The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters

by Lucinda Rosenfeld

  “Nothing alike, my ass.” Jeff chuckled again. “Maybe you’ve got different taste in brothers. But I hope you don’t mind me saying, I can tell from a hundred miles away that you and Perri hark from the same gene pool. Never in my life have I met two girls so obsessed with getting shit done!”

  The observation discomfited Gus. “I guess I never thought about it that way,” she muttered.

  “I don’t know what your mother did to you,” Jeff went on. “But damn. She did a good job. Or, depending on your perspective, a bad job. Honestly, I sometimes worry about my brother. The guy is driven enough. But Perri, man—she’s always on his ass! I’ve never seen anything like it. He lost his job in a recession—big deal. She can’t let the man collect unemployment insurance for even a day without bugging him about job interviews. And it’s not like they aren’t already loaded.”

  “I didn’t know she’d been bugging him. Are you sure?” asked Gus, embarrassed on her sister’s behalf and also on her own—because she recognized herself in Jeff’s description, giving Debbie a hard time about not trying to climb the ranks of the GLTF.

  “Pretty sure.” Jeff took a sip of his coffee, narrowed his eyes. “She hates seeing us hang out, too. Doesn’t she?”

  “I got that feeling,” concurred Gus.

  “I got the feeling it’s freaking both of them out—Perri and my brother, that is,” said Jeff. “Whatever—too fuckin’ bad. I’m a free man.” He reached for Gus’s hand, stroked it, and smiled. “Besides, I like you.”

  “I like you too,” Gus said, swallowing.

  “You ski?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  He gestured with his chin. “I’ve got a friend who operates the lift at Stowe. Next winter, if we’re still hanging, we’ll road-trip and I’ll teach you.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Gus, even as she put the odds at fifty-fifty as to whether they’d make it to the end of the week.

  Jeff leaned in. “Dude, it’s a whole other world up there. It’s just you and the elements—the snow, the ice, the wind—and God, I guess, if you believe in that stuff.”

  “Do you believe in that stuff?” asked Gus, curious.

  Jeff released her hand, took another sip of his coffee, got a far-off look. “To be honest, when you’re up in the clouds, you kind of feel like you’re in heaven already. Know what I mean?” He turned back to her, his head cocked, his eyes squinty.

  The political part of Gus had always hated that kind of back-to-nature talk—considered it mumbo jumbo of the highest form. (What good were ski trails to a domestic violence victim in the South Bronx?) Not for the first time, it occurred to her that Jefferson Sims was a total idiot. But another part of her—the part that was currently pulsating below her waist—was ready to follow him off the next cliff. “I can definitely see that,” she said, nodding vigorously.

  11

  OLYMPIA WAS AT WORK when the next call from Larchmont came in. But this time it wasn’t from Perri. It was from Mike. In the twelve years since he’d been married to Perri, he’d never once phoned Olympia. She immediately concluded that it was something serious—unless he was planning some kind of surprise party? Olympia was on the other line with a performance artist named Eberhard Fuchs, who was complaining that he hadn’t received the promised stipend in connection with his latest masterpiece, Military-Agricultural Gang Bang. From what Olympia had been able to tell, the work consisted of Eberhard parading around the gallery space in a Viennese sausage costume, pretending to have sex with a series of giant paper plates with holes cut out of them. Olympia had found the performance offensive. At the same time, the insecure, self-doubting part of her wondered if it was her eye that was at fault and if the genius was apparent to everyone but her. In his home country, Eberhard was a star. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fuchs. Could you hang on one second?” she asked him.

  “Pia, I need to talk to you,” her brother-in-law announced in a grave tone.

  Olympia’s first thought was that her mother had had some kind of relapse. “Is my mom okay?” she asked.

  “I’m not calling about Carol.”

  “Then what’s going on?” Had something happened to one of the kids? Had Sadie sprouted horns?

  “Perri walked out.”

  “WHAT?!” cried Olympia. Surely there was some kind of misunderstanding. Perri had probably gotten a flat tire on her way back from the Container Store, and AAA was running late. Or maybe she and Mike had just had a bad fight. The few times in recent months that Olympia had seen her sister and brother-in-law together, they seemed to be at each other’s throats. Which had secretly tickled Olympia at the time, but didn’t seem so amusing anymore.

