Two White Queens and the One-Eyed Jack

by Heidi von Palleske

  “Looks like the past found us, anyhow. Now where is the letter?” Clara asked, although it sounded more like a demand.

  “I burned it.”

  Clara started hitting her sister, both hands flying as she slapped and punched.

  “Stop it!” the Punk Baroness yelled at them. “Just stop it! We are in rehearsal now; this is not the way we behave in rehearsal!”

  “For someone who’s so anti-establishment, you sure are good at telling us the rules! You fucking poser!” Clara yelled at her.

  “Poser? What is poser?” Martina couldn’t help but ask.

  Blanca moved away from her twin, wiped her face on her hand. There were tears. Not from the physical assault. Not from the argument. Tears, because Clara was right. Her protection had prevented her sister from knowing any love but hers. It felt like the worst kind of breakup. The top layer of her skin felt raw, down her arms, across her chest and neck, even her cheeks felt like the Velcro of their connection had been ripped apart.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  Clara lifted the painting and carried it to her dressing room. It would be a difficult rehearsal for her today, if she bothered to do it at all. Martina, their director, would take Blanca’s side. She always did. The Bitch Baroness!

  “I cannot believe that you kept so much from her,” Martina said. “You have to go and speak to her. Make this right. We are going to Hamburg next month. You must get them together somehow.”

  She looked over to the direction of the dressing rooms. Clara would be a while. The Punk Baroness had tolerated many delayed rehearsals in the past. It was all a part of the more creative temperament. But what could she do? Clara was the more talented of the two. She could compose, and, when she was onstage, there was no doubt that she was totally and wholly the character. The Punk Baroness assumed that it was because she was not as strong a character as Blanca. Blanca was very focused. She put everything in order before she made a move. She was less impulsive than Clara and strangely so much sexier. There was never a question in Martina’s mind who was more charismatic. Less gifted and more charismatic, such is how it goes, she thought. And there was no question which sister Martina would fall in love with. The taller, the stronger twin was far more appealing to her.

  “You know you will have to tell her sooner or later.”

  “Tell her what?”

  “About us. We cannot always sneak around. Besides, I want to love you openly. I only get you in tiny pieces.”

  The Punk Baroness put her arms around her, pulled her close. She loved the look of her own dark hair flowing onto Blanca’s pale skin. Loved the difference in their skin tones. She knew that it had all started as a fetish for her. It was a visual turn-on in the beginning, meant to be nothing more than an affair for her, and probably no more than curiosity for Blanca. Just the thought of her dark, wet, manicured pubic hair rubbing against Blanca’s unruly bleach-white plume of hair inspired so many fantasies. Then, one day, after too many schnapps, she had her completely. The swollen purple pink of her vagina was so surprising in that sea of white. And after that, every time she looked at the violet pinkness of her lover’s eyes, all she could think of was her other purplish-pink place, hidden away and secret. Yes, she had intended on an affair and had fallen in love, but she knew that it would not be reciprocated to the same degree. It seemed that Blanca easily fell into the arms of anyone who fully adored her.

  “Let her have her lover in Hamburg so that I can have you all the time.”

  Blanca was still crying. Even the comfort of a lover couldn’t stop up the flow of her tears. What did Martina not understand? Yes, she might love her, eventually. But her love for another woman could never replace the love between her and her twin. They shared one soul. They were two parts of the same star.

  “If I start to tell her the truth, where would I stop? That boy knows. He knows. His mother cared for our mother when she killed herself. If I allow him in, he will tell her things. How does knowing that our uncle raped our mother help her? Tell me that! It didn’t help me. It just made me feel like the freak I was always called. How can I possibly tell her that our uncle is our father? It is too awful. I wanted to keep it from her because it has so destroyed me.”

  “You have to let her decide how it will affect her. Maybe you are wrong about her. Maybe she is stronger than you think. It is not for you to decide. All you can decide is whom you love and how you love them. Do you want to love her in the face of truth or in the face of deception?”

  Blanca knew that the day would come when the twins would not be one mind, one soul, one spirit. A day when love and attraction would tear them from each other. But she wasn’t ready for that day quite yet.

  “If you want a new beginning then you have to separate from your past.”

  “You don’t understand. We are two parts of the same star and when we are together, that star is whole …”

  “You know that is a lie. That is a story told to you to bring you comfort as children. But now you are two separate and whole women and you need to let her make her own decisions.”

  “Where do I start?”

  “You start by going into that dressing room and then you begin at the beginning. She will be furious, but I know you both and I can tell you this, in time she will forgive you and you will be bound in honesty instead of lies. You said that everybody lied to you as children. If you want to break from your past, then you need to stop repeating the past. Go, tell her the truth.”

  The Punk Baroness released her arms, let go of Blanca, and pointed her in the right direction. Why, she wondered, was she so attracted to opera when the life all around her was so much more melodramatic?

