Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

“I assume that you refer to the ancient sketches in the caverns of France.” She aimed the paintbrush at his pale blue tie. “That ageless art was created by Cro-Magnon man, no doubt while your slope-browed cousins stood by grunting, scratching themselves in unseemly places, and generally making sport of their intellectual superiors.”

  His happy laugh twanged at her nerve strings. “You are so cute when you’re mad!” He grabbed her, inflicted the woman with a suffocating kiss, and was gone.

  Beatrice managed to catch her breath. Andrew is such a brute! I don’t know why I married him. But she did know, of course. Almost every day, the bride would remind herself that when a person weds another person without a lengthy getting-to-know-you engagement, there are bound to be a few unpleasant surprises. Ever the confident one, Beatrice assured herself that she was capable of managing difficult situations. With all his faults, Andrew was merely a man. It was largely a matter of facing the facts of his shortcomings, and working out a corrective plan.

  And she had. By and by, things would be just fine.

  That Evening

  When Andrew Turner returned to hearth and home after a busy day at Granite Creek Electronics and Computers, his wife was neither adding split pine to the flames crackling in the hearth nor preparing dinner in the kitchen. He found her in the wine cellar.

  Beatrice was on a small stepladder, replacing a dusty bottle that did not quite meet the requirements for tonight’s meal.

  Hubby crept up with admirable stealth, slapped her on the behind.

  Not stealthily enough. She had heard the door at the top of the stairs creek open, seen his slender, sinister shadow creeping ever closer. This was why the lady did not flinch at the stinging smackimus on her gluteus maximus.

  Understandably disappointed by this unenthusiastic response, Andrew scowled, fell back on his witty repartee: “So what’re you up to, Sweet Bea?”

  “I am attempting to locate an appropriate vintage.”

  “For fish or fowl?”

  “We shall feast on what Madison Avenue refers to as the Other White Meat.”

  “Ah—oinker flesh.”

  “Grade-A pork, Andrew. Which, in this instance, has been genetically engineered to produce copious quantities of omega-3.” Or is it omega-5? I can never remember.

  “The mere mention of high-tech biology gives me a horrendous appetite.” The computer expert licked his lips. “Ham, I presume?”

  “Ix-nay on am-hay. For dinner, we are having butterflied chops. With baby green peas.” She looked down to smile at the handsome man. “And homemade applesauce, with just a touch of cinnamon.”

  “That sounds good enough to eat.”

  And it was.

  As the man of the house was carving off a triangular chunk from an inch-thick pork chop, the missus advised, “Don’t forget that Cassie’s TV show is on tomorrow night at nine.”

  “Has another week already come and gone?” Andrew Turner interrupted the meat-cutting task, gazed across the mahogany dining table at his elegant wife. “The pleasant days in between your sister’s whizbang public performances seem to slip by so quickly.” His smile barely lifted the sparse growth of mustache he had been cultivating since returning from the Costa Rican honeymoon. “It seems only last night that the Dark Lady was predicting spectacular disasters and communing with various spooks.”

  “You should not make sport of dear Cassie.”

  “Very well, I will attempt to restrain myself.” He got back to work on the pork chop. “But you must admit, she is a bit of a…” He searched for the word. It had something to do with dessert. Aha. “Fruitcake.” Good-looking fruitcake, though.

  “That is unkind, Andrew. Cassie is—shall we say—gifted.”

  “That is too generous, Bea. She is—shall we say—creepy.”

  “I suggest a compromise. My gifted sister is mildly eccentric.”

  “Agreed. But only for the sake of keeping peace in the family.” He hefted a succulent morsel of roasted pig flesh to his mouth. Chewed. This supper grub was downright tasty. As was a spoonful of infant butter-soaked peas, another of cinnamon-sprinkled applesauce.

  Beatrice, who had only pecked at her food, picked up a bone-china teacup, took a dainty sip of Darjeeling. “If you will make a pretense of being interested, I will pass on some inside information about Cassie’s next show.”

  “Very well, I will pretend as best I can.” A gulp of black, cold-brewed coffee. “What is Miss Mildly Eccentric serving up tomorrow evening—another conversation with a long-dead celebrity?”

  Beatrice shook her head.

