The Language of Sisters

by Cathy Lamb

  “His butt made you cheat?”

  “Yes. My husband has a skinny butt. My butt’s bigger than his. But Jer. Nice big butt. Not fat. But hips. And my husband works all the time. I pay attention to my husband when he gets home. I talk to him, listen, give him massages, sex whenever he wants, but he hardly knows me. He thinks everything is fine between us because he’s happy, ergo I must be happy, and that ticks me off.”

  “That would make me mad, too.”

  “He’ll say, ‘How are you, Liza,’ and before I can answer he’ll say, ‘I’m hungry, what’s for dinner?’ So he doesn’t truly care.”

  “How are you, then?” I knew how she was. It was blatantly obvious. She was depressed. Searching for light. Struggling with a cloying sadness that could not be shaken away and using alcohol to self-medicate.

  “I’m lonely. Alone. I love my husband, and it hurts me every single day that he doesn’t really see me. But Jer, the architect, saw me from the start. He listened to me. Not only about the house but about who I was. Jer knew more about me in one day than my husband and we’ve been married fifteen years. So, it wasn’t actually about Jer’s butt. It was about the brain a few feet above the butt.”

  “Why don’t you leave your husband?”

  “Because I love him. We’ve been together a long time. We met in college. I already said that.” She had not said that. Liza lit a cigarette, impatient, efficient. I truly hate cigarette smoke, but I couldn’t say anything. It was her house.

  “Are you still with Jer?”

  “Yes. I’ll be with Jer until my husband pays attention to me. I can’t live like I’m dying. That was a stupid thing to say. Sorry. I hate clichés.” She puffed out smoke in a smoke ring. I was impressed.

  “Why don’t you tell your husband how you feel?”

  “I did. I have. Several times.” She tapped her cigarette on a glass ash tray. “He was gobsmacked each time. He changed for about two weeks, then went back to who he was.”

  “So why do you love a man who doesn’t pay attention to you? Who doesn’t want to know you?”

  “I don’t know. Prodding question I can’t answer. Are you sure you don’t want wine? I had this stuff flown in from France.” She poured a glass.

  “No, thanks.”

  She poured me a glass and handed it to me. She almost fell out of her blouse. I thought she was going to cry and run more mascara down her face, so I steered the questions back to her home.

  “Tell me about your goals for the home when you were first designing it.”

  “Are you married, Toni?”

  “No.” The question still hurt.

  “Ever been married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got rid of him, huh? I understand. I can’t do that to my husband. When you love him, you love ’em, right?”

  “Right.” I stayed calm. She blew another smoke ring.

  The front door opened and a man walked through. Tall, skinny, smiling. “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi, Eddy, how are you?”

  “Fine. How are you, Liza? I’m hungry. What’s for lunch? Who do we have here?”

  I stood and shook his hand, we chatted. Eddy was a nice, bland man, but I could see what Liza meant. Loving, thought all was well, would never hurt her; in fact he was obviously indulgent, but dense like a tree trunk.

  For a woman who wanted a husband who would delve deep through life with her, who was in touch with his emotions, and hers, who was interested in her as a woman, who dreamed and worried and cried with her, who paid attention and was thoughtful and insightful, it would be an unending, emotionally degrading problem. The relationship was hollow. One person knew it. The other didn’t have the capacity to recognize it. Hard to work through.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Toni. I’m hungry,” Eddy the dense husband said again. “What’s for lunch? Will it be ready soon? Did you pick up my dry cleaning? You know my mother’s coming for lunch on Saturday?”

  “Yes. Yes. And yes.” Liza got up and got him his lunch, then returned.

  Liza’s shirt was undone almost to mid-boob. She had mascara down her face from tears. She was clearly hung over. Her husband was absolutely blind to that blatant call for help or was narcissistic or thoughtless enough not to care.

  “See what I mean?” Liza said.

  “I think I’m hungry,” I said to her. “When’s lunch?”

  We laughed and she filled her wineglass and blew another smoke ring.

  “Jer, the architect, is awesome in bed. Don’t put that in the article.”

  * * *

  I went out to the kayak house and stared at my red kayak, then Marty’s, and our tandem. I swallowed hard and brushed my tears away. I pulled my kayak out and sat in it. I held the row across me.

