• • •
Not much of a secret, but our sisterhood’s mythology is tied up in a Greek goddess called Hestia. Other sororities get Athena, or Aphrodite. We get Hestia, frumpy virgin sister of Zeus. She sits at the hearth all day, stoking the coals/scooping out ashes/wondering when she last had her chimney swept, if you know what I mean. Sometimes other gods drop by and show her their newborns, and she checks the fingers and toes and says, Yep, they’re babies all right, and the gods trot off with their kids, happy with Hestia’s blessing. One time, a pervy god named Priapus tried to rape her, but an ass brayed in the distance and Priapus lost his erection and ran away. That’s her big story. Saved by an ass.
• • •
The pledges are required to hang out with three sisters before the big-little reveal night. We call it pledge dating. Nationals calls it Friendship Cultivation™. I take Twang out for lunch, and Deirdre, who has also been bullied into taking a little, invites a pledge named Stella. They live in neighboring dorms, and Stella is so excited at the prospect of talking to us that she begins speaking before she even opens the car door.
—can’t believe you invited me I am so excited thank you so much for inviting me where are we going for lunch again I haven’t been there before but I hear it makes awesome smoothies and do you think they have wheatgrass shots like at—
Deirdre looks at me from the passenger seat like, Oh, God.
Then Twang walks up to our car. Her hair is dyed dark purple, and now I’m the one to think Oh, God, because I’m going to have to tell her to fix it before Eva sees.
But Stella says it for me.
—Twang, what the hell?
—Do you like it? Twang asks.
Stella pauses for the first time.
—It’s innovative, she says.
• • •
We’re in a little café wedged between two of my favorite bars downtown, sitting at a table near the window. The sandwiches are all named after cities in California. Tablecloths are mismatched on purpose. I recognize girls from other sororities here, probably doing the same thing we are. The waiter is skinny and wide-mouthed and has an untied bow tie draped around his neck. Took him a lot of work to look this haphazard. Does this thing where he raps his knuckles on the table after each sentence.
—You ladies ready to order? rap rap.
—You ladies need some water? rap rap rap.
—Are you superstitious? I finally ask him, and he shakes his head no, clearly I’m the crazy one, and drifts away from the table.
—He’s got a cute butt! Stella says.
—I’ve always wondered what that means, Deirdre says. Do men have cute butts? Men aren’t really aesthetically cute, are they?
—I agree, Twyla says. Men are handsome, like, overall, but I don’t usually look at their butts.
—You guys! Stella says. I feel like Carrie Bradshaw!
I’m about to tell her she’s got the nose for it, too, but Deirdre squints at me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
—You kind of remind me of her, I say.
Stella is a pretty girl, with high cheekbones and cartoon-Bambi eyelashes. When she smiles at me I feel like I could somehow look past her personality and love her.
—Just out of curiosity, I say, what do you want to do when you graduate?
I think: golden retriever breeder/macramé instructor/Reiki healer.
—I’m studying to be a speech pathologist for children with special needs, Stella says.
My present: cynical asshole.
—I’ll be a mortician, Twyla says.
We all stare.
—It’s a joke, she says.
—It was very funny, Stella assures her. And then she adds, You’ve gotta dye your hair before Eva sees it.
—But that was the whole point! Twyla exclaims.
• • •
Later, after we drop off Carrie Bradshaw, I tell Twyla I’m going to take her as my little. It’s supposed to be a surprise but I don’t want her to be disappointed if she doesn’t want me.
—That’s cool, she says. Thanks.
—Are you going to drop? I ask.
—I’m thinking about it.
—Don’t, I say. You’re the perfect fit as a sister. You’ll just hate being a pledge.
Twyla’s eyes drift to the corner of the room, like she’s focusing on a ghost, and then drift back over to me.
—I’ll stick it out a little longer, she says.
—Can I ask you something? Why doesn’t Eva scare you?
Twyla smiles, weary-pleased.
—I’ve seen scarier things, she says.