  “Oh, pack rats.” To his credit, and to please his wife, Mr. Turner was attempting to clean up his language. “I was looking forward to a chat with Professor Einstein. Or Thomas Edison.”

  Bea regarded him over the teacup. “Much better than that.”

  “I doubt it.” He winked at his wife. “But give me a hint.”

  “Very well—Cassie is communing with a new spirit. But not a celebrity.”

  “Animal, mineral, or vegetable?”

  “Minerals and vegetables do not have spirits.”

  “And animals do?”

  Beatrice had a sudden sensation that the ghosts of Ike and Spike were watching from a darkened hallway. The German shepherds were presumably eager to hear her response to this weighty theological question. “Of course animals have spirits. But the communicant in question is a human spirit.” She put the teacup aside. “Cassie is in touch with a soul who died a horrible, violent death.”

  Andrew Turner felt his hands go cold. “Bea, please tell me that Cassandra isn’t pretending to talk to Astrid!”

  “Oh no. Nothing like that.”

  “Color me thankful.”

  “And she is not pretending. Cassie has been communicating with a perfect stranger.”

  “Then advise her to proceed with caution.” Andrew put knife to pork chop. “There is no such thing.”

  “Please explain.”

  “Tell your gullible sister, and you may quote me: ‘If strangers were not an inferior lot, we would already be acquainted with them. It follows, then, that there can be no perfect ones.’” He inserted his fork into the succulent swine morsel.

  “Andrew—you are so terribly droll!” Beatrice put a napkin to her lips. “Shall I tell you more about Cassie’s most recent contact from the spirit world?”

  “If it will make you incandescently happy.” He raised the fork.

  “Her name is April Something.”

  The sterling silver instrument stalled just below Andrew’s chin. “What?”

  “It’s a funny last name.” Beatrice waved the napkin, as if this gesture would help her summon the memory. Evidently, it did. “Oh—now I remember. The spirit identifies herself as April Valentine. Sounds like a showgirl’s name.” Expressing just the merest hint of disapproval, Bea arched a brow. “And when I tell you how this distraught spirit claims she died, you will not believe it.”

  Andrew Turner stared at his wife.

  “April Valentine told Cassie that she had been eaten by hogs.”

  The distraught diner returned the fork, pork and all, to his plate.

  Twelve

  His Hobby

  According to St. Augustine, what every man desires is peace. And you can bet your boots and saddle too—the Bishop of Hippo knew what he was talking about.

  Whether or not sweet, inner tranquility was what Andrew Turner was seeking, the man was definitely in need of solitude. He wished to withdraw to a secluded spot where a fellow—if he was a mind to—could gnaw on a ten-dollar pork chop without having to put up with the wife’s incessant chatter. Happily for Mr. Turner, he was the sort of farsighted individual who had already prepared just such a refuge for himself. After dinner with Beatrice, he mumbled something about needing to attend to a couple of things, and retreated quickly. Along the hallway he marched, boot heels saying clickety-click. Sudden left turn, through the door, down the narrow stairway, into the musty-cool wine c
ellar.

  No, an alcoholic beverage was not what the man was after. He made a beeline to the sealed-off corner that had once served a similar purpose for Bea’s father, when the old man felt that occasional need to deprive himself of the wholesome company of his attentive wife, who was always offering excellent advice upon such weighty issues as how her mate might lose a few unsightly inches around his middle by substituting crispy celery for fried potatoes and unsweetened tea for pale German ale.

  Unlike his hale and hearty bear-shooting predecessor, Turner was not overly fond of either greasy potatoes or imported beer. He was of that peculiar segment of society that has a taste for overpriced coffees flavored with cocoa and spices, Chopin as interpreted by Evgeny Kissin, and a yen for things electronic and digital. Bea’s recently acquired husband was, it is fair to say, an electronics and computer genius. Also fair to say—a geek. This is honestly meant to be a compliment. (Really.)

  Shortly after moving in with his new wife, Mr. Turner had assumed squatter’s rights to old Joe H. Spencer’s basement hideaway, which included a full bath, a comfortable leather couch, a modern kitchenette, which the usurper had stocked with a selection of foods and beverages, including coffees that would have made Mr. Starbucks roast with envy, and also the most remarkable assembly of—No. Rather than tell (so it is said by those who know), it is better to show. So let the show begin.

