The Sullivan Sisters

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  She was trying to master this one:

  Over, under, tug through and out.

  The instructions from the Magic Today booklet made it sound easy enough. Currently, though, the rope lay limp in Murphy’s hands, forming the shape of a loose M.

  M for Murphy.

  M for Murderer.

  At last, the computer lurched to life. Murphy put away the accusatory rope, opened the Internet, and clicked on the search bar.

  She typed in “How to dispose of a dead turtle.”

  She winced.

  She hit enter.

  She avoided the images tab, because this wasn’t her first gross search engine rodeo. Instead, she clicked on a forum result from a website called Pet Savvy. Most forum users suggested a shoebox burial.

  Murphy couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought shoes. Having two older sisters made her the hand-me-down queen.

  She kept scrolling through comments.

  “SparksandDarts” said:

  I’ll tell you what my dad did when our turtle kicked it. He pretended our turtle had “powers” and had “disappeared” overnight. Then he claimed he’d “reappeared” inside our TV, and he was now one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I spent half my childhood believing Michelangelo was my old pet.

  Murphy snorted and muttered, “Sick.”

  Still, she filed away the information. Not for real life. For an act.

  Magicians made rabbits disappear on the regular, but Murphy had never seen a disappearing turtle act. That could be new. Fresh. Fun. Murphy’s big break. She could go down in the books as “Turtle Girl.”

  Murphy made a face.

  Not a great name.

  Turtle Empress Supreme?

  Better. She’d workshop that, once she made it to Vegas.

  Scrolling deeper into the forum replies, Murphy discovered posts about using Clorox to prevent bacterial growth.

  That’s when she began to feel nauseated.

  Murphy had realized something: She was going to have to move Siegfried. Touch dead Siegfried.

  She modified her search to “How to dispose of a dead turtle without throwing up.”

  DECEMBER TWENTY-SECOND

  FOUR Eileen

  The Law Offices of Knutsen & Crowley | 218 Avenue B #5

  December 18, 2020

  Dear Ms. Sullivan,

  I represented your uncle, Patrick Enright, in life, and as of his passing one week ago, I serve as the executor of his will. Mr. Enright has informed me that this will come as a surprise, but he left behind the majority of his estate to you and your sisters. This estate is to be divided in equal thirds and bequeathed to each of you upon your respective eighteenth birthdays.

  Since you are the first Sullivan sister to reach the age of majority, I am writing to request you make an appointment at my office, during which time I will go over the terms of the late Mr. Enright’s will and address any questions you may have. You are welcome to bring your own attorney, should you desire. I look forward to making your acquaintance.

  Sincerely,

  William J. Knutsen

  Eileen looked up from the letter in her hand. She was facing 218 Avenue B, listening to Mariah Carey on holiday radio. Vigorously, she chewed four pieces of Dubble Bubble.

  She hated this song.

  But she wasn’t sure she could get out of the van.

  “Shit,” she said to the steering wheel.

  She welcomed the gum’s ephemeral sugar rush. Not alcohol, maybe, but like it—necessary for short-time existence, detrimental to long-term well-being.

  It was misting outside, and rain had puddled in the parking lot, iridescent with gasoline and who knew what other crap. Eileen hadn’t known what to expect from William J. Knutsen. This eyesore of an office sure wasn’t it. A town as small as Emmet didn’t exactly have right and wrong sides of the track; nearly every house was run-down, the strip malls grimy. This place was especially both those things: a tan-brick shopping center that hadn’t been updated since the start of the new millennium. Half the storefronts were empty, their windows papered up, with FOR LEASE signs left on the doors like despairing afterthoughts. Wedged between two of these storefronts were the law offices of Knutsen and Crowley. A rusted plaque by the glass double doors told Eileen so, and in case she had any remaining doubts, a banner strung overhead shouted, TROUBLE WITH THE LAW? BILL CAN HELP. Beside the words was an illustration of a green bird breaking free from a birdcage prison cell.

  It seemed like a scam.

  But then, scams weren’t supposed to seem like scams. This place was so scammy, it had to be legitimate.