—Try not to say stuff like that until you’re initiated, I say. You sound a little emo. And seriously, fix your hair.
• • •
Some possibilities:
1. Hestia genuinely didn’t want to have children and just wanted to be the Greek version of the cool aunt to all. She wanted to kiss babies and feed them Swedish Fish even though their parents had strictly forbidden it, rent them movies with ambiguous sex scenes, and buy them hard lemonade when they were underage. She taught them how to build fires and apply mascara, and not one of the children thought of her as kooky or strange until they hit college and noticed that she was drinking too much at the family reunion; Chianti was splashing out of her plastic wineglass and splattering her tan blouse.
2. Some gods wanted to marry her, but maybe they were the wrong gods. Maybe there was another god, with long thighs and a nice laurel wreath and a jaw that looked chiseled from marble, but he never saw her, mousy Hestia, ashy and forlorn while her sister Aphrodite wiggled her ass and tossed her curly hair over a shoulder. Hestia had read Jane Eyre but returned the overdue book at the Olympian library before she could read the final chapters. Inspired, she committed herself to a lifetime of servitude to the women that could have it all. She knew she was not extraordinary. She mourned this quietly, stoking the logs. Poor Hestia, her sisters whispered, she always loved to play the martyr.
3. Maybe Hestia had a thing for women, but that seems unlikely because the Greeks were into some kinky stuff so they’d probably be fine with a lezzie sister at the fire. It wouldn’t have been a secret.
Doesn’t matter because the outcome is the same. Flat-chested goddess holding a fresh Olympus-born baby, counting fingers, counting toes, cooing over each newborn, glancing at the mothers with strange/protective curiosity. The mothers are bleary and leaking milk through their togas, and they’re soothed by Hestia, by her benediction of protection, of keeping the fire, so soothed they could weep. She is the only person who doesn’t want to take something from them. She offers protection without a caveat. They clutch her hands in theirs. Their babies lie on the warm hearth floor, briefly fraught.
—Oh, Hestia, what would we do without you?
But maybe Hestia is thinking, Does motherhood make you more significant, or less? Does it make you immortal, or kill you faster? And also: Who thought this job was a good idea?
Maybe Hestia is thinking, Why can’t I be a part of this club?
And maybe the mothers are thinking, How can I get out?
• • •
Eva has not invited me to this week’s pledge meeting. Going anyway. Can’t resist the urge to spy. No pledges have dropped this week: everyone wants a big sister. Firelight serves Twang well for the first fifteen minutes. She sits toward the back. Eva doesn’t see.
The lesson today is about family lines/why they matter/what they mean.
—Your big sister is like your mom, Eva explains, and I wonder if the pledges can tell exactly how much Eva doesn’t buy her own line of bullshit. Then she had them read from the Acolyte Sisterhood Membership Binders™:
Your big sister helps you socially, guides you scholastically, and develops a bond of support and understanding that will last a lifetime. Many big and little sisters become roommates, travel abroad together, and serve as bridesmaids at each other’s weddings. A big sister is another op
al in the crown of sisterhood.
Even though it’s tacky, this is not a complete lie. Still, the expectations are stressful. I think: Twang’s all right. I also think: too late to back out of this now.
Eva lobs some perfunctory questions about the founders. Stella and a couple of other pledges deliver rote answers. Lucinda May died shortly after she gave birth to her second child, in 1869. Joanna Howard was the daughter of a preacher who didn’t approve of the sisterhood. Virginia Wheeler had three daughters who took the rituals to college and legitimized the sisterhood.
When Eva is pacing the horseshoe, she finally sees Twang’s hair. It all goes to hell.
—Twang, Eva says. Are you serious?
—Is something wrong? Twang asks.
Somehow, I feel a new level of affinity for these pledges. All of us must be clenching our jaws in the exact same way.
—Don’t play dumb, Eva says. We covered appearance and grooming in the first week.
—My hair is fine, if that’s what you mean.
