Sisters One, Two, Three

by Nancy Star

  Glory peered into the bag. “I asked for this?” She set it on the hall table. “If you say so.” It was tricky business, trying to figure out if Glory was attempting to be funny. “Long as you’re here, might as well come in. Want something to drink? Don’t be a grump.”

  Ginger followed her mother into the kitchen and sat down at the table, which was covered with pieces of the unsorted puzzle Ginger had given her last week. “What happened to the felt mat?” She’d bought the mat so her mother could roll up her unfinished puzzles when she wanted to use the table for something else, like eating.

  “Beats me. Maybe it’s with the teakettle.”

  Ginger looked at the stove. “What happened to the kettle?”

  Glory shrugged. “Probably with the mat. That puzzle?” She nodded toward the table. “Too easy.” This was her latest complaint, that the puzzles Ginger brought were too easy. The ones Mimi brought, hand cut from rare wood, works of art really, were expensive and impossible to do, but Glory didn’t seem to mind.

  The puzzle might be easy, but she’d made no progress since the last time Ginger was over. “Want some help?”

  Glory shook her head and studied Ginger’s face. “What’s wrong? Nothing. You’re fine.”

  Surprising them both, Ginger decided to share. “There’s been some drama at home. With Julia. Boy drama.”

  “Oh.” Glory sat down and moved around a few puzzle pieces. “I remember that. Boy drama.” She shook her head. “Drama, drama, drama.”

  This was surprising to hear. Ginger could not remember a single incident of boy drama growing up. She had made sure not to have drama of any kind, and if Mimi had boy drama, she’d kept it to herself. Could Glory be referring to Callie? Was that what their big blowup was about—a boy? Ginger knew so few details. She’d left for college not long after Callie went away to boarding school and Mimi had left two years after that. By the time Callie came home, her sisters were long gone. Ginger and Mimi knew at some point there’d been a big argument, but what it was about was a mystery. “Can I ask you something?”

  Her mother didn’t flinch. “You know you can ask me absolutely anything.”

  That was laughable, but Ginger let it go. “Julia has this boyfriend and she knows I don’t like him. We’ve been fighting a lot. Which made me think about you and Callie and the big fight you had. I know you don’t like to talk about it. But what with Julia and all, I was wondering if you could tell me—was the fight about a boy? Is that how you and Callie became estranged?”

  Her mother’s fingers stopped their sorting and her eyes grew cloudy and dull. “What do you mean estranged?” Before Ginger could figure out how to respond, Glory stood up. “Where’s my brush?” She rustled through several kitchen drawers and then disappeared down the hall.

  When she returned, her hair was hanging loose. She scooted her chair around and sat so her back was facing Ginger. “I like to brush a hundred times before I go to bed but lately, I don’t know why, I get to fifty and my hand aches like nobody’s business.” She gave Ginger a small silver comb. “Don’t talk or you’ll lose count.”

  Her mother’s hair felt fragile as a web. Ginger counted to a hundred and stopped. “Done.”

  “You’re a very good brusher, Gingie. Now, give me a kiss and go home.”

  Ginger leaned over and brushed her lips against her mother’s soft cheek.

  “Don’t be a worrywart. Julia’s a beautiful girl. And such an actress. Almost as good as me.”

  “Julia’s not an actress.”

  “Oh, come on. Think positive for once.”

  In the car, Ginger experimented with thinking positive. “Julia will be there when I get home,” she said out loud, smiling so her voice would sound like she meant it. But as she walked up the front path to her house, the positive thinking came to a halt. There was Richard—she could see him through the dining room window, framed as if in a photograph—alone at the table, computer open, legal pad beside it, pen down, mouth set in a frown, fingertips at his forehead, shoulders hunched in distress.

  She locked the door behind her and went straight to him. “What happened? What’s wrong? Is Julia okay?” She felt as if the room was starting to spin.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” The pitch of Richard’s voice, usually baseline conciliatory, now sounded defeated. “Nothing’s wrong yet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He closed his eyes and sat so still that for a brief moment Ginger wondered if it was possible he’d actually fallen asleep. His eyes snapped open. “I don’t know. Forget it.”

  “Forget what? You don’t know what?”

