The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  Plus, while Mike had been employed by Credit Suisse, he’d had to be at his desk by eight at the latest. Which meant that he’d had to leave the house by six thirty. But ever since he’d been laid off—ever since he’d been able to sleep in—he’d only wanted to cuddle. And Perri hadn’t been able to find the words to ask him why. This was partly because she found talking about sex to be mortifying and partly because she feared the answer was that he no longer found her attractive. Not that she could blame him if he did. After three pregnancies and nursing marathons, she felt like a battered boat, its sail loose and tattered, its ropes frayed. Where her large breasts had once been a source of pride and embarrassment in equal parts, now they were only a source of embarrassment—especially since they’d begun to point south. She’d thought about getting a “lift,” but it seemed so desperate. Also, she was petrified of being unconscious. How could she control things if she weren’t awake? In her late twenties, when she’d had an ovarian cyst removed, Perri had needed a Valium just to enter the hospital.

  In truth, Perri didn’t necessarily find Mike any more attractive than he found her. Though it wasn’t the early signs of middle-aged spread that failed to put her in the mood; it was the fact that he snored and refused even to discuss it with a doctor. It was also that he’d officially taken over childcare duties on Tuesdays. (The other four days of the week, the family employed a Colombian nanny named Dolores.) Though how Mike actually spent the nine hours that Perri was in her midtown Manhattan office was another matter. From what she could tell, he filled the morning by shopping for dumbbells and free weights on the Internet, while Noah sat at his feet, drawing on the carpet with ballpoint pens he’d found lying around the house—until it was time for both their naps. Later, Mike would take Noah to go pick up Sadie and Aiden from school. After that, the TV would go on and wouldn’t go off again until Perri came home—only to find a sink full of dishes and no milk in the fridge. And for this, her husband seemed to expect a medal! For this, he called himself Superdad and would tell anyone who’d listen that losing his job had been a “blessing in disguise,” allowing him to spend the “quality time” with his family that he’d always wanted to spend.

  Not that Mike’s domestic failings were anything new. But when he’d worked longer hours than she did, Perri had had no expectations that he could possibly disappoint. He wasn’t there, so how could he be expected to have stopped and shopped at the Shop and Stop? The irony was that when Mike had first announced that he’d been laid off, Perri had been secretly relieved. He’d been gone so much the previous few years—had rarely made it home before the kids’ bedtime. Now, though, she couldn’t wait for him to go back to work. But he’d insisted that he was in no hurry, and that his severance package had been generous enough to buy them both time. He also said he’d rather get a live-in housekeeper and nanny than listen to Perri bitch and moan at him about babysitting for the next sixteen years. But she didn’t want some stranger living in her house!

  It was also possible that she didn’t want to give up the right to complain about how much she did (that Mike didn’t appreciate), from making lunches, to organizing PTA Visiting Artist committee events, to packing and unpacking and repacking backpacks, to removing the plastic wrapping from juice-box six-packs, to applying Band-Aids to semifictional booboos, to spraying and slathering sunscreen, to photocopying birth certificates, to filling out permission slips in which emergency contacts had to be named four separate times and primary phone numbers another three. (As if the repetition alone would prevent anything bad from ever happening.) There were also stroller tires that needed air, and special soccer cleats, and ballet tights, and violin chin rests that were unavailable locally and had to be tracked down online. Laundry too—endless laundry, mountains upon mountains of balled-up socks and sweats. (Perri could press Warm/Large/Start in her sleep.) And while it was true that Perri didn’t have to make her own mayonnaise, Aiden preferred it to the store-bought kind, especially in his tuna fish salad sandwiches. And, of course, there were toys blanketing the floor space of the house each night—football fields’ worth of plastic gizmos that had been made in Chinese factories for the benefit of American children, who could apparently never have enough of them. Perri occasionally thought of a photograph she’d seen of Palestinian boys of eight or nine in the Gaza Strip, playing handball in a dirt lot. The boys hadn’t seemed bored at all. And what if the happiest kids on earth were the ones who didn’t have any toys?