—Read page thirteen in the binder, Eva commands.
Twang flips to page thirteen. She reads, unwavering, small-drawled:
Women of the sisterhood acknowledge that their appearance represents their membership as a whole and will, in turn, be mindful of maintaining a healthy visage. This includes, but is not limited to, using caution with the application of piercings, unusual hair colors, excessive makeup, or tattoos that may be visible in a workspace. While our sisterhood is a place of personal empowerment and individual identity, we acknowledge that societal norms necessitate a standard of professionalism that should be fostered during college years in order to prepare for the working world.
—Is your hair color natural, Twang?
—No, Twang says.
—Did you knowingly do this even though you are aware of the requirements of our house?
—Yes, Twang says.
—Why?
—It’s a stupid rule, Twang says. I’m not even wearing Greek letters yet. I can dye it before initiation.
—That’s not soon enough, Eva says. This is insubordination. This is the sort of shit that gets you kicked out.
—Is that what you’re going to do? Twang asks. She says it so steadily she may as well be asking about the weather.
I know this is a bluff. Eva will not kick Twang out, not after four girls have dropped. If too many drop, people will get suspicious.
—Twang, Eva says, Turn to the fire.
Twang is not afraid. Eva’s voice is shaking with rage.
—Kneel, she hisses.
Eva picks up the bucket of ash from beside the fire and dumps it over Twang’s head. It’s like watching a bomb drop. The ash collapses over her hair, then hits the floor and plumes outward, curling toward the rest of the girls. The carpet is a disaster. Immediately (and in some cases, I think, dramatically/prematurely) the pledges begin to cough.
Eva removes the bucket. Twang is fully covered now. Hair and face and clothes are white.
—That’s better, Eva says. Much more natural.
I can’t imagine how Twang is not coughing. Did she hold her breath? How did she manage it? She nods benignly at Eva. She does not open her mouth.
—New lesson, Eva says. Clean this up. All of you.
Eva disappears into her room and the pledges open windows. One of them gets the vacuum. Two complain about asthma and leave. Twang walks outside, leaving footprints of ash behind her, and shakes herself off in the front yard. Like a dog.
Hours later. Nearly eleven thirty, and the pledges are still scrubbing at the soot in the carpet, cursing each other, generally miserable, but sometimes I can hear them whisper something and laugh. How did they get here? Why is this important? It’s absurd. It’s obnoxious. It’s impossible to leave.
• • •
In two weeks, on big/little reveal night, Twang will appear. Hair dyed dark brown. She will feign surprise when she is led into the living room and I meet her at the hearth with a bouquet of white roses and a silver necklace with our sorority’s insignia etched on the pendant. We will embrace in front of the fire. We will take photos of our new family, and weeks later I will give her a puffy-painted frame of the three of us together, all posed with our hands on our hips, arms around each other, all holding our breath while the camera goes off in rapid fire. At least ten shots so Ruby can select the one where all three of us look prettiest/thinnest.
Ruby, Twang’s new grand-big, will give her the gifts of our family’s line: a seersucker sport coat that she will be forced to wear to a mixer, a small hand mirror that she’ll have to do a traditional line off of, and an autographed glossy eight-by-ten of David Hasselhoff that is likely a fake. The gifts are so old that no one knows the symbolism behind them anymore.
I’ll take Twyla out in the back driveway and gift her with three more things: an eighth of weed, a handle of rum, and the promise that I will never, under any circumstances, call her Twang ever again.
—What a legacy we have! Ruby will exclaim, and Twyla will light a blunt and pass it, pull up her hair into a pony, and I will see during my turn that the bottom layer of her hair is not quite brown—almost purple/almost red—a hidden mauve.
6
Hush
-TWYLA-
May 2013
My neighbor Jason found me. He’d come through the back door of my half of the duplex to complain about how it was my turn to mow the lawn—Was I ever going to mow the lawn, damn it? Did I even know how? I heard him hollering in my kitchen, and I scrambled in the bathroom to cover the cuts on my arms and legs but it was too much, too fast, and then he was in the doorframe, staring.