  “She came home early from Passover. We were at her friends’ house,” Mike went on. “She was acting really strangely. I thought she wasn’t feeling well. She was asleep when I got home with the kids. The next morning when I woke up, she was gone.”

  “Did she leave a note?” asked Olympia, astounded.

  “Yeah, she left a note.”

  “Well, what did it say?”

  “That she needs time away from the family.” He laughed bitterly. “Lovely.”

  “Time away, where?!”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “And how long does she plan to be gone for?”

  “She didn’t say that, either.”

  Olympia still refused to believe it. Women like Perri didn’t walk out on their husbands. They built a terrarium, took a spin class. “Jesus,” she said. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry. But listen, I’m actually on the other line right now. Can I call you back later?”

  “Is there any way you could come out here?” Mike asked plaintively.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Mike, I’m at work!” said Olympia, bristling. The only people who were allowed to pressure her were Lola and, by no choice of Olympia’s own, Viveka.

  “What about after work? Olympia, I’m begging you! I honestly can’t handle this by myself. I got three kids to deal with. Your dad is still here, too, in case you were wondering. And he’s demanding Ovaltine. Like that’s really high on my list of priorities right now!”

  “Can’t Gus come?” asked Olympia, searching for an out. “She’s a lot closer, and she has a car.”

  “She’s in court in the afternoons,” said Mike. “Plus, she doesn’t know anything about kids. The other weekend I caught her trying to teach Noah how to stick paper clips into electric sockets.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Mostly. But not entirely.”

  “Fine,” said Olympia, sighing in defeat. “I have some stuff I need to take care of up here. Then I need to go back to Brooklyn and pick up Lola. We’ll try to catch the seven thirty-seven out of Grand Central. That’s the earliest train I can manage. Can you pick us up at the station? It’s going to be kind of late by the time we get to you.”

  “Would you mind taking a taxi?” asked Mike.

  In fact, Olympia did mind. Taking a taxi meant tacking another ten dollars onto the train fare. The actual money was possibly irrelevant. It was the principle. What had Mike ever done for her, other than mock and patronize her at family functions? Olympia hadn’t forgotten the Thanksgiving when he’d sidled over to her, and asked, “So, how’s the Sex and the City lifestyle treating you?” (Smirk, smirk.) As if the sole reason she’d failed to marry and move to suburbia was her fondness for having casual sex in nightclub restrooms. In fact, casual sex had never interested Olympia. She preferred making her men work for the privilege of bedding her; she felt she deserved that courtesy at least.

  Just then, Olympia heard a high-pitched sob on the other end of the line. “Mike, are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m not okay, actually.” He began to cry in strange, sneezy bursts. “My life is falling apart. First my job. Now my crazy wife walks out on her fortieth birthday.”

  “Ohmygod, it’s Perri’s birthday. I completely forgot!!” Olympia gasped, as guilt consumed h
er. Traditionally, it was Carol who kept everyone abreast of upcoming milestones. (Bob couldn’t be counted on to know what month it was—never mind year—unless you meant “light-years.”) But Carol was still in the hospital without her Metropolitan Museum of Art page-a-day calendar featuring Edgar Degas’s Dance Lesson and Vermeer’s Maid Asleep to consult. “Out of curiosity, had you planned anything for tonight?” she asked.

  “I was going to make strip steaks after the kids went to bed,” he said.

  “Sounds festive,” said Olympia, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in her voice. A part of her suspected that, had Mike hinted that he was planning to make even the smallest fuss over Perri’s fortieth, the entire mess might have been avoided.

  “It’s not my fault Perri hates restaurants!” he cried. “She thinks all the bus boys are urinating in the food.”

  I bet she wouldn’t have hated Per Se, Olympia was tempted to reply but refrained.

  “I had a present for her, too,” Mike went on.

  “And what was that?”

  “An Hermès scarf.”

  Olympia couldn’t help herself. “Mike, that’s what you give your corporate secretary on the last day of work before the holidays!”

  “She loves Hermès.”

  “Whatever. It’s a moot point now. I’ll see you later.”

  After she hung up with Mike, Olympia reconnected with Eberhard. “I apologize profusely,” she said, trying to refocus. “Where were we?”

  “You morons haven’t paid me,” he said, sounding even more peeved than before. “That’s where we were.”