  Wasn’t that how it worked?

  Eileen hadn’t known there was a law office in Emmet, period. She’d assumed that town residents in need of legal assistance looked for it farther afield, in an actual city, like Eugene. This place was a shock.

  As was the fact that she had inherited a third of her uncle’s estate.

  As was the fact that she had an uncle.

  Patrick Enright.

  What the hell.

  Eileen ran her thumb along the letter’s edge, studying its very fibers for signs of fraud.

  Meanwhile, Mariah crooned about what she wanted for Christmas.

  Eileen knew the responsible thing to do: wait until Mom was back from the cruise, show her the letter, and ask point-blank about its contents. Who said Eileen was responsible, though? And who said Mom was up for a heart-to-heart? Eileen hadn’t had a real talk with her mother for the past four, maybe five years. These days Mom was in one of two places: the Walgreens on Fourth Avenue or inside her locked bedroom, the television’s murmur at war with her snores. One place she was not: Eileen’s life.

  No. After last night’s revelation, Eileen had decided the best thing to do was go straight to the source: Mr. Knutsen himself. She wanted to see the man in person. First, to be sure this law office existed. Second, because she wanted immediate answers, to her face. Worst-case scenario, this was a scam, and she’d bolt. But best-case?

  Goddamn. Best-case, she had family—albeit dead family. And maybe that family had an explanation—a different explanation for the letters she’d uncovered two years ago. That could change everything.

  Eileen sure as hell wanted things to change.

  The gum had lost its flavor. Eileen spat it into her hand and formed a glistening ball, which she dropped into the cup holder. Claire would call her disgusting, but this wasn’t Claire’s car. And this wasn’t Claire’s letter to deal with. The task fell solely to Eileen.

  So, she’d better do something about it.

  Enough was enough. Eileen cut the engine and got out of the van. Avoiding the deeper rain puddles, she crossed the parking lot, opened the door to the office, and stepped inside.

  The place was nice in an outdated, seventies kind of way, with wood-paneled walls and shiny gold fixtures. A receptionist sat at the front desk, typing on a keyboard. Three heavy lines cut across her forehead—permanent ridges, it seemed.

  Eileen cleared her throat.

  “Appointment time?” the receptionist asked, keeping her eyes on the screen.

  “Uh. I didn’t make one. Was I supposed to?”

  Eileen knew she was supposed to. She’d read the letter five hundred times.

  The receptionist stopped typing. Her face reminded Eileen of her fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Larson. And since this was Emmet, there was a big chance the two of them were related.

  “We don’t take walk-ins anymore,” said Ms. Larson’s probably-sister. “You’ll have to make an appointment with either Mr. Crowley or Mr. Knutsen.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Knutsen sent me this.”

  Eileen held out the letter. The lines on the receptionist’s forehead bulged.

  “That may be,” she said after a pause, “but you still have to make an appointment. It’ll have to be after the holiday sea—”

  “Send her on in, Tonya.”

  Eileen glanced up. There were three doors leading off the reception a
rea. One of those doors was open. The one marked WILLIAM J. KNUTSEN, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

  “Bill,” Tonya called back, “I don’t think—”

  “I said, send her in.”

  Tonya looked helpless and pissed. She glared at Eileen, who was considering that maybe she should’ve washed and/or styled her hair for this occasion. Maybe not worn the usual leather jacket, combat boots, and heavy eyeliner. Too late for that, though. Tonya was motioning for Eileen to do as the voice of Bill commanded. Eileen stepped into his room.

  William J. Knutsen, like his law office, was not what Eileen had expected. For one thing, he had a head of hair; she’d been picturing him as bald. For another, that hair was white; she’d pictured a young, upstart grifter. The guy before her was more of a Santa Claus. His chin was sagging and his stature straight—a striking combo. One that, once upon a time, Eileen would’ve loved to have painted.

  From a leather chair behind his desk, he said, “Please have a seat, Ms. Sullivan.”

  Mr. Knutsen spoke the way Eileen thought Santa might: jolly. Down-to-earth. She eyed the chair opposite him and said, “I’m cool where I am, thanks.”