  Marty and I kayaked in Oregon, Alaska, the San Juan Islands, Florida, Montana, and Mexico.

  We laughed. We met new people. We saw sheared cliffs, towering mountains, fascinating geological formations, sunsets and sunrises that were surely hand-painted, twisting rivers, sandy beaches, bears, herds of deer, elk, beavers, coyote, and one wolf. We kayaked in the sun, the rain, and twice the snow.

  When we were done kayaking for the day, we set up our tent, or headed to our hotel, had dinner and wine, and when we were recharged, we had wild and rolling and loving sex.

  Then we fell asleep and did the whole thing the next day.

  “Toni, look at that.” He would point at an eagle, a carving in a ridge, a purple line across the sky.

  “There’s something about nature that makes you feel alive, yet tiny, grateful, like your whole city life is not real life, don’t you think, Toni?”

  “I love feeling like I’m part of the river, but more than that, I love feeling that we’re part of the river together, Toni... .”

  “You’re my river, Toni... .”

  “I feel like a new person after that trip. Do you? Do you feel different? How? Where do you want to go for our next trip, Toni? Tell me and I’ll get it planned... .”

  We laughed. We talked. Nothing I said was too small for him to listen to and comment on.

  He held my hand. He made me feel like the sexiest woman in the world. He looked at me and I knew he wanted me naked.

  We kayaked, we traveled, we built memories.

  I am so grateful now, for all those memories.

  * * *

  Marty was popular in our Russian community, not only because he was kind and interesting and always asked people how they were doing, but because he helped them with their medical concerns.

  We would go to parties, to church, to dinners and celebrations, and members of the Russian community would come up and talk to him, in English and Russian. One elderly man spoke in Russian and Hebrew, sometimes changing midsentence.

  “My heart goes thump thump, then it goes thump thump thump, quick, like a damn coyote. Why does it do that?”

  “I have a problem with my gooser, Dr. Marty. Yes. My gooser. Here.” A woman smacked Marty’s butt, then turned around to show him her butt. She leaned in and whispered, “I have to talk to you privately.”

  “Can you take a peek at my titties, Dr. Romanowsky? I think one is a lot bigger than the other. Is that normal?” Marty was flashed by a seventy-two-year-old woman. “Do you see the problem?”

  He listened. He was compassionate. He referred people he thought had true problems. They brought us meals, treats, sent flowers, hugged him.

  Everyone loved Marty. I loved him, too.

  * * *

  “You all received the notice of eviction?” Charles asked, leaning back on his couch. He was worn out. Charles and Vanessa had worked hard for our dock to stay open, as had many other people. I’d done what I could through the newspaper and donated extra to pay the attorney. Heather Dackson had sent letters, worked with the courts, filed this and that.

  But Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee, Portland slumlords, had hired their own attorneys. A counterattack was now being launched. Whether they could actually kick
us off with a suit filed, that was another question. Maybe there would be an injunction, a hold, until the courts could settle it out.

  “Yes,” I said, along with Nick, Lindy, Beth, Jayla, Daisy, and other houseboat owners on the dock.

  “I received it right after a nine-hour operation.” Beth was worn out, too.

  “Ninety days,” Vanessa said, “and we’re supposed to be off and out.”

  Everyone groaned.

  Nick sat by me. I could feel his hotness. I was upset about the dock closing, but I also wanted to go to his houseboat, modern and clean, and roll around in his king-sized bed.

  Nick had tried to help. He knew the governor from when the governor worked in law enforcement. The governor called his contacts. No go.

  “Cannibals, both of them!” Daisy stood up and announced. She was wearing a green daisy the size of a saucer in her black felt hat and a purple dress with a white-haired woman holding a white feather in her teeth painted on the front. She was also wearing vintage, shiny red heels.

  “Daisy, you told your sons that you have to leave, right?” Jayla asked.

  “No, the f-word, I haven’t told them. They are very bad boys. I’ll tell them once I sail my houseboat away on the open ocean and visit the whales.”

  “Now, now,” Charles said, worried, sitting back up. “Let’s not do that, Daisy. Don’t try to sail your house.”