He was the one who called the ambulance.
—No need to be so dramatic, I said. But when I went to stand from my perch on the edge of the bathtub, the color blanched out of the room and I staggered into the wall, drunk with blood loss. I left a swatch of red by the light switch.
—Jesus, Jason said. Jesus Jesus Jesus. Twyla, what is wrong with you?
And my father, who’s been dead for fourteen years, materialized behind Jason in the doorframe and squinted at me, the whites of his eyes webbed in a net of bloodshot.
—Everything’s wrong with her, my father said.
But Jason didn’t hear him. Nobody hears him but me.
I didn’t have an answer for either of them. Jason stayed until we heard the ambulance crush the gravel drive out front and then he retreated to his place next door. He probably didn’t want the paramedics to think he was dating a lunatic like me. My father shuffled off, too. I heard him rattling through my refrigerator, looking for a beer.
I was too weak to fight the EMTs when they found me in the bathroom. I let them handle me like a child.
—Where are we going? I asked.
And the squat EMT, the one with the Burt Reynolds mustache, shucked a sunflower seed from between his teeth and said, Willard Hospital, sweetheart.
So I knew then they all thought I was crazy.
—What about St. Agatha’s? Or Greendale? I asked.
But they both shook their heads no.
—We think you’d get better help at Willard, the squat EMT said. He said it gently, like I was going to snap on them. Maybe if I’d had enough blood in me, I would have.
He rode with me in the back of the ambulance, watching me the whole time.
—I just don’t get why a pretty girl like you would do this to herself, he said.
I wanted to ask, What does pretty have to do with it? But I didn’t have the energy to correct him. I closed my eyes and felt my head bob from side to side on the gurney while the ambulance plowed through South Tulsa.
• • •
The lacerations on my wrists were clean, well spaced, lined one after the other like the frets on a guitar. A frowning intern stitched me and I stared hard at a perfect dot of blood on the toe of her left sneaker. It took twenty-four stitches to close them all. And then, on my thighs, another seventeen.
—You’
re required by law to stay on Ward D for twenty-four hours, she said between sutures.
—I’m not suicidal, I said.
—Doesn’t matter. If you did this to yourself we have to monitor you before you go.
I melted into a wheelchair and she rolled me into the elevator. Doors shut. Floors rose in monitoring beeps. Too much light, and not enough air.
—I’m not suicidal, I said again. Desperate now.
—I know, she said. But the spun sugar in her voice gave her away.
• • •
They took my wallet and my keys and gave me loose pajamas that resembled scrubs. I filled out paperwork, endless paperwork. Acknowledging certain rights. Forfeiting others. Then, they gave me the list of rules. They were the sort of policies applicable to an ashram or a day care:
No electronics of any kind.
No scissors, nail files, unapproved pens, letter openers.
No outside food. No drink. No drugs.
No tolerance for violent behavior.
No sex.
Prescribed medication is mandatory. All other medication is forbidden.
The admissions chick—a young girl, maybe even my age, gave me a Visitor Clearance form.
—Fill out all the people you would permit visitation from at the appropriate hours, she said.
Who was I going to put? Certainly not my mother. And who did I need desperately enough that they would come see me in a nuthouse?
So instead I wrote Cher, Mike Huckabee, Jesus. At the end of it all I put Jason’s information. I needed him to bring up some clean underwear.
The admissions chick didn’t blink.
—You forgot to write Mike Huckabee’s email, she said.
Only later did I realize that she thought I was crazy enough to actually think those people would visit me.
• • •
They gave me a sedative I couldn’t pronounce. Put me in a single room with overstarched sheets and a nurse who would peer at me through a window in the door every thirty minutes. I slept soundly, so soundly that when I woke up I felt as if I’d missed a part of my life, shot forward through the glass window of my present self and into the future without even noticing.
Sorority Page 7