  * * *

  Sabine could stretch exactly like a cat. First unfurling her slender body and then reaching every limb out one by one, finally stretching through her fingertips until everything seemed so much longer across the bed. When she finished her signature stretch, she rolled onto her stomach, her round bottom rising up into the air, above her long, strong legs. Gareth’s favourite part of her body, after her astounding bottom, was the muscle that sat like a ball in the middle of her calves. As if she were perpetually standing on her tippy-toes.

  “Did you ever see that French movie Contempt?” she asked.

  “Of course. My brother was a film freak. He made me watch everything.”

  “I think I would like your brother.”

  “Trust me, you’re not his type.”

  Sabine looked over at him, turning her head over her shoulder so that her hair flew down her backside as she turned.

  “Let’s re-enact that first scene,” she said. “You kiss my body parts one by one and tell me why you love them. Don’t worry, if you get lost along the way I will keep you on track.”

  “Okay.”

  “So we will start here.” Sabine arched and lifted her bottom upward. “Tell me how you love my ass.”

  Gareth was game. He kissed her bare bottom and told her that he adored her bum. It was perfect. Like the gods had all designed it together. It was handmade and more delectable than the sweetest treat …

  “Like marzipan?” she asked.

  “Exactly.”

  Gareth could feel the excitement returning to his body.

  It would be so easy to fall for such a girl who was so comfortable with her body. He tried to turn her over.

  “No, you cannot start on my frontside until you are through with my backside. I think you forgot the shoulder blades.”

  The knock on the door was abrupt. They chose to be quiet, pretending they weren’t there. Sabine put a pillow, a square one, into her mouth and bit down hard to stifle the laugher. What fun they had there when Siegfried was in Canada. And those trips were getting longer and longer. Perhaps Gareth would take over soon and she could move in, share the rent. It was a nicer place than the apartment she rented.

  “Shhh.” He put his finger to his lips and Sabine howled with laughter.

 
Knock, knock, knock.

  “I think I had better get it.”

  “Why?” Sabine whispered.

  “I don’t know. What if someone has lost an eye and needs one right away?”

  “Right away?” Sabine stuffed the pillow back into her mouth.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Ja, ja, Ich komme! ”

  Gareth did that funny hop-run one only does when trying to hurry to get pants on before opening the door. The last bit, the zipper and the top button, only closing as he reached the door. No shirt, but that was fine, after all it was his home and it was late. He turned the handle and opened the door.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  There she was, as real as possible. Dressed from head to toe in white with only a light smear of red across her hesitant lips.

  The black walnut rectory table seemed too imposing, too big for a mere four people, but Hilda wanted to sit at the formal family table and not in the kitchen nook. Imposing could be good sometimes.

  “The way I see it” — John cleared his throat — “the way I see it, this house belongs to us both. And we both worked hard to have it.”

  “It was paid for with the inheritance from my mother’s house in Germany. She bought this house, really.”

  “Yes, well, I was working that whole time. Paying the bills. Putting food on the table.”

  “Yes, that is what you do for your family.”

  “The thing is, Jean is pregnant again and the boys are almost six now and growing. They need their own rooms. We just don’t have the space so …”

  “You want to move in here with me?” Hilda asked, shocked. She couldn’t imagine a shared space with little ones running around all the time. She enjoyed it when her daughter came with her small daughter, but that was different. That was her granddaughter, after all. And she never stayed for more than two days.

  Jean looked at John uncomfortably. She put a hand on his arm, warning him to stop.

  “No, Jean,” he said, removing her hand. “Fair is fair. We let her have the house when Jack was still here, but now we need it. It is our turn.”

  Siegfried couldn’t believe it. This house was everything to Hilda. From morning to night she either tended the garden, walked the property line, or baked things inside the large country kitchen. John’s demands seemed, to him, an act of hostility.

  “If you do not agree, I can force the sale of the house. Or I could have an assessment and buy you out.”

  “Who would like more coffee?” Siegfried asked to break the tension.

  “I would, even though I shouldn’t,” Jean replied. “Let me help you.”

  Siegfried led her to the kitchen where he ground the beans and frothed the milk.

  “Oh, you are so handy. It’s so fancy that way.”

  “You know, it is the details that count. Little things. Ground beans instead of packaged pre-ground coffee. It doesn’t seem like much but in the end all those little details add up. Look out at the garden.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes. Hilda thinks it is nothing. That she has no talents. But you know it is always in bloom. She has planted it so that as one flower leaves, another blossoms. It is a knack she has. But I know it has taken her years to get it just right.”

  Jean started to cry. Said it was the hormones and that she was just a crazy pregnant lady.

  “I told him not to come. I feel bad enough that I took her man, I don’t want to take her home. I mean, we need the room and all, but still.… How would I feel sleeping in the room where they had sex? No offence — it doesn’t seem to bother you.”

  “No, it does not bother me. But I am not a sensitive woman.”

  Siegfried spooned extra foam onto the top of her cup, then he went to the cupboard, got some bittersweet chocolate, and grated it onto the top.

  “So fancy,” Jean repeated.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if we were all friends? And wouldn’t it be better if you were not crying? Let me think of something. You need your own home to make your own traditions. You do not want Hilda’s home. And you would feel guilty about the garden because you could not do that, could you?”

