The Sullivan Sisters

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  The memories had been good, though, and John Sullivan had acted like her dad. She could tell Claire and Murphy that. She could recall the time they’d finger painted together in the kitchen, or how high he’d pushed her on the swing in the front yard, before its demise. She could recall his swishy bangs and solid presence and citrusy scent.

  But doing that wouldn’t be fully honest, would it? Talking about their father when she knew she had another father too. A killer, with no good memories attached to his name.

  Eileen couldn’t.

  “Murph, I’m tired, okay?” It came out more irritably than Eileen intended.

  An injured look cracked across Murphy’s face as she said quietly, “Okay.”

  “Mom used to take us to his grave,” Claire said.

  Murphy frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

  “It was a long time ago when she stopped. You were little.”

  “Oh,” Murphy said, looking deflated. Moments passed before she murmured, “I’d like to see it sometime.”

  No one replied, and to Eileen’s relief, the conversation broke apart after that. It was as though her talk of tiredness cued Claire to yawn, and then Murphy caught it. Claire stayed where she was, sprawled out, eyes closed. Murphy burrowed into a pile of quilts, wrapping her body around a needlepoint pillow and, minutes later, producing delicate snores. Eileen watched her sisters sleep and the fire crackle, as shadows waxed and waned on the parlor walls.

  Wind and rain pushed against the house, sending low creaks through the room. It was peaceful. In a state like this Eileen couldn’t imagine Mark Enright throwing his mother down the stairs or bashing in his father’s brains.

  That had happened, though.

  And it was time, at last, to seek out the full truth.

  Eileen rose from the couch and, with care, tugged an object from her left pocket—not the gum pocket, the alcohol one. The flask was half empty, and she decided she could spare a whole half of that tonight. Sure, it was more than usual, but this was a special occasion. Eileen needed the liquid courage to see herself through her clerical task.

  She crossed the parlor, surveying the stacked boxes, and took a pull of the liquor, allowing it to burn down her throat. Then she pocketed the flask and got to work, taking down one box, removing its lid, and sitting with the contents.

  At the moment it was only electric bills and tons of old issues of The New Yorker. Eileen wasn’t deterred, though, and she wasn’t thrown off the scent. What she was looking for might be wedged between an insurance bill and an old Christmas card. There was no knowing.

  As she sat, meticulously sifting, a memory came to her. One of her very own “remember whens.” She’d been thirteen, and Claire had been twelve, and they’d decided to walk the forty-five minutes from their house to the Emmet Walmart in an unusually sweltering August heat. Claire had needed shoes for the start of school; she’d worn her only pair of sneakers down to peeling rubber.

  “I don’t know what I want,” she’d told Eileen. “It has to be good, though. It’s seventh grade; I need to make an impression.”

  Eileen had told her impressions didn’t matter, and she should just be herself. Claire had told Eileen she sounded like Mr. Rogers. Eileen had said thank you for the compliment. It hadn’t been a fight. They’d bantered, goaded, teased—but they hadn’t fought back then.

  “I don’t know what I want,” Claire had repeated as they entered the store, stepping into the cool bliss of air-conditioning. “I’ll know what it is when I see it, though.”

  Those words echoed in Eileen’s brain, relevant five years later, as she sat in darkness, with only firelight to illuminate her search.

  She needed an answer to this question: Am I the daughter of a cold-blooded killer?

  She didn’t know in what form she’d get the answer.

  She only knew she’d know what it was when she saw it.

  DECEMBER TWENTY-FOURTH

  TWENTY Claire

  Claire. Yoo-hoo!”

  It was a rude awakening. Claire’s joints were stiff as marble, skin ice-cold, and here was Murphy hanging over her, red curls tickling Claire’s nose. This close, Claire could smell her sister’s stale morning breath.

  “Murph, stop.” Claire swatted her away.

  “Whoa, sorry!” Murphy threw up her hands. “I tried nudging first. You’re a hard sleeper.”

  That wasn’t true, though. The past month Claire hadn’t slept well at all. Before the early admission decision came in, she’d been kept awake by jumpy anticipation. Then the rejection had come. Claire hadn’t been sleeping hard for a while.