  He shook his head, got up, started out of the room. “Forget it. Really. It’s been a long day.”

  “Something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice. Richard, what’s going on?”

  “Work problem. Neglect. Brutal. I’m tired. That’s all. I’m going to bed.”

  She watched him slowly walk up the stairs in silence and tried to ignore the nagging sense that what he’d said was only partly true.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The widow maker news about Ivan seemed to ricochet out of the phone and land, like a missile, on Glory’s forehead. “Headache’s a doozy,” Solly told Ginger as he carefully plucked ice cubes out of a tray and laid them at the bottom of a stainless steel bowl, careful to preserve the silence. He added water and a towel and crept upstairs to administer the cold compress.

  Downstairs, Ginger went into full doozy mode, disconnecting the phone, taping a “Do Not Ring” note on the doorbell, and setting out Charlie, Callie, and Mimi on the front step, as if they were milk bottles waiting to be picked up.

  In the morning, while Glory slept in, breakfast was a silent free-for-all. Under Solly’s distracted supervision, Mimi deconstructed packets of Hostess Sno Balls, Charlie flew peanut butter Space Food Sticks through the imaginary mouth hole of his imaginary space helmet, Ginger picked at the burnt edges of the cinnamon-sugar Pop-Tart she’d left in the toaster too long, and Callie made a messy party out of a can of Snack Mate and a bag of Bugles.

  The Daily News obscured Solly’s face, though whether he was holding the paper up to more easily read it or to block the sight of their carrying on, Ginger wasn’t sure. The main thing was, he was managing. Managing to get them fed, to wrangle them into the car, to drop the right kid at the right school, and to get to work, all without disturbing their mother.

  As for what would happen after school, who should walk home and who would get picked up, Ginger had no idea. But when she exited the white-brick building of her junior high at dismissal time, she saw, across the street, the familiar arm hanging out the window of their Chevelle Caprice, Pepto-Bismol-colored fingernails tapping out impatience on the sky-blue door.

  “Doesn’t Mom look better than ever?” Mimi asked as Ginger slid into the death seat.

  Glory’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Are you saying I looked bad before?” A contest broke out over who could come up with the best superlative to describe how great she looked before and now, but she ended it fast. “You trying to get my headache to come back?” They weren’t, and no more was said. Not about the headache, not about the canceled play, and not about the deceased director.

  Headache-free Glory, Ginger saw, had been busy. The velvet club chairs in the living room had been switched with the sofa. Drag marks on the den carpet showed the route the TV console had taken to its new spot, tangled vines of extension cords now straining to stay plugged in. The kitchen held the smell of meat, but all signs of food preparation had been erased. The porcelain sink gleamed. The floor was slick with Wood Preen. Empty jars lined the counter: Mr. Clean standing guard beside the Drano, the Glade alert beside the Bon Ami. At the back of her throat, Ginger felt the burn of bleach.

  She opened the medicine cabinet and stared at empty shelves. “Where’s the Luden’s?”

  “Expired,” Glory called out. “Like everything else in this mausoleum. Come see my new puzzle.”

&n
bsp; Ginger joined her in the dining room. Big Ben was now boxed up, on top of the other finished puzzles piled against the wall in a tower of accomplishment. A new puzzle sat in its place.

  “What do you think?” her mother asked. “It’s Lake Lugano. Only one at Woolworth’s I haven’t done.”

  “Looks hard,” Ginger said.

  “A monkey could do it. I’m looking for gray corners, if anyone cares.”

  “We all care,” Ginger swore. “But we have homework.”

  “Do I look like I’m stopping you?”

  At dinnertime, Glory dealt out the harvest-gold melamine plates she used whenever Solly wasn’t joining them. “Stuck at work. An emergency. Maybe the toy soldiers got drafted.” She slid a rectangle of meat onto a plate and passed it to Ginger. “Put this on the front step.”

  The rectangle was Miracle Meat Loaf. The miracle was Solly didn’t mistake it for a brick when he came home, just after eight. He gave a try at pretending the cold slab was tasty, even making noises meant to sound like pleasure, but Glory wasn’t fooled. Her mood darkened.

  The purging and rearranging continued. The next day when Ginger came home from school, she saw Solly’s new shipment of one-armed Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots bagged at the curb for the garbagemen.