  Pulling herself together, Perri got out of the car and set off up the slate path to her childhood home. Her cell phone pinged again. She looked down, but it had started to flurry, and the precipitation made it difficult to read the screen. Hunching over, she wiped it with her glove, then squinted into the glare:

  u know you want me, she finally made out—and nearly jumped out of her Wellingtons.

  u r insane, she typed frantically, her fingers stiffening in the cold.

  But as she rang the bell, she had to wonder if she was talking not about Roy but about herself.

  3

  OLYMPIA HAD PROMISED HER SISTERS that she’d arrive in Hastings at three thirty at the latest. But it was close to four thirty when the train she was on pulled into the station. She felt guilty, of course—but maybe not that guilty. It wasn’t as if she could just leave work after lunch. Also, their father wasn’t having open-heart surgery. As Olympia understood it, it was a routine procedure. In truth, she’d only come out to Westchester to avoid the censure of Perri, who’d given her a guilt trip on the phone the night before about not helping out, even as she’d insisted that she was the only one who could handle Carol and Bob. Though it was probably also true that some escapist or standoffish impulse in Olympia made her particularly unhelpful on days like these. In any case, she was here now. Olympia stepped onto the platform and looked around her.

  Between the train tracks and the Hudson lay the scourge of her hometown—namely, the remnants of two possibly toxic factories, both of them now enclosed by a barbed-wire fence. The shell of one, the Anaconda Copper Wire and Cable Company, had always reminded Olympia of a giant hunk of Parmesan cheese that had been painted black. The other one, reputed to be more noxious, had been flattened and paved over, but nobody who knew anything about Hastings-on-Hudson had been fooled. (It was the newcomers who were pushing for a riverside park.) Zinsser Chemical, producer of dyes, pigments, and photography chemicals, had made a mess of the site. Ironically enough, factory founder Frederick Zinsser’s name lingered in the form of an idyllic suburban park off Edgar’s Lane which featured a jungle gym, baseball field, and community garden. It was by the lamb’s ears that Olympia had had her first kiss back in junior high courtesy of Billy Rudolfo.

  The house in which Olympia had been raised, and in which her parents still lived, was a short walk from the station—up steep West Main Street, now home to a chichi hair salon and French restaurant; past the public library, with its sweeping views of the Hudson; then down Maple Avenue, with its elegant and well-preserved Carpenter Gothic houses with their upside-down V embellishments. From there, it was a left onto dead-ended Edmarth Place. The Hellingers lived one house in from the corner. At the end of the block, you could see straight across the river to the Palisades. Rectangular, striated, and a rich shade of brown, the section of rock that faced Hastings always reminded Olympia of the Russell Stover chocolates that her great-aunt Helen, famous for her piano legs and thunderous laugh, used to bring over for the holidays.

  The block’s other distinguishing feature was that every one of its porch-fronted late Victorians was the mirror image of the one across the street. Or, at least, they had been until people started adding on eat-in kitchens and extra baths. As a child, Olympia had become obsessed with what she imagined to be her “shadow house” across the street and, by extension, “shadow life”—as the deaf daughter of the Lumberts, a children’s book illustrator and UN translator, who kept to themselves. Every morning, just before eight, Victoria Lumbert, who had yellow-bl
ond pigtails, would climb aboard a mysterious school bus. Olympia never found out where she went. And then, one day, a moving truck came, and the Lumberts vanished forever.

  It was Gus who answered the bell—looking marginally spiffier than usual, in black corduroys, a white oxford, and a men’s black suit jacket. Apparently, Carol and Bob were still at the hospital. “Sorry I’m late,” said Olympia. “Work was crazy.”

  “Was it ‘impossibly crazed’? Oh, sorry—that’s Perri’s favorite expression,” said Gus.

  “No, just crazy,” said Olympia, rolling her eyes.

