merkel’s mind just then, had I not been sure that Mrs. Merkel was thinking exactly this: What kind of God takes my Larry and lets a monster like you live?

  The following day Uncle Stash made some excuse about delivering the eggs himself, and we never delivered them again. We saw Cathy Merkel from time to time that year, a chance meeting at the grocery store in town or the library, where she copied recipes from cookbooks and rented action videos for Mr. Merkel. Or where she sometimes tore telephone-number tags from the bulletin board. She grinned tightly, the way she always did when she saw us. Aunt Lovey and she would exchange some brief pleasantry, and when Cathy Merkel was gone Aunt Lovey would sigh and say, “It’s not about you girls. It’s got nothing to do with you girls.”

  We saw Sherman Merkel daily in the fields. He stopped to chat every once in a while, but we usually made do with a wave from a distance. Except that I remember one spring when Ruby and I were searching for arrowheads out back and we stopped to watch Mr. Merkel test the soil for planting. Mr. Merkel knew that VanDyck had put in his corn the day before, and Zimmer had done his the previous week. It was Sherman Merkel’s opinion that VanDyck and Zimmer’d gone too early. He bent at the waist, reaching down with his big hands, and scooped a mound of earth, feeling it for moisture. He tossed a little of the dirt into the air and watched it ride the breeze. The rest of the dirt he licked from his palm, pressing it like peanut butter against the roof of his mouth. He gazed over the fields a moment, then stroked his stomach and said it was time for lunch. “Wife’s making spaghetti and meatballs. You girls are welcome.”

  Ruby and I were sure that we would not be welcome in Cathy Merkel’s kitchen. Though neither of us said a thing, the farmer must have known what we were thinking. After a long, thoughtful pause, he said, “She was different before Larry.”

  “Nice?” Ruby asked.

  Mr. Merkel nodded slowly and walked home to his childless wife.

  I would not have dreamed back then, could never have imagined, that one day I would be a childless mother too.

  A few days later, curious about Sherman Merkel’s arrowhead collection and drawn to Cathy Merkel in spite of her aversion to us, my sister and I decided to go to the cottage across the creek. But we needed an excuse. And that came in the form of the little red truck. Aunt Lovey was at the hospital for the day, and Uncle Stash was in the barn, sanding an old trough he was turning into a wildflower planter for her birthday. We stopped to tell Uncle Stash where we were going, but he wasn’t there. Ruby and I weren’t worried. (This happened before his heart attack, when we never questioned Uncle Stash’s vigor.) We knew he was likely in the meadow taking photographs of spring thaw. Or had gotten distracted painting some milk cans instead of sanding the trough. I argued that it would take just as much time to go back in the house to write a note as it would to get to the Merkels’ and back, which wasn’t true.

  Trudging through the field on the way to Merkels’ cottage, a path grown over with briar and hedge, one we’d walked so many times and would never walk again, I clutched the little truck and said a prayer for Larry (or was it to Larry? I was never sure) when we stepped onto the bridge over the creek. I imagined that Mrs. Merkel might think warmly of Ruby and me for having brought back something of Larry.

  Then we saw the herons.

  It never mattered to my sister and me that blue herons are not rare here in Leaford. They’re so elegant in profile, so graceful in flight, that Ruby and I have always stopped to watch. And so it was that day when two herons appeared just as Ruby and I reached the gate to Merkels’ cottage. The herons, iridescent, prehistoric, leggy, and cool, stopped at the edge of the creek, casting a backward glance at Ruby and me. The herons, with their heavy breasts and splinter legs and the fancy lash at either eye, didn’t find us threatening.

  “Herons,” Ruby said quietly. “Stop.”

  I did stop, but I didn’t turn around fully. “Beautiful,” I said. Something in the window of Merkels’ cottage had caught my attention. Flash. Flesh. Flash. Back. Flash. Buttocks. Flash. Thigh. I would not have guessed Mr. Merkel was so hairy. And I did not understand why Mr. Merkel was naked. Especially in the middle of the day. I knew a little about sex, but from what I had gleaned it was a lying-down-at-nighttime activity and not a standing-up-in-daytime one. I should have turned away. I should have walked away. But I stayed and watched the naked bodies thrusting behind the fluttering curtains. I could not see Sherman Merkel’s face or his head at all, bent as he was over his wife’s behind, but I imagined he had a somewhat sinister look. There was a gentle flapping sound as the herons lifted themselves into the air, a sigh from Ruby, and the birds were gone. Ruby nudged me. “Show’s over. Let’s go.” But the show was not over, and I could not turn away. I wished I had a telephone
so I could call the police. Surely, I thought, she must be tied up. And gagged.