  Who knew that what she’d needed to do for a good night’s sleep was drive through the middle of the night, be sleeted upon, and break into a dead man’s house?

  A life of crime, she thought wryly. The new Ambien.

  “What time is it?” Claire asked, pushing out of her quilted cocoon.

  Murphy shrugged. “You were the one with the phone. It’s light outside, though.”

  She pointed to the parlor’s row of windows, through which gray light illuminated rain hitting as hard against the house as it had the night before. Claire grimaced.

  “Yeah, still storming,” said Murphy. “I bet the whole town’s going to flood.”

  “Comforting.” Claire rubbed her temples.

  At this rate the Caravan had most likely been swept off the side of the road and cast into the ocean.

  You’re being pessimistic, warned the internal voice of Harper Everly. Excellers don’t think negatively. They’re not sarcastic, either. You must—

  Claire punched the voice in the face. For the first time in over two years, she wasn’t listening. She’d made her decision yesterday, when she’d smashed up her phone. Today, she would do and be whatever she pleased.

  “Where’s Eileen?” she asked, glancing around the parlor. Her eyes landed on a figure slumped against the opposite wall.

  There was an open box in Eileen’s lap. Her head was lolled to one side, mouth hanging open. Though Claire couldn’t see the drool from this distance, she could imagine it well enough. She rolled her eyes. What did Eileen hope to find in this house? A tall stack of hundred-dollar bills?

  “Leenie,” she called across the room.

  Eileen didn’t stir.

  Murphy tsked and said, “She’s a harder sleeper than you.”

  Claire’s stomach let out a gritty howl. She clutched it, wincing at the gnaw of hunger coming on fast.

  “Right?” said Murphy. “I’m starving.”

  Claire glanced at the box of Pop-Tarts on the coffee table. There had to be more where that had come from.

  “Come on,” she said, getting to her feet. “Let’s look in the kitchen.”

  “Okay, cool,” said Murphy, sounding inexplicably relieved.

  When they set foot in the kitchen, Claire understood why: This room was creepy. There was only one window, small and frosted, over the sink, which cast the surroundings in an ominous gloom. The checkered tile floor was old, thirties style, as were the wooden counters. The appliances weren’t new either; Claire’s guess was that the fridge had been around since Reagan’s presidency. Murphy approached it so quickly, Claire didn’t have the chance to warn her.

  “Bleugh,” Murphy said, upon flinging open the door. She threw an arm over her nose, covering a gag.

  “I wouldn’t trust anything in there,” Claire said.

  “No kidding,” Murphy said, but she remained standing in front of the darkened fridge, taking in its contents: a carton of milk, myriad jars of pickles, dressings, and condiments. There were Styrofoam takeout boxes crammed onto the bottom shelf, and Claire shuddered to think how long they’d been there.

  She frowned, thinking it through. Whose job was that? A postmortem fridge clean-out. Who dumped out the food of a recluse once he’d died? Who had even found Patrick Enright’s body? And why had his burial been closed off from the public? She’d had endless questions when she’d first read the letter f
rom William J. Knutsen—too many to ask, or have answered, so she’d temporarily stuffed them inside. Now, though, Claire’s mind was wandering. Why had Patrick left this home to nieces he’d never met? Maybe, if Claire had directly asked Cathy at Ramsey’s Diner, she would have had an answer even to that.

  Thinking of the diner caused Claire’s stomach to growl again. She wished she’d eaten that yogurt parfait. But yesterday morning she’d thought they were going to get out of this town. That had been before the skies had opened up and belched out a freak storm, and before she’d lost all faith and dashed her phone against the wall. A lot had changed in twenty-four hours’ time.

  The scent of rot was tickling Claire’s nose. She shook herself from her thoughts.

  “Murphy, close it already,” she ordered, crossing to a wooden door that was very helpfully marked PANTRY.

  When she opened it, she gaped in wonder. Here was the Holy Grail. How had Eileen kept this a secret? More importantly, how had she seen its contents and only taken away a box of Pop-Tarts? On the shelves before Claire were bags of potato chips, hazelnuts, chocolate chips; there were boxes of crackers and cereal, and additional Pop-Tarts. It was a sight so heavenly, it almost made Claire forget the legion of articles she’d read on why gluten was bad for you.