  Andrew Turner unlocked the door to his sanctuary, entered the darkened space (there were no windows in this crypt), and locked the door behind him. He took four measured steps across the carpet, paused, addressed a concealed microphone: “It begins.”

  This code phrase was promptly amplified, filtered, digitized. The result was compared to a 90-kilobyte digital file of Andrew’s voice (also saying, “It begins”), which was stored in a SanDisk flash memory stick that was plugged into a USB port on his Dell computer. Within about four hundred milliseconds, the result was determined to be “within pa ram e ter,” which enabled the interface between computer and external-control circuitry to do its stuff. Which was to switch on an overhead spotlight that illuminated the man, and activated a ten-second digital recording of a Carnegie Hall audience applauding a sterling performance of Dvorak’s Symphony no. 8.

  Andrew Turner bowed, murmured a modest “thank you.” As the clapping of thousands of pairs of enthusiastic hands continued, he smiled (condescendingly) at the invisible crowd, waited as the appreciative sounds gradually faded. The moment having arrived to get down to serious business, the performer flipped back the imaginary tails of an imaginary tux and seated himself on a varnished oak bench at a magnificent grand piano. For about three heartbeats—no. That is incorrect. There was no bench. One gets carried away. He was perched on a quite ordinary, padded black office chair. But where were we? Oh, yes.

  For about three heartbeats—while he imagined the expectant audience sitting raptly on the edges of their expensive seats (tickets ranged from fifty to five hundred dollars!)—the maestro’s thin, pale hands were poised above the ivories. No. Not above the ivories. As there was no bench, there was also no piano, grand or otherwise.

  The maestro’s thin, pale hands were poised above a QWERTY keyboard.

  His nimble fingers began to dance across the keys.

  Rapture!

  Not quite at the speed of light, a command was sent over the modem, along the telephone lines, to awaken a computer in another home and provide him with access to the hard disk. Which is what Andrew Turner—who might be likened to a digital Peeping Tom—often did merely for the joy of voyeurism. But this particular entry was one from which he expected to profit. After downloading 2,641 files from the unsuspecting computer and disconnecting from that machine, he applied himself to the tedious process of analyzing data. Turner began with word-processing files. Nothing of great interest. He moved on to e-mails sent and received. Almost at once, he discovered that some dozens of incoming messages were encrypted—which made them immensely interesting. It required only about fifteen minutes for Turner to locate the password in the stolen files. After this, the process was mere child’s play. One by one, he began to read the secret e-mails. On the very first one, he knew he had hit (as the crusty old silver miners used to say) “color.” Pay dirt. Andrew had the dirt, all right. The question was—what to do with it? The answer, when it came to him, was: Hmm. How best to put it? After due consideration, one concludes that there are only two descriptors sufficient to the task. One of them is “perfect.” The other is “just what the doctor ordered.”

  The computer expert was feeling measurably better. He had found a kind of peace.

  But not that peace which passeth all understanding. What Andrew Turner had settled for was that ersatz variety offered by this world, which doth not satisfy, and quickly fadeth away….

  Even a brief encounter with St. Augustine might have helped him immensely.

  Thirteen

  Southern UTE Reservation

  Red Shoes

  Sarah Frank moved expertly about Daisy Perika’s kitchen, flipping fatty beef patties in a blackened cast-iron skillet, taking plates and bowls to the table, hurrying back to the propane range to add a quarter cup of chopped onions and three tablespoons of brown sugar to the bubbling saucepan of beans, all the while promising her mewing black-and-white cat that his portion would be ready before long. Judging by his expression, Mr. Zig-Zag doubted this promise.

  Daisy was at the dining table, hunched motionless in a cushioned maple chair. Her form suggested a long-deceased toad whose husk had mummified in the dry, high-country air. But she was definitely alive. For the time being.

  Her dark eyes watched the lively girl, who had already packed their bags for tomorrow’s trip to Charlie Moon’s Columbine Ranch, as she prepared a supper of cheeseburgers, garlic-flavored potato chips, and beans from a can. The old woman would have preferred a steaming bowl of homemade green-chili posole and a hot flour tortilla (rolled up tight with butter melting inside), but the fifteen-year-old had, one baby step at a time, taken charge of the household chores. Grateful to have a home where she was welcome, the orphan was showing her gratitude by taking care of “Aunt Daisy.” The tribal elder was aunt only to Charlie Moon, and Charlie was old enough to be Sarah’s father—which did not deter the girl from the notion that, one way or another, even if it took the rest of her life, she would be Charlie’s wedded wife.