  “That wouldn’t be safe, Daisy,” Jayla said, patting her hand. “We’ll tell your sons and they’ll move you to a better place.”

  “No, I don’t want a better place. I’m staying here on the river, with my river family! We’re all together. I’m not going to live in a place with sick and old people. I’m not sick. I’m not old. I’ll jump in the ocean with the fish and ride the whales before I live in a place without my river family. I love you! I want to live with you.”

  Nick sighed, sad. Jayla dropped her head. Beth seemed to sink into her chair. Vanessa said, “We’ll always be a family, Daisy,” so gently, “but we might have to move. How about if I call your sons?”

  “I’m mad at my boys.” Daisy was suddenly angry. “They took my nunchucks. I know it. They took my sword, too. From China. Stealers. Burglars. Sometimes they’re well-behaved boys, sometimes they’re naughty. They tossed a man into this river, right here, under our feetsies, when it was snowing like a snow cone a few years ago, another one they made fly like a bird off a bridge. That man didn’t have wings. How could he fly? There were two men gone with bang and bang, they shot with water guns, a long time ago, but they were mean to their wives, slime balls. Bang!”

  Nick rolled his eyes. He was an officer of the law. I knew he could not let that go.

  “I told you, you don’t have to worry,” Lindy said, waving a dismissive hand. She was dressed in a white blouse, a brown skirt to her knees, and flats. Her blond hair was back in a ponytail, no makeup. Earlier she had regaled me with her opinion of Dostoyevsky. “We’ll call it You Are Toast Day, and Tweedle Dee Dum and Tweedle Dum Dee will back off and no one will have to leave the dock.”

  “And what’s that? What’s ‘You Are Toast Day’?” Nick asked. I felt him tense a bit. “You are toast” is not a phrase a DEA agent likes to hear.

  “It means I have them handled.” She smiled at everyone. “Guess what I brought for dinner? Italiano!” She kissed her fingers. “Delizioso!”

  We did cheer up over the pasta primavera, gelato and hot bread. Hard not to.

  It was also hard not to stare at Nick.

  I tried, tried hard, but his natural seductiveness reached out and stroked me and prodded my naked thoughts. I glanced away every single time he caught me staring at him. I might have even blushed. He smiled at me. I smiled back.

  I blew him a kiss. I didn’t think anyone saw the flying kiss until Daisy announced, “Aha! I see it! A kiss between crying kayak woman Toni and Pistol Man. It’s love. I know it is.” She hugged me and said, “Now I’m going to sing you a love song,” and she did.

  We do all love Daisy.

  * * *

  “This cake is enough to make me orgasm,” Valerie said.

  “Please don’t,” I said.

  She mimicked one, short and sweet.

  Ellie laughed.

  “My daughters! I cannot believe you talk this way. Tsk.” My mother poked Valerie in the arm with a fork. “Mary, mother of Jesus, help me—”

  I interrupted. “Mama, what do you think of the lemon cream?”

  “I think it not made by Russian, but I like.” She winked at Juliet, a friend of ours since high school.

  Juliet owned Juliet’s Cakes, a pink-and-white bakery. Her cakes were like eating cake heaven. Ellie was trying to pick a flavor for her wedding cake, and we were tasting bites of each one—a difficult job but someone has to do it.

  “I’m a boring and faithful married woman,” Valerie said. “You’re going to be a boring and faithful married woman soon, Ellie. How does it feel?”

  “Delightful.” Ellie smiled, teeth gritted, lips pulled back like a scary mask.

  “Geez, that smile,” I said. “Gave me a fright.”

  “I’d have to agree, Ellie,” Valerie said. “That was a freaky smile if I ever saw one.”

  “It is because of the Italian stallion,” my mother said, waving her fork. “Elvira, I want to see you smiling for this, and I no see a right smile. See that smile? I think you ate a alligator.”

  Ellie stopped smiling. She put her hand right over her widow’s peak. The worry spot.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing ... but last night I was thinking of our vows and other ... thoughts ...”

  “What thought?” my mother said. “You tell me the thought, I tell you don’t marry Gino the Italian.”

  “It’s not that... .” Ellie paused. “It’s not that I want to be with a bunch of men in my life, I don’t. You know me, I am not promiscuous.”