  When she went over to the Clarkes’ to work—it was a mother’s-helper day—she told Evelyn what was going on. “She also switched the beds in my room. Now my sisters’ bunk is blocking the window. I asked her why, but she won’t tell me.”

  “It’s because she’s upset,” Evelyn explained. The two of them were in the kitchen sitting side by side on stools, peeling carrots, Ginger’s mother’s-helper duties having recently been upgraded from watching Thomas, who’d just turned ten and pretty much entertained himself, to helping make dinner. But even watching Thomas watch TV was an upgrade from staying home.

  That Glory had agreed to allow Ginger to accept the job in the first place was because of a combination of good luck and good timing. A group of women from the theater group were over, running lines, the day that Evelyn said, “You wouldn’t by any chance be willing to let me borrow Ginger for a few afternoons a week, would you? It would be such a help.”

  “That’s sweet,” Glory had said, and then, after making a big production about needing time to think it over, she broke into laughter. “Be my guest.” She smiled and winked. “Keep her as many days as you like.”

  After the carrots were peeled, Evelyn handed Ginger the knife. “Ever cut vegetables?”

  “No,” Ginger admitted. “But I’m sure I can do it. I’m very responsible for my age.”

  “Aw, honey.” Evelyn let out a puff of air. Her eyes looked sad. “I know you are. Here, let me show you how to hold the knife.” Her hand felt exactly as Ginger would have guessed, fleshy and soft. Glory’s hand felt like a trap, the tiny wrist and delicate fingers making a fragile disguise for her steely grip.

  At home, Glory was making carrots too, but hers came bagged from the freezer, every one the same size. When Ginger asked her why she thought Evelyn preferred carrots that were gnarly with the tops still on, Glory shrugged. “Beats me. Drives twenty miles to get them that way too. Imagine.”

  Back at the Clarkes’ the next day, Ginger asked Evelyn why she drove so far for carrots.

  “Oh, your mother loves to exaggerate,” Evelyn told her. “I buy them right in town. You can tell your mother they have them up at the A&P.”

  Ginger did not tell her mother this because Glory had made it clear in her own wordless way that she was not happy her daughter was helping a mother other than her own. The only stories Ginger dared bring home were about things that were unpleasant, usually things that hadn’t happened, like how Evelyn used a room freshener that made her gag, when the truth was Ginger loved the way the Clarke house smelled, of oranges and warm cookies—even when nothing was baking. It was after the bad reports got an icy reaction that Ginger figured out she was supposed to quit.

  Evelyn was in the middle of demonstrating how to use a hand juicer when Ginger blurted it out. “I can’t be your mother’s helper anymore. It makes my mom unhappy.”

  “Aw, sweetie. That has nothing to do with you. She’s going through a rough patch. Upset about Ivan. Upset there’s no play. The theater group meant a lot to her.”

  Ginger smelled Mr. Diggans’ cherry-tobacco pipe wafting in from the next room. He seemed to disappear into another room whenever she came over, but she could tell by the smell of his pipe he was there.

  “Your mom needs a vacation,” Evelyn confided. “That’s all. I told her about a place and she’s considering it. I bet she’s already feeling better. You’ll see when you get home.”

  What Ginger saw when she got home was a fright of cookbooks open on the counter, Creative Cookery with Chicken of the Sea Tuna and The I Hate to Cook Book, opened to the stained pages of Glory’s favorite recipes. “Your father’s coming home on time for once,” Glory announced when she saw her. “So I’m making a feast.”

  The centerpiece of the feast was Tuna Tempter, a casserole of tuna flakes, condensed mushroom soup, and wagon-wheel pasta. Ginger watched her father eye the Pyrex dish with what looked like fear. She passed him the salt. That was the only way to get Tuna Tempter down: douse it with salt, close your eyes, and swallow.

  He took the shaker and Ginger relaxed. Then he put it down and pushed his plate away. “I’ll eat later.” He patted his stomach. “We were so busy today, I lost track of time. Halfway through my corned beef, I saw it was four-thirty. So this I’ll have for my midnight snack.”

