by Jung Yun
“They shouldn’t be here for this,” Nami said. She had reappeared in the shed and was standing behind them in the open doorway.
“It’s fine,” Ed answered, not looking up from his work. “There’s honor in killing an animal for food.”
“But this will make them dream bad things.”
“Oh, stop worrying. They’re Hanson girls. They’re tough.”
She lifted her hand to Elinor and Maren. “Come back to the cabin with me.”
Ed laughed. “When we first met, your family was still fishing its dinner out of a river. Now you’ve got a problem with hunting?”
Nami waited for a few seconds before lowering her hand. Elinor wanted to go with her, but she and Maren had been trained to listen to their father. Nami was trained too, although lately, she’d seemed tired of listening. She turned and walked away, leaving Elinor staring at her older sister.
“It’s okay,” Maren said quietly. “We have to be tough.”
Ed’s father hunted. His father’s father hunted. Everything he knew about the sport, he said he’d learned from them. Perhaps for this reason, he went about his work with a solemn air of ritual, placing two plastic laundry baskets on a large tarp. One by one, he removed the deer’s organs, separating them by their utility. Edible parts went into the blue basket. The heart, the liver, the kidneys. Inedible parts went into the yellow. Ed labored hard and fast, his breath a cloud of steam in the cold shed. He threw without looking at the part or the basket, knowing exactly what belonged where. When he finished removing the head, antlers, and pelt, he carried the yellow basket to the edge of the property, allowing Maren and Elinor to follow close behind. The ground was too frozen to bury the waste, so he flung the contents into a ravine where the crows gathered around, feasting for days.
It wasn’t the violence of dressing a deer that frightened Elinor, but the way her parents fought about it, and seemingly everything else, on that trip. At home, their arguments rarely rose above a whisper thanks to the paper-thin walls in their apartment. The possibility that the neighbors might overhear was a threat that hung over them all. At the cabin, the nearest neighbor was several miles away. Ed, who had brought only enough hunting gear for himself, began sending Maren and Elinor out on daily hikes, dressing them in his blaze orange hat and vest. As soon as he pushed them out the door, they could hear their parents shouting about the deer, the cabin, the way their lives were turning out.
Elinor’s stomach churns at the thought of the venison Ed made the night before they returned to Marlow. He’d never cooked a meal for them before, not that she could remember. Maybe it was his idea of a peace offering to Nami. Or maybe he knew there was no other way the four of them were going to eat. Whatever the reason, he cooked a large piece of backstrap on the stovetop, preparing it the way his mother did, using only butter, salt, and pepper. Then he sliced the meat into thick pieces that resembled steaks. When he set the platter down on the table, he actually seemed proud to be sharing something that his own family had enjoyed when he was young. His smile didn’t last for long though. The medium-rare venison looked red and bloody, an instant reminder of what they’d all witnessed in the shed. When he told them to dig in, no one moved. His mood quickly changed from pride to frustration as he began reciting the list—China, Ethiopia, the Soviet Union, Cambodia—the random atlas of despair where people were starving and yet there they were, in America, turning their noses up at perfectly good food.
Maren was the first to give in, as she always was, washing the meat down with desperate gulps of milk and then offering Ed a timid, traitorous smile. Once her sister folded, Elinor felt she had no choice but to follow. Nami, however, simply crossed her arms over her chest and sat through the rest of dinner, staring silently at the three of them with an expression that wasn’t quite sadness but definitely wasn’t love.
20
Maren is sitting in the lobby of the Thrifty, typing on her phone. Her face is mostly hidden by her long black hair, which she keeps tucking behind her ear, only to have it fall down again a few seconds later. Whenever she takes a break from typing, she discreetly chews on her nails, something she’s done since childhood that no amount of pleading or punishment could make her stop. Elinor wonders if Maren is as nervous as she is. Ever since their father died, they’ve been trying to rekindle the closeness they felt toward each other as children, but with mixed results. Sometimes, they’ll have a few good calls in a row, only to be blindsided by an argument so fierce, they’ll both question out loud if distance was the better choice. Elinor knows why they keep trying, despite so many signs that they shouldn’t. They were devoted to each other once. When they were little and couldn’t point to a single friend at school, it hardly mattered because they already had a best friend in the other.
Now Elinor is hiding behind a column in the lobby of her hotel, second-guessing the seemingly innocuous texts they exchanged when she first arrived in town. Why did she reply when Maren asked where she was staying? How did she not expect something like this to eventually happen? The longer she stands there, ducking awkwardly to avoid the leaves of a nearby plant, the more her annoyance begins to turn outward. She has so much riding on this article. Spending time with her sister is an interruption that she just can’t afford. Elinor wishes she could be direct with Maren and simply explain this to her, but she knows there’d be no recovering from that kind of hurt.
She crosses the lobby tentatively, lifting her hand in a half-hearted wave when they finally make eye contact. Maren jumps up and races toward her, pinning Elinor’s arms down with a hug. She keeps saying “Oh my God” over and over again, so loudly that a succession of heads turn toward them, craning to see what the commotion is about.
“Hi.” Elinor gently presses her elbows out to free her arms, wary of drawing too much attention to themselves.