  Mr. Knutsen didn’t put up a fight. He tented his fingers in front of his whisker-bordered lips.

  Eileen frowned at him. “How do you know who I am?”

  “Well, my usual clientele is over the age of thirty.”

  “Deduction.” Eileen tapped her temple. “You’re one clever bastard, Billy.”

  Mr. Knutsen appeared unruffled. If Eileen had addressed any of her teachers that way, they would’ve given her detention. In fact, Eileen had addressed them that way, and she had gotten detention. But she wasn’t sure exactly why she was mouthing off now. Was it nerves? Possibly. Maybe she was more anxious about this than she’d planned to be, and maybe the only way to cope was to be an asshole.

  She dropped the letter on the table. “So, what is this? I have an uncle?”

  At last she got a reaction out of the guy: Mr. Knutsen’s eyelids fluttered, and he sat straighter in his chair. He said, “I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

  “My mom was a foster kid. Doesn’t have family. And my dad was an only child.”

  She was telling him what she’d thought had been true—what she’d believed until yesterday. Inside, she was begging Mr. Knutsen to prove her wrong. She needed this change.

  Change. Her heart thumped with the word: Ch-change, ch-change.

  Mr. Knutsen fluttered his eyelids again. “Your father wasn’t an only child, according to my records. Or, I should say, Patrick Enright’s.”

  Eileen said, “There’s no one in my family named Enright.”

  At that Mr. Knutsen rose from his chair, and for a moment, Eileen feared he might fling her from the room, shouting, “YOU’RE RIGHT, I’VE MADE A HUGE MISTAKE!”

  Instead, he crossed the office to a tall filing cabinet and, using a key, opened the topmost drawer. He riffled through the folders and removed one, thick with papers, setting it on the table before Eileen.

  “Have you considered, Ms. Sullivan, that your parents changed their name?”

  Eileen made no move to touch the folder. “Yeah, when my mom got married. She was a Clark, though. Not an Enright.”

  “I’m not talking about maiden names. It was your father who made the change.”

  “You know that’s the weirdest term? ‘Maiden name.’ Like, okay, do you want a dowry and a side of cattle with that?”

  Mr. Knutsen stared, blank-faced, at Eileen. She’d gone a step too far, maybe.

  “Fine,” said Eileen. “Why would my dad change his name?”

  “That’s for him to say, not me. Go on, open the folder.”

  Eileen didn’t take orders. She crossed her arms and studied the wall behind Mr. Knutsen’s head. His diploma was huge, set in tomato-red matting. University of Phoenix. Definitely not Harvard. Eileen got a scratchy feeling at the back of her neck. Was this a scam? She’d heard of elder fraud, but what was this? Recently-graduated-teenager fraud? If so, the joke was on Bill. Eileen was flat broke. And if Eileen thought of it that way, she was invincible to scams, and therefore to whatever was in that folder.

  Still, something inside Eileen wouldn’t allow her to open it.

  Instead, she focused on something Mr. Knutsen had said: That’s for him to say. This guy couldn’t know much if he didn’t know John Sullivan had been dead for fourteen years. For all that time, he’d said nothing to Eileen from beyond the grave. Why would he start today?

  Silence passed, eventually turning obscene. Mr. Knutsen caught on. He slid the folder away from Eileen and opened it himself. He unhooked something from a paper clip—a photograph—and held it out to her.

  Eileen took the photo. It seemed a bitch too far not to.

  She was looking at a man in his midtwenties standing in front of a wire fence. She knew who this was. Soft jaw. Ruddy cheeks. Strawberry-blond hair. Close-set eyes, colored cornflower blue. Traits Eileen had not inherited but recognized easily enough from other photographs of her father.

  “So?” She flapped the photo at Mr. Knutsen.

  “So, that’s Patrick Enright.”

  Eileen stopped flapping. She held the photo close and looked. Really looked. Traits similar to John Sullivan’s, but it wasn’t him. There were differences. The turn of his nose. The hunch of his shoulders. The gauntness.