  Bone-weary from an accumulation of hard winters, Daisy did not object to Sarah doing all the work. But the realization that she did not mind was bothersome. For all her life as an adult, which had begun at the age of nine (when her mother succumbed to overwork, underappreciation, and tuberculosis), Daisy had been an independent soul. For almost as long as she could remember, she had made and mended most of her clothing on a pedal-operated Singer sewing machine, cooked squash and pinto beans from her small garden, roasted cottontail rabbit, wild turkey, and mule deer, which—when there wasn’t a man handy—she hunted and killed with her father’s Winchester rifle, or the double-barrel 12-gauge that she kept in the closet by the front door. Now, during the space of only a few months, and largely by her own choice, she had become dependent upon this girl, who was only half Ute.

  Sarah brought the aged “aunt” a glass of cold milk and a plastic bowl of potato chips, then a platter with a generous helping of beans and onions and a burger capped with two melted slices of Velveeta cheese. “You’ll like this.” She beamed at the doubtful diner, added in a motherly tone, “And it’ll be good for you.”

  “Yes, I hear cheeseburgers does some really special things for the heart.” When this sarcasm washed over the girl without effect, Daisy added, “Beans give me gas and make me—”

  Sarah interrupted quickly, “Do you want a dill pickle?”

  “No, I’m sour enough already.” Having forgotten what she was about to say about the consequences of gastric gas, Daisy consumed a small helping of the delicious beans, then got to work on the greasy cheeseburger.

  While the old woman a
te in moody silence, the girl fed her cat and fixed a plate for herself, all the while filling the kitchen with a torrent of words. She hoped Daisy’s cousin (Gorman Sweetwater) would arrive right on time at nine tomorrow morning, that he wouldn’t mind Mr. Zig-Zag riding in the pickup cab—her aged pet would get very lonely in the back, and not only that, he’d try to get into the box of pecan cookies and the two rhubarb pies Sarah had made with her very own hands and was taking to Charlie and how long did Aunt Daisy think it would take Gorman to drive to the Columbine and did Charlie ever mention that pretty white woman (what was her name?) who worked for the FBI—was she still out in California and did they ever talk on the phone and did Charlie have any other girlfriends and do you like your cheeseburger?

  From time to time, Daisy would shake her head and sigh. I don’t know how that girl can talk so much and eat at the same time and I never see her take a breath.

  After supper, while Sarah washed the dishes, Daisy hobbled off to her cozy parlor, seated herself close to the fireplace. As flame tongues licked hungrily at tasty morsels of split piñon, the old woman watched the curling swirls of smoke, thought her melancholy thoughts. My bones hurt. Every one of them! Back when I was in my seventies, I could work all day. Now I sleep half my life away. I’m too old and tired to do anything useful—I can’t even take care of myself. A long, self-pitying sigh. Nobody needs an old woman like me. Unaware that Mr. Zig-Zag had curled up beside her rocking chair because he liked being near her, and that Sarah adored her, and that Charlie Moon’s world would have been much less appetizing without the presence of his salty old aunt, Daisy nodded to agree with what she thought was a ruthlessly honest analysis. I’m just a burden to Sarah and Charlie Moon. And what was worse—I don’t have much fun anymore. Noticing Mr. Zig-Zag, she made a halfhearted attempt to step on the cat’s tail, but the canny animal always managed to be just out of reach. This failure to accomplish such a simple task did nothing for Daisy’s morale. She scowled at the animal. It’s time for me to move on down the road, let the young ones run things. Or ruin things, more likely. But that’s none of my business. Business. The word brought to mind a troublesome detail. I need to get a will made out, so Sarah gets my house. Charlie Moon don’t need anything I’ve got, but I’ll put him a few things in a box, like that old Barlow pocket knife that belonged to my second husband. And I need to write Charlie a note so he’ll remember that I want to be buried in my nice purple dress. Which reminded her: But I need to get me some brand-new underwear and a nice pair of white cotton stockings. Daisy looked at her feet. And some pretty shoes. She pictured herself in the coffin. Red shoes.