  Olympia was taken aback. “I’m sending an email to our billing department right now,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me or anyone else here a moron.”

  “I’ll call you what I like, you dreckige Hure,” said Eberhard.

  Had Olympia just been called a “dirty old whore” in German? A vast storehouse of rage welled up inside her, then exploded into the open air—not just at every egomaniacal artist she’d ever had to deal with at the museum, but at Mike for making her come out to Larchmont; at Patrick for letting her fall in love with him; at #6103 for not jotting down his first and last names and home address in the “Additional Facts about Myself” section of his profile; at Carol for turning her and her sisters into butterflies in a museum, their wings immobilized, their identifying labels sealed to the wall; at Bob for being impossible to pin down at all; at Gus for not respecting her; at Perri for patronizing her; at the Monsanto Corporation for injecting hormones into cows; and at herself for not being more ambitious, or less defensive, or whatever it was that kept her from even trying to be the things she dreamed of being. “Well, then, I’ll call you what I like,” Olympia told the guy. “You’re a pathetic old pervert. Honestly, you’re lucky anyone’s willing to pay you two cents to perform your bullshit, so-called artwork. You think you’re so radical. Well, you have the mental capacity of a sausage! I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you were a rapist. Also, need I mention that you people were on the wrong side of the war…” Olympia couldn’t believe the bile that was coming out of her mouth.

  Not entirely unpredictably, the line had gone dead. “If you’d like to make a call,” said a recording, “please hang up and try again.”

  Olympia’s heart was now beating so hard that it actually hurt her chest. She felt elated and terrified at the same time. After Viveka found out what had happened, would she get fired? And if she was unemployed, how would she ever afford health insurance for her and Lola? Never mind nice clothes. These questions in her head, Olympia gathered her belongings and headed out.

  Maximilian and Annmarie kept typing, as if they hadn’t heard, even though they clearly had.

  A low ceiling of dense fog hung over the city, obscuring the tops of the tall buildings. It was still unseasonably cold. But Olympia didn’t mind. She found the saturnine vistas to be soothing. On Second Avenue, it started to drizzle, and Olympia opened her umbrella. With her other hand, she dialed Perri’s cell number. She was curious about where her sister was. She also felt guilty that she hadn’t already called to wish her a happy fortieth. And she was keen to let Perri know that, counter to her older sister’s impression that Olympia was selfish and unhelpful, she was on her way out to Larchmont that very evening to help take care of Perri’s kids. If points couldn’t be scored on this count, how could they ever be scored?!

  But her sister didn’t pick up. Olympia was secretly relieved. In many ways, she found it easier expressing herself to automated answering services than to actual people. Even so, she strained to achieve a tone of voice that sounded subdued without being phlegmatic. “It’s Pia,” she began. “I just want to wish you a happy birthday, wherever you are. I’m going out to Larchmont to help Mike with the kids tonight. If you want to talk, give me a call. I’ll have my phone on. But no pressure. I hope you’re doing okay, wherever you are. We’re all fine. Bye.” She paused before declaring, “I love you.” It had been years since Olympia had uttered those words to Perri. And she wondered where the burst of affection had come from and whether it had anything to do with the fact that, for possibly the first time in the history of the Hellinger family, and despite Olympia’s career-ruining outburst in the museum, Perri had claimed the Fuck-up Sister trophy for herself.

  It was nearly eight thirty when Olympia and Lola arrived in Larchmont. The rain was even heavier in the suburbs than it had been in the city. Luckily there was an idling taxi in front of the station house. Olympia climbed into the back with Lola. The smell of wet rubber filled the cab. As they approached Perri’s house, Olympia begrudgingly handed the driver her last ten-dollar bill.

  Mike opened the front door. He was wearing jeans, a UPenn T-shirt, and bedroom slippers that appeared to be made of crafting felt. His face was less pink than usual—more like beige with hints of green. “Thanks for coming out,” he said gravely.

  “Of course,” said Olympia, fighting the urge to ask him for reimbursement for her travel expenses.

  Aiden was playing Fruit Ninja on his father’s phone with the dim-eyed gaze of a professional drunk, his pointer finger frantically waggling. Noah, dressed in tiny elastic-waist jeans and a Yankees jersey, was fast asleep on the couch, albeit at a strange angle, his legs elevated higher than his head. Bob was nowhere in sight and presumably already in bed. Sadie was eating Cheerios and milk and watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.