  “Fisticuffs broke out over the correct way to fry a wiener schnitzel?”

  “Something like that,” said Olympia, still deciding whether to laugh along or to be mortally offended by Gus’s clear mockery of her professional life. “Oh, and nice to see you too.”

  “Likewise,” said Gus. Olympia hung up her coat, then followed her younger sister into the living room. In the twenty years since Olympia had left home, her parents had made minimal changes to the decor. It was still a light-challenged mix of wobbly antiques that had been passed down through the family and “contemporary” pieces purchased at Bloomingdale’s in the Galleria mall in White Plains in the 1980s, upholstery now fraying and veneers beginning to chip. Paperback novels that hadn’t been opened in twenty-five years (Watership Down, The Thorn Birds) filled every last air pocket of the bookcases. Ethnic tchotchkes cluttered every available surface. As empty nesters, Bob and Carol had taken one trip through the unfashionable countries of Eastern Europe (Bulgaria, Albania), with a stopover in Athens to see the Parthenon; and another trip through West Africa. The living room walls were deep maroon and decorated with blobby pink monotypes, which were by Carol’s sister, Suzy, and reminiscent of Rorschach inkblot tests or mutant udders, depending on your perspective. For as long as Olympia could remember, the house had smelled faintly yet inexplicably of rubber cement.

  Perri sat cross-legged in Grandpa Bert’s old Morris chair, thumbing through the Times Magazine. The cover story appeared to be about kids with peanut allergies. Hadn’t they run a similar story only twelve months before? “Hey,” said Olympia, taking a seat on the old leather sofa opposite her big sister.

  “Hi,” Perri said curtly and without looking up. She was clearly in a grumpy mood. Not that Olympia could blame her. “How did it go at the hospital?” she asked.

  “Fine, I’m about to head back there to retrieve them.”

  “Oh—cool. Thanks.”

  Perri didn’t answer.

  “So, how was Dad going in?” Olympia tried again.

  “Dad was fine. It was Mom who was the problem. She’d been there approximately four minutes before she started complaining that no one had been in to see her husband yet, and what was taking so long?”

  “That sounds like Mom.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, I appreciate you taking them,” said Olympia, trying to be conciliatory.

  “I just had to postpone two meetings and a conference,” said Perri. “No big deal.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Olympia, who didn’t appreciate being guilted, even when she felt guilty. “I really need to get my license renewed. Though I probably couldn’t have gotten out of work any earlier. We have a big concert this evening at the museum, which I’m obviously missing to be here.”

  “It’s the first night of the Falco reunion tour?” suggested Gus. “He was the first punk ever to set foot on this earth,” she began to sing. “Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus, Amadeus.”

  “No, it’s an experimental chamber music ensemble from Vienna,” said Olympia, sighing. “And for the record, the Falco guy died in a car accident.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Gus.

  “Well, now you do.”

  Perri’s eyes shifted from her magazine to Olympia’s feet. “New shoes?” she asked.

  “Sort of. I got them at a consignment store in Brooklyn.” She angled her leg so Perri would have a better view. “What do you think? They’re Chloé.”

  “Not bad.” Perri wrinkled her nose. “But did you spray them with something before you put them on?”

  “Not all of us are germaphobes in need of institutionalizing,” said Olympia. She was going to add “or rich” but refrained, money being a far more fraught subject between them than mildew.

  “They’re your feet,” said Perri, shrugging.

  “Well, in case anyone’s curious,” began Gus, “I spent the first half of the day trying and failing to convince a notoriously sexist judge to issue a restraining order on behalf of a client of mine who’s walking around with a huge black eye.” She took a seat on the other end of the sofa. “All the fucker cares about is letting the kids see their father, even though their father is a violent drug dealer who has never done anything for them.” Gus tutted with derision.

  “You don’t think the kids should be able to see their dad?” asked Perri, flipping a page.

  “I don’t give a flying cojone about their father!” Gus replied with a quick laugh.