  “Yeah!” Murphy cried from behind her. “The mother lode!”

  She pushed Claire aside and grabbed the chocolate chips, flinging off the clothespin that had been sealing the half-full bag. Murphy dug in and shoved a handful of morsels into her mouth.

  “Mmmm,” she groaned. “Claire, try.”

  Claire looked at the bag, wavering. Semisweet chocolate was junk food, but it wasn’t glutenous.

  Murphy seemed to become aware of Claire’s inner battle. “Do it,” she whispered salaciously. “C’mon, just a few.”

  She held out the bag, and the chocolate scent wafted into Claire’s face. She could no longer resist. She took a handful of chips and popped them into her mouth, then embraced the earth-shattering sensation that followed: sweet, chocolatey goodness exploding on her tongue. The chips weren’t even stale. She surveyed the rest of the pantry, on a hunt for treasure.

  “What’s up?”

  Claire turned to find Eileen standing behind them. Her eyeliner had smeared, turning her face raccoonlike. The messiness made her appear younger. Gentler. Claire almost smiled at the sight.

  “Breakfast,” she said, nodding to Murphy’s chocolate chips.

  Murphy obligingly offered the bag.

  “Eh,” Eileen said. “I’m feeling savory.”

  Reaching over Murphy’s head, she pulled down a can of Pringles.

  “More for me,” Murphy said, shoving in another handful of chocolate.

  This time, a strange expression followed. Murphy’s nose lifted, her eyebrows lowered, and her mouth flattened. She made a choking sound.

  “Murph?” Claire said, cautiously.

  Murphy opened her mouth wide, and a torrent of chocolate chips burst forth, scattering onto the floor.

  “Holy shit,” Eileen yelped, jumping back. “Murphy, what the hell?”

  “Oh God,” Murphy wailed, pushing past them. “Oh God, oh God.”

  Claire watched, bewildered, as Murphy yanked on the kitchen tap and splashed water into her mouth with clumsy abandon.

  What was wrong?

  What was wrong … with the chocolate?

  She looked to the bag Murphy had dropped, then to the spit-out pile of chocolate. It was difficult to see in the dim light, but not impossible. There was movement in the chocolate. Small, white movement. Crawling. Squirming.

  Maggots.

  Then Claire felt them—slight little shiftings in her mouth.

  She spewed out the chocolate onto Eileen’s boots.

  “FUCK,” Eileen shrieked, running from the room and then yelling from the parlor, “I DON’T WANT TO KNOW.”

  “Move, move!” Claire shoved Murphy from the sink, angling her mouth beneath the faucet, filling it with water and spitting out. Filling, then spitting. Stumbling back, she raked her fingers across her tongue.

  She was almost sure the maggots were gone, but the shifting sensation remained, a memory that made Claire heave out clear, sticky liquid into the sink.

  Murphy was sitting on the floor crying, snot flowing from her nose.

  “Ewww,” she wailed. “Ewww. It serves us right, eating a dead guy’s stuff!”

  Claire couldn’t be sure if Murphy was joking, but laughing felt better than retching, so she laughed. She wiped her stinging eyes and slumped down to the floor beside Murphy.

  “W-we’re okay,” she told her. “Murph, it’s fine.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Murphy cried, wearing a strange, hysterical smile.

  How absurd was this? Sitting in their dead uncle’s kitchen, spitting out maggots on Christmas Eve. Claire cried a little and laughed a little and dragged her molars across her tongue, while Murphy made snuffling, spitting sounds.

  Moments later, Eileen appeared at the door.

  “Much good you are!” Murphy shouted, pointing an accusing finger.

  Eileen shrugged. “What could I do about it?”

  “I dunno,” Murphy conceded. Then she said, softer, “If Uncle Patrick’s a ghost, I tell you what: He’s mad at us.”

  * * *

  “Sure you don’t want one?”

  “Leenie, for the last time.”

  “What? You gotta be hungry.”

  Claire stared at Eileen in disbelief. After several additional rounds of mouth-washing and retches, she’d managed to leave the kitchen with some dignity intact. Now she and Murphy sat with Eileen in front of a rekindled fire as Eileen chomped merrily on salt and vinegar Pringles. It didn’t matter that Eileen claimed the can was well sealed, or that there was no trace of infestation on those chips. Claire’s appetite had been ruined. She didn’t know if she’d ever eat chocolate again. One thing was for sure: She wasn’t touching another item that came out of the pantry.