  A long-nailed claw dug into Eileen’s gut. It was familiar, though she hadn’t felt it in a while—the pain of not knowing a dad who’d died young. There were vague memories of him left in her head: arms swinging her high in the kitchen, bangs that drooped over his eyes. Still, she didn’t know him well enough. Not enough to distinguish him from a stranger.

  A real daughter would’ve noticed the difference.

  Eileen needed a drink.

  “It’s an older photo, of course,” said Mr. Knutsen. “Hadn’t taken anything recent before his death last week. Cirrhosis of the liver, complications thereof. Nasty way to go, I hear. Now, Ms. Sullivan, do you know much about your father’s upbringing? Where he lived before he moved to Emmet?”

  You couldn’t imagine the things I know, thought Eileen.

  What she said was, “Some other shit town. Why does that matter?”

  “It’s really not my place to tell you that.”

  Eileen gave Mr. Knutsen a long, hard look. What was this dude playing at? She’d come here for answers, and all she was getting were hems and haws and hedging. It was time to play hardball.

  “Right!” she said, slapping her knees. “Thanks, Bill. This has been super enlightening.”

  She headed for the door, still holding the photo.

  “He gave you a house.”

  Eileen stopped. Slowly, she turned around.

  Finally they were getting somewhere.

  “Beg your pardon,” said Mr. Knutsen. “I’ve been skirting around the point. My job is to tell you about the inheritance, not its history.”

  “A … house?” The question dropped from Eileen’s mouth like crusted glue.

  “A third of the proceeds from its sale, to be precise. That’s your portion of the estate. Your sisters will inherit the remaining thirds.”

  “Uh-uuuh.” Eileen had stopped feeling things right. Her face was numb, or maybe not there. She really needed a drink.

  “Please, Ms. Sullivan, take a seat. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Eileen obeyed Mr. Knutsen’s order, just this once.

  FIVE Claire

  It was mailing day, and Claire wished she were anywhere but here, at the post office, three days before Christmas.

  “Delusional,” she muttered—to herself, and to the nine customers on her Etsy shop who had placed orders after the Christmas cutoff date. It didn’t matter how clearly Claire had laid out the shipping guidelines; shoppers would disregard them, holding on to false hope that their last-minute gifts would reach them in time.

  Some people had no regard for scheduling, let alone logic.

  That did
n’t mean Claire wouldn’t take their money, though.

  As she stood in line, a dozen people away from the mailing counter, Claire copied and pasted a message into the Etsy app, tapping out the previous customer’s name and replacing it with the next:

  Hey Rebecca,

  One last reminder that this gift will arrive AFTER Christmas, as indicated by my Holiday Shipping Guidelines. I hope you or your recipient enjoy this one-of-a-kind, handmade piece. Thank you for your business!

  xo Claire @ Silver Lining Boutique

  She hit the send button and moved on to the next:

  Hey Madison,

  Lance,

  Zoe,

  Finally, she reached number nine. The ninth last-minute, frazzle-brained customer who’d bought an online boutique gift less than a week before Christmas. Based on experience, Claire expected six of the people to not respond, two to send back a chipper I understand, thanks!, and one Unenlightened Settler to write that she was affronted, and what terrible customer service, and she had no idea.

  Before Claire had started watching Harper Everly, she would have straight-up called that last person a bitch. But Harper had taught her that “bitch” was a Settler’s word—a cheap stand-in for how you actually felt about another woman, and certainly not helpful in the grand scheme of things. “Bitch,” said Harper Everly, was decidedly antifeminist.

  So Claire called bitchy customers Unenlightened Settlers instead, and she used intelligent words to describe their actions: entitled, oblivious, ignorant. Maybe those weren’t as satisfying to say, but they were true, and ultimately, those customers rarely requested a refund. It simply wasn’t worth the effort at Claire’s price point. They could write their nasty messages, but Claire was the one who ended up with their money. The joke was on them.

  That’s how it worked, Harper had taught her. “Settlers shout loudest. Excellers live loudest. It’s a long game, and Excellers win out.”