  “You’re one step away from being Pollyanna,” Valerie drawled. “All you need is the blue dress and the white bow at your back.”

  “But ...” Ellie fiddled with her hair. “One man? For decades? Forever?”

  “That would be marriage,” Valerie said.

  “Yes, that what it is,” my mother said, tapping her fork on Ellie’s plate. “It forever. Like me and your papa. We together forever. You ready for that, Elvira? I ask this, I think no.”

  I thought of Marty. I had wanted him for forever. Then I thought of Nick. Nick. Ah, Nick. “You don’t like the forever part?”

  “Gino is a sweet and caring man. The other day he brought me flowers. He makes me laugh. He loves me. He’s smart. He’s protective. But ...”

  “See, I fix this problem,” my mother said. “You want wedding cake, Elvira? I buy you wedding cake, right now, we eat after dinner, but not at wedding. How about it? We take pink one, Juliet. Let’s go.”

  Ellie shook her head, pulled her paper bag out of her purse. “Juliet?”

  “So, of the cakes before you,” Juliet said, taking her cue. “The vanilla cake with lemon cream icing, the pink champagne with coconut icing, the chocolate cake with mocha butter cream, the chocolate cake with salted caramel icing, and the white cake with raspberry butter cream, which is your favorite, Ellie?” She smiled. Juliet is calming and encouraging. She has a black belt in karate and I’ve seen her knock a grown man onto his back.

  Ellie said, “They’re all delicious. I can’t decide. Can we get five cakes?”

  Juliet’s eyes opened wide. “Five?”

  “Yes. Five medium cakes.”

  “We could do that,” Juliet said. “It’s not traditional, but I love the idea. It would be splendid for my business, too, if everyone started ordering five different cakes for their wedding.”

  “I’m not that traditional. All the traditional stuff with this wedding is making me feel ...” Ellie waved a hand in the air, then pressed her fingers to her widow’s peak, the worry center. “Like I can’t breathe.”

  “It�
�s not the traditional that’s taking your breath away,” Valerie muttered.

  Ellie breathed into her paper bag. “I’m supposed to be with one man for the rest of my life. I’m supposed to take a vow, saying I will stay with him, forever.” Her voice pitched, higher and higher. “We are both going to change. We will become different people. Even if things go bad, go wrong, and I don’t like him anymore—”

  “Which they will, trust me,” Valerie said.

  “I’m supposed to stay,” Ellie said. “Trapped. Stuck. Unhappy.”

  “That is right,” my mother said. “You stay until you’re dead. You stay with that Italian Gino until he is old man. Wrinkled. You stay with him when his bladder not work. You stay when that other thing not work. When he makes the farties, you stay with him. You want that, Elvira? Do you? I say no.”

  Ellie, the jittery bride, who was getting closer and closer to running, I could feel it, attached the bag to her face again. The bag scrunched in, blew out.

  “I’m keeping my mouth shut so I don’t get tossed in the river again,” Valerie said.

  Ellie stood up. “I’ll take one of each, Juliet, thanks.” She walked, swaying from one side to the other, her air gone, out of the bakery.

  What? After all that? I leaned back in my chair. When would she end this?

  “We buy cake and I have daughter who go down the aisle with paper bag on face,” my mother said, patience for this mess gone. “We call her bride bag lady, no? Maybe we give brown bags out to guests for presents, huh? Everyone use when they see Elvira.”

  I envisioned that. All the wedding guests with bags to their faces. I laughed.

  * * *

  In order not to lose my skills at Keeping The Monsters At Bay: Shopping Defensive Strategies, I dropped into a store nearby and bought new panties by Lace, Satin, and Baubles. All lacy and silky. Nick would like them, I was sure of it.

  * * *

  “Can I take you on a ride in my boat, Toni?”

  I thought about it for only one second. Nick had invited me out on his boat before, but it felt like a date, and a date I could not do, and a boat was like a kayak, in that they both floated, so I said no.

  But it was Saturday afternoon. I’d finished a story about a woman named Grenadine Scotch Wild, who made ten-foot-by-eight-foot paintings, then added collage items like sticks, birds’ nests, beads, and sequins. Her art was exquisite. I was tired. I love the water and I hadn’t been out on it in too long.