  Murphy, it seemed, was of the same opinion. She lay on the couch, hands clenched over her gut, a martyr’s expression drawn over her face. She was dramatic, that one, but she was also paler than usual beneath the freckles. Claire didn’t blame her. For once, for maybe the first time, she completely understood Murphy’s position. Like Claire, she refused Eileen’s offerings.

  “Your loss,” Eileen concluded, chomping into four layered chips. “Hope it doesn’t bother you.”

  Claire didn’t know what to say to that. At the moment, food in general bothered her, as did the fact that they were stuck in this house, held captive by a winter storm. Ravenous wind drove into the walls, and vertical rivers ran down the windows.

  “This is one messed up Christmas,” Claire said, looking into the fire.

  She was going to indulge in as much pessimism as her heart desired, Exceller status be damned.

  “That’s what I was saying the other day,” Murphy offered from the couch.

  “Aren’t all our Christmases kind of messed up?” Eileen said, crunching into a chip.

  Claire reflected on this. If a good Christmas meant snuggling with your family and opening nice gifts and drinking eggnog by the fire, then yes, comparatively, every Sullivan Christmas had been messed up. Mom tried to make things nice, but half the time she burned dinner or forgot about the stockings, and when she remembered, she filled them with junk from the Dollar Tree: off-brand antibacterial gel and cheap boxed candies. Christmas in the Sullivan home was a parody.

  Then again … there had been those few years when the sisters had exchanged gifts inside the castle. Their own private ritual, on the twenty-first. Claire couldn’t forget Eileen’s gift that one year: the secondhand iPhone, an answer to Claire’s prayers. That had been the second-to-last Christmas they’d been okay, the two of them. And then Eileen had moved from their room, and a month before Christmas announced they wouldn’t be exchanging gifts. Claire had hidden away the set of paints she’d bought for Eileen—a hard-
to-find brand she’d only been able to track down at a craft store in Eugene.

  Yes, Claire reflected. Most Christmases of theirs had been messed up.

  “You gotta admit, though,” said Murphy, “this one’s, like, extra screwy.”

  “A memorable last Christmas,” muttered Eileen.

  Claire looked up from the throw pillow she’d hugged to her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, c’mon.” Eileen snorted.

  “Come on, what?”

  “You’ll be in Connecticut next year,” Eileen elaborated, “as you’ve made us aware countless times. So here’s a Christmas for the books, huh? Before you leave.”

  Claire tried to swallow the barb-edged tickling in her throat.

  “Maybe we could visit though?” Murphy said from the couch. Her voice was tentative, as though she was expecting a no.

  Wasn’t that reasonable? Why would Claire invite Murphy to Yale? Claire never spent time with her younger sister as it was. She’d had an online shop to run, high school to conquer, extracurriculars to add to her résumé. What she hadn’t had was the energy to put up with Murphy’s bad jokes and attempted “magic shows”—card tricks resulting in wrong guesses, mystical quarters that ended up falling out of turtleneck sleeves. Murphy had been a kid, and she still acted like one. Was that the way it was with babies of the family? Claire wasn’t sure. She just knew that she’d been too busy to deal.

  Why would Yale have changed any of that?

  The shifting sensation was back, only this time it wasn’t on Claire’s tongue. The tiny creatures were writhing inside her, in the ventricles of her heart. Restless. Relentless. An itch she couldn’t dig deep enough to scratch.

  It was terrible, the feeling of regret.

  Because what if she’d been doing it wrong, all this time?

  She looked to where Murphy lay on the couch, red hair tangled, limbs akimbo, then to where Eileen sat, propped up on her elbows, black smudges lining her cheekbones. How had Claire lived with these two humans, so close inside one house, but so far away? How had she been seeing them for years, but not seeing them? Somehow, in the midst of Claire’s goal charting and vision boarding, Murphy and Eileen had transformed. They’d stopped being her sisters, and they’d become part of Emmet, Oregon, instead. They’d turned to mere landscape, part of the life she had to leave behind.