The Pretty One: A Novel About Sisters (8 page)

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-blond 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

A
S
G
US 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?”

Olympia burst into bosom-vibrating guffaws, gratifying Gus, who remembered that her middle sister had always had a wonderful laugh, deep, hiccupy, and, well, warm. Maybe she was still human after all, Gus thought. Keen to leave their conversation at a high point, she reached for the remote and proceeded to flick through a dozen channels. “So, what do you say?” she said. “
Animal Cops: Houston,
local news, or a mysteriously Tivo’d
The Bachelor
?”

“Whatever you want,” said Olympia, who wasn’t a big fan of television.

“Well, I vote for
The Bachelor.
”

“Fine with me.”

“What? You don’t think homosexuals are allowed to watch heterosexual shows?”

“I didn’t say anything!” cried Olympia.

“But I could tell you were thinking that,” said Gus, aware that she sounded vaguely pathetic. These days, something about Olympia’s very presence made Gus defensive. Maybe it
was the fact that, even when her sister was physically there, she gave off the impression that her mind was somewhere else, somewhere she’d rather be. “Actually, I can’t tell anything about you,” Gus went on.

“What?” said Olympia, squinching up her face.

“Never mind,” said Gus, embarrassed.

The sisters watched in silence as a young woman with a blond ponytail dabbed at her mascara-caked eyes and declared, “I would have bet my life savings I was getting a rose.” Then the camera cut to the bachelor himself, a smug-looking guy in a polo shirt with swooshy side-parted hair. “That last rose ceremony was seriously one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made,” he said with a weary laugh. “I mean, Kristy is a great girl—fun, warm, superhot. I guess I just didn’t feel the connection.” After that segment ended, another contestant came on the screen—a horsey brunette with visible gums. The TV identified her as “Debbie from Delray Beach, FL.” “Speaking of Debbies,” said Olympia. “Heard anything from yours lately?”

“We’ve texted a few times,” said Gus, somehow surprised that her sister even remembered Debbie’s name.

“Any chance of getting back together?”

“Zero.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“She and the new lady love are adopting a baby from North Korea, or something.”

Olympia squinted at her. “Are you serious about North Korea?”

“It might be Myanmar or Thailand. I can’t remember. Anyway, I’m over it.” And it was true, or mostly true. Gus’s ego was still wounded. But reflecting on the relationship, she’d come to the conclusion that all she and Debbie did was bicker, with
Debbie accusing Gus of being needy and demanding, and criticizing everything she did; and with Gus accusing Debbie of not being supportive, not taking Gus’s work as seriously as she took her own, and caring only about herself. What’s more, Debbie rarely told Gus she loved her. Plus, Gus was always worrying about Debbie getting killed on her Harley-Davidson. And she’d only ever read the introduction to the book that Gus had spent five years slaving over,
On Dykes and Documents: Towards a Lesbian Legal Practice
(Routledge, 2009). Which is maybe why Gus’s hurt over the split was conflated with relief. At least, that was what she told herself. A part of Gus felt as if she’d been made to sit through some shrieky, seven-hour-long German opera. And the curtain was finally, thankfully coming down—even as another part of her physically ached at the thought of Debbie’s muscular arms wrapped around somebody else’s midriff…