“I can’t believe you’re really here.” Maren takes a step back. “Oh my God, El. You look so pretty. And those tattoos. Wow…”
The last time they saw each other in person, Elinor didn’t have any. The difference clearly takes some getting used to because Maren can’t stop staring and her smile has turned rigid. Elinor assumes she’s on her best behavior, trying not to blurt out what her agent and manager said after she first showed them the work: Why the hell did you do that to yourself?
“Your bag.” Elinor points at Maren’s purse, which is sitting unattended next to her chair, halfway across the room.
Her sister laughs. “We’re in Avery, not New York. You don’t have to worry about people stealing your stuff around here.”
That’s not true, she wants to say. But a disagreement of any size, on any topic, is probably a bad way to start the conversation. Instead, she just nods while Maren does that thing that women always do to each other, consuming every last inch of her with her eyes. Elinor is equally guilty of it, although subtler in the execution, she hopes. Her sister still looks good after all these years. A little too tan, maybe, but being a farmer, spending time in the sun would probably be impossible to avoid. Her lacy cream-colored shirt and skinny jeans are tight; it’s hard to believe that she’s forty-four and has two kids. Elinor wonders if this is her usual outfit for running errands in town or if she dressed up for the occasion. Maren appears to be wearing makeup, a shimmery palette of peach and pearl. She never used to bother with makeup before.
“I’m glad to see you,” Elinor says, trying to sound more excited than she feels. “Sorry I didn’t reply to your texts. I barely get cell service around here.”
“I was worried you might have plans.” Maren pauses. “You don’t have plans, do you?”
The question reminds her of Harry Bergum, asking if she liked pancakes after he’d already ordered her a plate of them. What could she possibly say now that she’s here?
“You actually caught me at a good time. You want to get something to eat?” She looks at her watch, realizing it’s that odd in-between hour when it’s too late for lunch and too early for dinner. “Or maybe we
should just go up to my room for a while?”
“Oh, no. I hardly ever come to town without the boys. Why don’t we go have a drink somewhere?”
Maren used to be a teetotaler, so this is an unexpected but wholly welcome surprise. After her tour of the man camp, Elinor would like nothing more. But the only nearby bar she knows of is Swift’s, which she has no intention of returning to again. “Just give me a second. I’ll go ask the front desk for a recommendation.”
“Actually—” Maren checks her phone. “I know of a place. Roswell’s. It’s a couple blocks from here, off Main.”
When they set off down the street together, Maren threads her arm through Elinor’s and draws her in close. She smells like coconut shampoo and floral soap and sweet, fruity perfume. Elinor wonders if it’s a function of the cheerful scents, or just wishful thinking on her part, but her sister seems so much happier than she used to be. As the oldest daughter, Maren inherited the responsibility of an entire household at fourteen. Cooking, cleaning, shopping—all the things their mother used to do before she left, Ed expected her to take care of. It aged her quickly. Then she married the first boyfriend she ever had when she was barely twenty-one. Too young, in Elinor’s opinion. But by then, she’d fled to New York and wasn’t around to dissuade her. It seems strange that they’re both here now, walking through the streets of Avery, arm in arm like the sisters they haven’t been in so long. Their presence doesn’t go without notice from men who whistle and stare and occasionally shout come-ons as old as time.
Maren clearly isn’t used to this kind of attention. She and Tom live on a soybean farm outside Marlow, where days can probably pass without seeing another soul, other than immediate family. To go from that to this must be unnerving. Elinor tries to ignore everyone else and pulls Maren in closer, encouraged by the lack of resistance.
“Try not to look at people,” she says quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re looking at people. It’s like an invitation for them to look at you.” Elinor doesn’t think she should have to explain this to her older sister, but either Maren isn’t aware of the effect they’re having on passersby, or she’s actually enjoying it.
“Maybe you don’t want anyone looking,” she says, still smiling as they continue to turn heads, “but I’ve been stacking fertilizer bags all day, so I could use a little attention right now.”
Maren flicks her hair over her shoulder in a way that Elinor has never seen before, not even when they were teenagers. She can’t help but stare, wondering who this woman is. Certainly not the dour, possibly depressed sister she last saw nearly a decade ago. Granted, Maren was pregnant then, with a toddler underfoot, a husband who rarely helped around the house, and a father with a heart condition living in their guest room. But the difference now is still so extreme.
“You dating anyone these days?”
Elinor accidentally lets out a sigh.
“What?” Maren asks. “Is that a bad question?”
“No,” she says, wondering why it had to be the first question.
“No, it’s not bad? Or no, you’re not dating anyone?”
“Both.”
“Oh, okay. That’s a relief. I thought maybe you and that teacher were back together or something. What was his name again? Roger? Richard?”
Their lives are so separate now, the intersections between them so distinct and discrete. She’s startled to hear Maren even guess at Richard’s name. Dating her older, divorced professor isn’t a detail she’d usually share with her. But there was a brief period during the relationship’s decline, which coincided with the end of grad school, when Elinor began to drink more than usual. Sometimes, she’d wake up and notice hour-long calls on her phone from the night before. Most of them were with Damon. A few were with Maren. She doesn’t remember what she confided to whom.