  Ruby sensed something was happening. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Just be quiet and see if they come back.”

  I knew the herons wouldn’t return. I stood watching Sherman Merkel reach down to wrap his arms around his wife’s waist, pulling her against him, buttocks to groin, and back to torso. He bit her shoulder as he continued to thrust, and I saw their faces as the pair came fully into view. I was shocked to see that she was enjoying the rough invasion, but more shocked to see that the man behind Cathy Merkel was not her husband. So much time has passed since that day. Uncle Stash and Aunt Lovey are gone, and the Merkels are still on the farm. Ruby and I are dying, and I’m sure I will not shatter if I admit that the man behind Cathy Merkel was Uncle Stash.

  Ruby is blissfully naive and emotionally rather fragile. I have a certain confidence that she will not read this book this far. (Ruby supports me completely, but Ruby’s not a huge fan of my writing, which I guess is kind of funny, but I’m just not her proverbial cup of tea.) The truth about Uncle Stash could shatter Ruby, but I understand, and maybe I’ve always understood, that we humans are weak and complicated. And on the crest of judgment day I’m hard-pressed to be critical. Besides, what does it matter? Aunt Lovey dillied. Uncle Stash dallied. We are dying.

  As for Larry Merkel’s little red fire truck, after seeing what I saw in Cathy Merkel’s window, and after telling myself that I had not seen what I saw, I convinced Ruby that going to Merkels’ was a bad idea after all and that we should keep Larry’s toy, because he’d meant it for us. She’d agreed, and that’s what we did. And the strangest thing of all? The herons did return.

  I’VE BEEN IRRITATED with Ruby for her preoccupation with her personal effects, but it occurs to me that this book, this autobiography, is just that. My effects are my stories, but I have the same obsession to group and pile and discard and wrap and label, to quantify and qualify, and even to bequeath. I’ve been surprised how little I care to discuss our estate. Ruby thinks I don’t care about what we’re leaving, but it’s the opposite. I care so much I want to leave myself, so that, in the end, when Rose and Ruby Darlen are no longer, there will be a box with a bally pink scarf and a little red fire truck and this—this true story of us.

  The surprise party was amazing! Happy Birthday to us!

  ROSE AND RUBY DARLEN REACH

  MILESTONE BIRTHDAY!

  (The sound of cheering.)

  There weren’t really any headlines. We wanted to keep our birthday quiet and personal this year. Rose even called the Leaford Mirror to ask them not to post their annual birthday greetings to The Girls because, every year after the birthday message in the Mirror, newspapers and magazines from all over call to say they want to tell our story. Of course we know people want to exploit us. We’ve had a few calls this year even with no publicity, because so many people can find out so many things about us on the Internet. That’s the biggest reason I don’t like computers. There’s too much information out there. And not enough smart people.

  When Rose and I stepped into the staff room at the library, everyone screamed, Surprise! The look on Rose’s face was hilarious—and, believe me, she is no actress—so I knew for sure she never suspected a thing. All the hard work was worth it!

  The tape deck and CD player on the portable stereo Whiffer brought didn’t work so we had to make do with the radio, which was fine for Rose because Lutie found a Detroit station playing Motown. I was accused of pouting because I actually like music from the last ten years, but I have to admit the Motown stuff got the people dancing. It always does. Even in the movies, when there’s a Motown montage, the characters dance and we all feel happy happy happy.

  Rosie drank a glass of champagne and wanted more, but Nick said she should go easy. Drinking the champagne made her chatty, and Rose can be pretty funny, though I would say she has more of a guy sense of humor, which Whiffer and Nick seem to get more than the rest of us.

  Lutie took a video of the whole night, and I have watched it four times already because it was one of the best nights of my life. It really was. Especially because of how I shared it with my best friend. And because I really love all the people who were there. (Except Nick.)

  Rose got me a beautiful baby-blue raw silk blouse she ordered from her computer. It was delivered last week and I was going crazy to know what was in the box. It is so pretty, and I love the way the color looks with my complexion. I’m gonna save it for something special. Or, really, I was thinking I’d save it for laying out. I know that sounds extremely creepy, but if we decide to have a casket made and whatever, which I don’t think we will, but if we do, I’ll need something to wear. Wardrobe is a fact of death.