  “Scary!” said Lola, hiding behind her mother’s leg as a giant serpent sank its fang into the boy wizard’s flesh.

  “Sadie, turn that garbage off,” said Mike. “You’re scaring your cousin. And you’re going to get nightmares.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Sadie, munching away happily. “And it’s not garbage.” She took another bite. “Besides, it’s not like Harry dies. Dumbledore’s phoenix, Fawkes, saves him.”

  Mike narrowed his already sliverlike eyes, shook his head. As if the misery were all-encompassing.

  “Speaking of nightmares,” said Olympia. “I need to try and get Lola to sleep. Is there room for her in Sadie’s bedroom?”

  “There’s a trundle under her bed. I can get some sheets for it if I can remember where Perri keeps them.” He scratched his head, glanced over at Sadie. “Yo, Sade, where does Mom keep the twin sheets for your room?”

  “Hall closet,” came the reply.

  “I’m sure I can find them,” said Olympia, walking toward the stairs.

  “It’s fine, I’ll get them,” said Mike, knocking into Olympia’s shoulder as he tried to beat her to the landing. It actually hurt. Was the man made of rock?

  “I can make the bed,” she said, following him upstairs.

  Mike turned the knob to the linen closet, whereupon Olympia suppressed a gasp. Even the fitted sheets, impossible for the average mortal to tame, had been expertly folded into perfect squares. What’s more, a black satin ribbon encircled each sheet set.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Mike mumbled
as he knelt and sorted through the pile.

  “Maybe she’s just upset about turning forty,” offered Olympia, who dreaded the day herself. “It’s kind of a traumatic birthday—at least for women. I mean, George Clooney is allowed to be a sex symbol in middle age, whereas women his age are basically told to disappear.”

  “Maybe,” said Mike. “But—no disrespect to Perri—being a sex symbol was never her thing.”

  Although Olympia secretly agreed with the assessment, she was startled by his words and by the betrayal that seemed to be implicit in them. “I guess,” she replied, struggling to think of something to say that would sound neutral. “So, have you tried calling her?”

  “I’m not going to chase after her,” Mike announced defiantly. He picked himself up off the floor, one knee at a time, a pale pink sheet set with a French rose motif in his arms. “If she wants to be part of this family, she can come back on her own account.”

  “Right,” said Olympia, even though it seemed to her that he was taking the wrong approach. Wasn’t this the time for Mike to show Perri how much she meant to him?

  “Have you talked to her?” he asked.

  “I just left a message,” said Olympia.

  She followed him into Sadie’s bedroom with its outrageous canopy bed, fit for a royal. Again descending to his hands and knees, Mike yanked out the trundle. Olympia, in turn, bent down to help secure the fitted sheet across the mattress. Her face was now a foot away from his. Curious somehow, she found herself glancing over at him. She’d never noticed the yellow-green speckles in his eyes before. “You look like Perri right now,” he said, returning her gaze. “I hadn’t seen it before just now.”

  Olympia quickly looked away. The comparison felt too intimate. It felt strangely threatening, too. Olympia still hated to have her looks contrasted to those of her sisters, if only because it brought her back to a time in adolescence when differentiating herself had been paramount. Back then, clothes had often felt like her only weapons. Olympia had lived in oversized Ts, low-slung belts, long winter underwear, and a Levi’s jean jacket she’d decorated with campaign-style buttons advertising the names of various West Village boutiques. Perri had favored white canvas Tretorns, bleached jeans, and giant Benetton rugby shirts that she’d paid for with money saved up from her after-school job at a local jeweler’s. (Gus, though still in junior high at the time, had already perfected the art of androgyny with the help of Doc Martens, black jeans, and a black leather motorcycle jacket with lots of unnecessary zippers.) Somehow the three of them had still managed to be in and out of one another’s closets, pulling things off hangers, cutting deals. “Guess button-flies for your CP Shades mock?” They’d managed to hurt one another’s feelings, too. Olympia still recalled the time she’d worn a shirt with a Nehru collar to school, and Perri had addressed her as “Yo, Gandhi.” Even though Olympia had considered Perri’s own fashion sense to be the antithesis of cool, she’d never worn the top again.