“His name’s Richard. He’s dating someone else now.”
“Well, good riddance to that guy, right?”
She wonders what she said to Maren that would make her talk about him like this, but decides it’s better not to ask.
A trio of scruffy teenage boys walk past, ogling them like men. Elinor finds herself abandoning her own advice and staring at the one on the left, whose face is so familiar. When his shy grin widens into a smile and she sees the braces, her heart begins to race.
“You didn’t come back yesterday,” he says too loudly. His chest is all puffed out. He seems proud to have a reason to talk to her in front of his friends.
The boys stop walking, so Maren stops too, tugging on Elinor’s arm to prevent her from speeding away.
“I’m sorry?” Elinor says airily, doing her best to feign ignorance. “Did you say something to us?”
“You didn’t come back for your dime bag,” Tyler says, clueless. “You still want it?”
She feels like a teenager getting busted for shoplifting nail polish again, waiting for her father to retrieve her from the PX. The seconds begin to crawl as she decides what to do, what excuses to make, how to explain herself.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I think you’re confusing me for someone else.” She pulls on Maren’s arm and they continue on their way. Elinor mentally prepares for Tyler to shout something awful at her in an attempt to save face with his friends. But remarkably, he doesn’t, which she assumes has something to do with his age. He hasn’t been conditioned yet to punish women who cause him embarrassment or shame.
If Maren understands what just happened, she doesn’t let on, which is both kind and uncharacteristic of her.
“So you’re really not dating anyone?” she asks.
“No. I’m not interested in that.”
“Why not, though? There must be so many good-looking men in New York.”
“I’m usually pretty busy.”
“Oh, right. It’s always work with you.”
Elinor glances at Maren’s sinewy arms, which are tanned and dotted with freckles. As children, Maren used to be the ambitious one, always dreaming out loud about having an important career in Minneapolis or Chicago, maybe even somewhere as far as Denver. Although her goals frequently changed—she alternated between becoming a nurse, an artist, a teacher, or a lawyer—not once did she ever mention becoming a farmer. It’s actually the last thing Elinor would have imagined her doing. Because she feels indirectly responsible for the choices Maren backed into, she can never bring herself to ask her sister if she likes her work, if she likes her life.
“You know what these tattoos remind me of?” Maren runs her fingertip over the pattern.
Elinor braces herself. “What?”
“The corn maze.” She laughs. “The one dad took us to in Medora? I must have been like eight, so you were six. You remember how—”
“I insisted on going in by myself, but I got lost and started screaming.”
“And then I had to run all over the maze looking for you?”
It’s one of Elinor’s happier childhood memories—her sister barreling through tightly planted rows of corn, creating shortcuts and paths where none previously existed. By the time Maren finally found her, their voices were hoarse from shouting each other’s names and Maren looked wild with worry. She had bits of corn silk sticking out of her hair and bright red scratches covering her skin from crashing through the sharp, dry stalks and husks.
“You always wanted to do things on your own terms,” Maren says. “Even back then.”
Although she’s still smiling, her words don’t feel like a compliment, just a gentler way of reminding Elinor that she’s selfish, which they’ve argued about in the past.
“And you always wanted to save me,” Elinor adds, right before they let go of each other’s arms.
21
At Roswell’s, she’s about to sit down at the half-empty bar when Maren leads her to a booth instead.
“This way, El. I want to be able to see you while we’re talking.” She slides into the seat across from her. “I haven’t seen you in so long.
”
Elinor doesn’t want to get in the habit of interpreting everything Maren says as a slight, so she reminds herself that it has been a long time. Going on nine-and-a-half years. Being in each other’s company again should feel like a cause for celebration. But they aren’t those kind of sisters anymore. Elinor worries that one of them will trip an invisible wire, setting off another random argument, which is usually what happens on the phone. She tries to choose something easy to talk about. Something reasonably harmless.
“So … are you still running these days?”
“Running?” Maren asks curiously. “Not much. Why?”
“Just wondering.” She looks away, aware of the sad state of their relationship, how much mental effort is required just to have a minute of conversation.
They order drinks from a passing waitress. A whiskey for Elinor, a rum and Coke for Maren. As soon as the waitress leaves, Maren’s initial excitement seems to wear off and the awkwardness of what they’re doing finally sets in, as if the weight of their reunion is pushing down on them both. Elinor doesn’t know what to do other than scan the room, which has an old-fashioned nautical theme. Fishing nets hang from the wall, and the long, wooden bar looks like something salvaged from a shipwreck, with elaborate carvings of sea creatures and bare-breasted mermaids.
“How did you know about this place?”
“A friend suggested it.” Maren squares her place mat against the edge of the table. “Are you hungry? They have food here if you want.”
She shakes her head. “What were you doing in Avery today? A supply run or something?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I came to spend time with you.”
Maren says this good-naturedly, but it startles Elinor nonetheless. “It’s almost four hours round trip, though.”
“I know, but one of us had to rip this Band-Aid off. And you weren’t exactly jumping at the idea of coming out to the farm. I got the sense that if I didn’t make the effort, you wouldn’t.”