  My sister doesn’t care about clothes. Usually I buy her a book for her birthday. We go to the bookstore in Ridgetown, where the lady there is so used to us she doesn’t stare. Rose picks out five books, and I buy one of them. The surprise is she never knows which one of the five she will get. But we can’t really take the bus anymore because Rose is getting dizzy. I didn’t feel like asking Nick to drive us to Ridgetown. I don’t want people to get the wrong idea about Nick and us.

  That glass of champagne Rosie drank had us stuck in the bathroom for half an hour trying to get rid of her hiccups! The whole time I’m thinking that each hiccup is going to rupture the aneurysm, and we haven’t even cut the cake!

  My sister wasn’t just surprised about the birthday party, she was thrilled. People say they don’t want something, but then, when it happens, they realize they’ve wanted it all along. And though she would have said she didn’t want a party of any kind, and especially not a surprise one, she had the best time. The best.

  Whiffer bought Rose a really cute charm bracelet. He gave me a gift certificate to the video store, which I thought was okay, but something more personal would have been nice.

  At first I thought the whole party was going to happen without us. Rose hadn’t been feeling well—headachy and weak—and she asked if I’d mind if we didn’t go to Chatham in a taxi for supper, which is how we’d agreed we’d celebrate. She said she just wanted to go to bed and wake up to another day. I think she was feeling depressed. She did not care that turning thirty gave us the distinction of being the oldest living craniopagus twins in history. I’m very pleased about it, but not as pleased as I thought I’d be, because, in the end, there’s still the end and it’s coming way too soon.

  (The way I got my sister out of the house was basically to freak out and cry so much that she’d rather have been anywhere than alone in the bungalow with me.)

  The food was amazing. Nonna did eggplant Parmesan and the meatballs. Roz made sausage rolls and piped salmon spread on crackers and the spinach dip in the hollowed-out bread. Lutie brought a raspberry Jell-O with sliced banana that his mother made, and a dozen of the fresh cheese buns the Oakwood Bakery is famous for. I am having a bad time with my colitis lately and have been in some pain. I couldn’t really indulge in our birthday spread, so I had some of the cheese bun but without butter, and I had to pick out the cheese, but I smelled the food and watched everyone (except Rose, whose appetite is getting worse) really really enjoy it.

  Nonna was going to make the cakes but she got confused while she was baking and Nick had to finish.

  I wanted a round chocolate layer cake for Rose, and to make it look like a basketball by putting orange food coloring in the frosting and using black licorice to make the lines. And I wanted a movie clapboard for me (just in case you don’t know, a movie clapboard is used so the director knows how many times the actor has forgotten his lines). A movie clapboard is black and white with slanted stripes at the top, and Nick didn’t put enough black color in the frosting so it just ended up gray, and, basically, you could not tell what it was, even though he tried to be cute and wrote THE SURPRISE PARTY STARRING ROSE AND RUBY DARLEN on it. Nick put thirty candles—fifteen on each cake—which technical
ly isn’t right. He also put the cakes on the wrong side so we had to turn them around and the words didn’t face us when we blew out the candles—which everyone knows is bad luck.

  There was a lot of laughing and talking, and we were playing the music pretty loud. I think Rupert must have felt overwhelmed because he started whining and Roz had to take him home. And Whiffer and Lutie were going to meet girls or something. And Nonna was exhausted. She kept it together though. Or she did a good job of fooling us. Sometimes she gets so confused she thinks that I’m Rose’s infant and she asks Rose, How’s your little girl today?, which I find embarrassing. I do not play along even though Rose said I should. Anyway, everybody was gone by about nine-thirty, but then Nick came back to see if we needed help. I told him that we’re perfectly capable of taking a taxi home.

  Rose said we should take a ride with Nick because we’d be stupid to pay for a taxi when our neighbor was going our way. How could I argue?

  On the way home, Nick said Nonna’s confusion still comes and goes. I’m surprised that Nick doesn’t get more frustrated with her. I get frustrated and I don’t even live with her. Bet he has less patience behind closed doors. The night of the party she seemed totally like her old self, but then, when Whiffer grabbed the spoon for the meatballs, she smacked his hand and said, Wait until supper. Then she kept calling Whiffer “Fiodor,” which was not the name of Nonna’s husband, Nick’s father, who died before Nick was even born. It made Whiffer and me laugh, but Rose pinched me because Nick wasn’t laughing. Then Nonna kinda went downhill from there.