  “Eat. Starve. I don’t care.” With a lurch, Glory pushed her chair back and stood up. “We have to go somewhere, Solly. If I have to look at these four walls all summer, I swear I’ll—”

  “Done.” Solly smiled. “I already had the same idea. The Nevele. Connecting rooms.”

  Glory’s eyes went dull. She could do that, make the light in her eyes flick on or off as if there were a hidden switch. “Place is a dump. What about where Evelyn and Casper go?” Her eyes switched back on. “The island I told you about. Martha’s Vineyard. By Cape Cod.”

  “You want an island? Name one place the sand is whiter than Jones Beach.” This was one of their perennial arguments, Jones Beach—Solly’s childhood stomping ground—versus Glory’s Jersey Shore. He offered a white flag. “You want the Shore? We’ll go to Long Branch.”

  “You know who Evelyn saw on Martha’s Vineyard once? Lillian Hellman. Lillian Hellman has a house there. I bet you anything she’s friends with Arthur Miller. Imagine if I bumped into Arthur Miller and he heard what happened with All My Sons, how the play got canceled, how my career keeps going poof, up in smoke. It could change my life, Solly, if we went to Martha’s Vineyard.”

  Ginger silently urged her father to agree. Surely he could see this was a good idea, going somewhere her mother would be happy. She watched him play with his napkin, unfolding it, refolding it, pressing down hard to give the paper a sharp crease.

  He got up and threw the napkin away. “Where else? A place we both agree.”

  Glory strummed her fingers. “How about Portofino. On the Italian Riviera.”

  “Portofino Pizza on Route 46, maybe. But for lunch. For dinner, it’s too crowded.”

  Glory sat so still Ginger wondered if she’d heard him. Mimi, who didn’t notice that kind of thing, broke the silence. “What about Holland?”

  Solly looked at her. “What do you know from Holland?”

  “They have tulips.” Mimi turned to Ginger. “Wasn’t Holland before Portofino?”

  Understanding slowly came and Solly made his way to the dining room. The children trailed behind him. He stopped when he got to the tower of puzzles, Big Ben boxed on top of Portofino, Portofino on top of Holland. “This is how you pick where you want to go? From a box?”

  “Where I want to go is Martha’s Vineyard.” Glory twirled her wedding band and then grabbed Solly’s hands. “There’s a house Evelyn told me about. We can rent it
for cheap. A darling house by a pond. Houses are a bargain there. People are scooping them up. Everyone in Evelyn’s family’s getting one. Maybe we should get one.”

  “You smoking funny cigarettes now?”

  “Oh, never mind.” Glory sat down and scanned the annoying clouds in the sky above Lake Lugano. “I’m looking for anything blue.”

  Ginger noted the sound of defeat. This was a rare win for her father. At least, she thought it was a win. But a few days later, when Glory pulled her into her bedroom, Ginger realized she’d gotten it wrong. The win was her mother’s after all.

  Glory shut the door. “I did it. I rented the house on Martha’s Vineyard. Just for a month. Don’t look at me like that, Gingie. You don’t know how difficult your father can be. He thinks he hates adventures. Anything new, he doesn’t want to try. So I have to ease him in. Once I ease him in, he’ll come around. Pinky swear you won’t tell him about the house yet.” They linked pinkies. Glory pulled away hard. “Now, here’s the plan. Photographs of the house are coming in the mail. Once I get them, I’m going to put together a presentation. So your father can see how beautiful everything’s going to be. But if he gets the pictures before I do, if he gets to the mail first, it’s over. He’ll hate the idea for good. Which is where you come in. You’re going to intercept the mail and get it to me before your father sees it. Can you do it? Can I count on you?” Ginger nodded and Glory’s eyes turned bright.

  The photographs came on the worst day, a Saturday, when Solly was puttering around the house. But Ginger did her job well. She scooped up the mail from the floor in the front hall and managed to hide the hazardous envelope behind the living room drapes before her father passed through the room. Later, when he went to the bathroom, she retrieved the envelope and slipped it to her mother.

  “Nicely done,” Glory whispered. “A definite ten-plus.” She buried the evidence underneath a pile of papers on her kitchen desk. After that it was a waiting game until Solly’s favorite show came on. Then, envelope back in sleeve, Glory hustled Ginger to the pantry.