  Olympia felt an unexpected surge of warmth toward her younger sister. “If the guy was violent with her, can’t he be charged in criminal court?” she asked.

  “He could,” said Gus. “But my client wants to avoid that situation.”

  “That’s so weird,” said Perri, her eyes back on her magazine. “Basically, no one in Israel is allergic to peanuts.”

  “Weird,” Olympia deadpanned.

  Perri motioned with her chin at a cardboard box on the coffee table. “Speaking of food, Sadie made some cupcakes as a get-well present for Dad. But I don’t see him eating a dozen of them just after surgery. So help yourself.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, actually. Thanks,” said Olympia, happy both for the change of topic and for something sweet to snack on. She opened the box and discovered a dozen mini cupcakes, each with a perfectly executed red heart drawn atop its chocolate icing. Within each heart outline, tiny alternating silver and pink block letters spelled GET WELL. It was clear that Sadie had had some help (and then some). When did Perri find the time to do stuff like this? Olympia wondered. And why did she bother? “No trans fats, I trust,” Olympia went on, somehow reluctant ever to give Perri the full thrust of her respect or appreciation.

  “Only homemade buttermilk,” said Perri.

  Olympia bit into the cake, and said, “Mm.”

  Perri put down her magazine and stood up. “Well, since I’m the obese sister and have no willpower and it was my daughter who made them, I’m going to have another one!” She jammed her hand into the box.

  “Stop,” said Olympia.

  “Excuse me?!” said Perri, her mouth already crammed full.

  “I mean, stop saying you’re fat!” said Olympia.

  “Why? It’s true,” said Perri.

  “It’s not true. You look fine,” said Olympia, taking momentary pity.

  “Boooorrrrringnoonecares,” muttered Gus, who, like Olympia, was slim without much effort.

  “Anyway.” Perri dusted imaginary cupcake crumbs from her lap and stood up. “I should head back to St. John’s. Dad is probably already out of surgery.”

  “I can come help if you want,” said Olympia.

  “No need,” said Perri. “If I’m gone long, maybe you guys can order something for dinner—if that’s not too much to handle.”

  She had to sneak in that last dig, Olympia thought. (And Round Two goes to Perri!) “Not too much at all,” said Olympia.

  Perri double-wound her pashmina around her neck. Then she walked out. The click-clack of her low-heeled pumps grew fainter as she neared the front door.

  4

  AS GUS WATCHED THE HEADLIGHTS of Perri’s SUV fade into tiny suns, then vanish into black holes, a feeling of dread overtook her. How would she and Olympia fill the time while Perri was gone? Gus suspected that she knew more about her middle sister than anybody. Yet she also felt she no longer knew how to talk to her, or even what to talk about. In recent
years, Olympia had become so unreachable, so cold ultimately—except maybe with Lola. She was like a house with no doors or windows: it was impossible to get inside to see if it was even heated.

  Gus knew she could be bad-tempered and confrontational. But at least she had emotions! At least she admitted to being a member of the human race. These days, she found it far easier getting along with Perri than with Olympia, even though she and Perri had almost nothing in common and much less shared history since, growing up, they’d been nearly four years apart. But that didn’t mean Gus was above making fun of Perri to Olympia. “I’m sorry—I love Perri,” she began, recalling that Olympia never tired of critiquing their oldest sister’s outfits. “But what the hell is she wearing today?”

  “Don’t ask me. She has terrible taste in clothes,” concurred Olympia, a half smile already in evidence.

  “Like, who wears a fucking skirt suit to go to the hospital?!” Gus went on. “Unless they’re, like, a drug rep or something.”

  “Perri, apparently.” Olympia’s half smile had already turned into a full-blown grin.

  “Remember that time she was wearing those jodhpurs, or whatever they were, and Dad asked her if she was going to a Halloween party?”

  “He thought she was dressed as a pirate, or something.”

  “Didn’t he ask her why she had no eye patch?”