  Jean shook her head.

  “I will buy out his share of the house at a fair price and you can get something new. Something that is all yours, where you can make your own history. There is a big house for sale near Elaine and Mark; you should see that. House hunting can be fun and good for a marriage.”

  “But John seems so set about it. When he decides something he can be so stubborn.”

  “I am sure you have gotten your way on a few things! Right now, I bet that John and Hilda are fighting it out. So our cooler heads must prevail.”

  The thought of selling his last hold in Germany was daunting to him. There would be so many things to set in order. And, of course, it would mean that Gareth would have to strike out on his own. He would give him his equipment, supplies, and business, but still, it was hardly the way he wanted to pass the torch. But what choice did he have? A nasty troll was holding his queen hostage and so he would have to make a sacrifice for her.

  When they returned, John and Hilda were no longer arguing. It was far, far worse. John was explaining and explaining, talking and talking, and Hilda had gone completely quiet. His words were falling on deaf ears. Of course, it was a big house. Of course, Jack was never there except for holidays. Of course, the girls had families of their own. It didn’t matter to her, though. It was her home and he was trying to tear the foundation down all around her.

  “Where is Jack, by the way?”

  Hilda refused to answer. Siegfried had witnessed this stubbornness a few times, even when she was a young teenager. There would be no getting through to her. So he answered for her.

  “He is in Europe. Documenting what he thinks is the beginning of the end of the Cold War. Last I heard he was in Hungary. That was last week.”

  John shrugged. Ever since Jack had been going to Germany to get his eye fitted, he had become more and more like his mother and less and less like him. Secretly he blamed Hilda for his son not putting down roots in Canada. At least his daughters had their feet firmly in North America. But Jack had turned his eye away from this home to focus on world politics instead.

  “You gotta admit, I do have a point. You have had it all these years …”

  Beyond the dining-room window Hilda could see the fenceline leading to the small orchard where she had planted snap peas and snow peas and the vines were climbing the fence. The small pods were developing tiny white blossoms above the pods. It looked like a good crop was coming.

  “However own by tragedy,

  Or near the breaking it may be,

  My heart can never harden,

  As long as I have eyes to see

  And windows toward the garden.”

  “I’m sorry, what’s that? You’re going to answer me with poetry now?”

  “Okay, John. I will tell you what that poem means. It means, would you please get the fuck out of my house?”

  Siegfried thought that it was going rather well until that moment. He thought he would be able to strike an arrangement, but John got up in a huff and started for the front door. Surprisingly, Jean just sat there.

  “Jean, we are leaving. I can’t talk sense into that selfish cow. Come on.”

  “Just a sec, John. I don’t want my piece of cake to go to waste. It’s so good.” Jean weakly smiled through her crumb-filled mouth.

  “Fine, I’ll be in the truck.”

  Jean reached across the table for the bowl of fresh whipped cream and dolloped two tablespoonfuls onto her marble pound cake.

  “I must get your recipe.”

  “Why? Would you ever make it?” Hilda asked.

  “Probably not. I am not good at cooking or gardening.” She smiled.

  “No? What are you good at?”

  “Well, I used to be a really good surfer.”

  Hilda looked at the younger woman, openly s
crutinizing her. Was this planned? She would stay behind if things didn’t go well with her, just to smooth things over, and then do John’s bidding. Hilda picked up the bowl of fresh fruit, raspberries and gooseberries, and dumped them onto Jean’s plate.

  “It’s nicer with the fruit.”

  “Yes, but what are those green things?”

  “Gooseberries. People don’t eat them here much, but when I moved here I had some seeds sent from my mother and I planted the bushes and cared for them. Every year they grew bigger till I had so many. When I eat them, I remember her. And, of course, when she died, her house, the house I grew up in, was sold in Germany because John and I had our life here. It was very sad to sell my girlhood house. But we used that money to pay for this house.”

  “I don’t want your house. But John has a bee in his bonnet. And we do need more space.”

  “It is funny, isn’t it, that he will have a child younger than his granddaughter? Your child will be an aunt or uncle the moment it is born.”

  Jean started laughing, crumbs of marble cake spewing from her lips. Of course, Hilda hadn’t meant funny ha-ha. But when the horn started blasting outside all the women could do was start laughing together.

  “Another slice of cake, Jean?”

  “Don’t mind if I do!”

  “You know, when Jack was little, when he was still Johnny, and he lost his eye, he only went to school because you were so kind to him. He adored you. And you encouraged him. For that I will always be thankful.” Hilda paused, then inhaled. “But you need to know that I will sell this house to a stranger before I give it to you and John. You have to know that.”

  “I think that is best. Really I do,” Jean agreed.

  Best? Hilda thought. No, the best would be to let her just keep the house. To let her grow old in it, polishing the large wooden table at Christmas, planting the garden in spring, picking cherries, caring for the bunnies …

  “Yes, and I think I will be just the stranger to buy it!” Siegfried piped up, enthusiasm bubbling in his voice. “If you can stand having me around all the time, that is. I will sell my apartment in Hamburg and that will surely pay for his half of the house.”