The Sisters Chase

by Sarah Healy

  Tim turned and started walking again, head down, hands in his pockets.

  “What about your dad?” asked Mary. It was a deliberately ambiguous question, one open to interpretation.

  “He and my mom don’t even talk. She goes upstairs every night after dinner with a glass of wine and takes a sleeping pill. He sits in his office and counts his money.” Mary found his angst charming—a quaint offering from a native son.

  Tim stopped abruptly and gestured in front of him—a grandiose sweep of the hand. Mary looked up. In front of her were rows of beautiful boats gleaming white in the night and bobbing on the black water. “The marina,” said Tim, with false pomp.

  Mary had seen plenty of boats, often walking down to the harbor in Sandy Bank with Hannah to watch as the summer people launched their vessels. But unlike the Dackard’s tacky bourgeois home, these yachts reminded Mary of something rarer than money. These yachts were white stallions pawing at the dark liquid earth, ready to take her to faraway lands.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, the sentiment plain and uncalculating.

  “It’s supposed to be,” said Tim. Then he looked sharply at Mary. “My mom said that she heard things about you.” Mary felt herself rise ever so slightly—a reflexive response to a challenge. “She said she heard that you’re wild.”

  Mary smiled, her teeth ultraviolet white in the dark. A gentle gust of warm air licked her skin, but she didn’t respond. She just pulled an errant strand of hair off of her face and looked past him.

  “I can get cocaine,” dared Tim.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Mary, with a laugh, as she turned to walk back toward the house. Now it was Tim who was struggling to keep up with her. “That’s cool.”

  She and Tim walked more companionably home, Mary asking him what he liked about school. Nothing. Maybe History. And what music he was into. Duran Duran. Talking Heads.

  “I saw Duran Duran in New York,” said Mary.

  “Where?”

  “The Palladium.”

  And Tim nodded with respect.

  When they arrived home, Tim went to walk upstairs without a farewell, intent on keeping his anger intact at least within the four walls of his room. “Good night,” Mary stage-whispered, as he took the steps two at a time.

  He might have mumbled something in return, but Mary couldn’t tell. The house was silent now. Tim in his room, Hannah in theirs. According to Tim, Gail would be sleeping the heavy dreamless sleep of a pill. And Ron would be in his office. Mary waited a few more minutes, listening to the water run in Tim’s bathroom, then shut off. Listening to the low murmur of the television coming from Ron’s office.

  Then she walked quietly through the dim room, running her fingers over Gail’s things, letting them slide over the back of the leather couch and across the thick brushstrokes of the paintings. Beyond the glass doors at the far end of the living room was the brilliant pool, glowing and sunk into the earth. Mary opened the door and stepped out, kicking her shoes off and feeling the cool stone on her feet as she walked to the pool’s edge and stared down into it. Filled with light, it looked like a liquid gem, its facets rippling.

  With unhurried motions, Mary pulled off her shirt, letting her body work its way out like a snake shedding its skin. Mary then unhooked her bra, letting it drop beside her feet. She felt the warm night air on her bare breasts. Her shorts came off, then her underwear. She waded quietly into the pool, and despite its warmth, the water brought rise to goose bumps on her skin. Having grown up by the ocean, Mary felt good in the water, as though it were her natural habitat. Quickly, she submerged, swimming confidently out to the center of the pool. Once she arrived, she turned back to face the house and let her limbs circle around, her body glowing in the light. She looked up at the house and found the window to Ron’s office. And then she treaded water and watched until she was sure there was movement. Until she was sure she saw the curtain being pulled ever so slightly farther back.

  Six

  1981

  Mary stayed in the water until the skin on her fingers began to wrinkle and crease. When she emerged, she did so as a Venus, liquid spilling from her skin and running down her limbs in thin channels under an enormous white moon.

  Gathering up her clothes, she padded toward the house, feeling the uneven stone beneath her feet. She began to hum the Temptations’ “Just My Imagination,” which had been Diane’s favorite song. She passed the door to Ron’s office and saw the television’s quick flickering light under the door. She imagined him in there, his back to the bookshelf, his heart pounding in his chest as his hand pressed against the front of his trousers. With her arm sliding up the rail, she took languid steps up the staircase, leaving damp footprints behind her.

  She opened the door to her room, and the light from the hallway rushed in. Hannah was lying on her back in bed, her hands palms up, as if she had surrendered something. Mary pulled a T-shirt from her bag and slipped it on, then got into bed beside Hannah. Her wet hair stuck to her neck and soaked her shirt, but her limbs felt loose and light, and the white cotton sheets were cool against her skin. The air conditioner hummed, and Hannah emitted her tiny snores, and as Mary let her fingertips glide up and down Hannah’s forearm, she felt for the first time in a long time that everything might be okay.

  Hannah woke before Mary the next morning, wriggling in close to her and waiting until Mary raised her long lean arms above her head and stretched. Mary slung one leg up over the covers, then looked down at Hannah.

  “What are we supposed to do here?” asked Hannah, her voice small, her brow two tight lines. In Sandy Bank, days passed without needing to be filled. Here, even Hannah sensed that would take more effort.

  “I don’t know,” said Mary, smiling. “I guess we’re just going to see what Gail and Ron have planned.”

  Mary helped Hannah get dressed, then did the same, pulling on cutoffs, and then rubbing her legs with baby oil so they shone shimmery slick. They held hands as they took the stairs, listening to the voices already in the kitchen, which came in brief bursts between ponds of silence. The Allens invited us for dinner Thursday. Tim needs a check for the Orlando trip. The sprinkler at the end of the driveway is broken.

  When Mary and Hannah entered the room, Ron, who had his newspaper open on the glass-top table in front of him, gave his hands a clap. “There they are!” he said, beaming. He looked at Tim, who was standing in the corner leaning against the wall, eating a bowl of cereal.

  “Good morning,” said Mary, smiling as she paused just inside the large room.

  “Morning, girls,” answered a tight-lipped Gail, who was at the counter slicing a cantaloupe.

  “What do you all have planned for today?” asked Ron, looking from Mary to Gail and back again, his arms crossed over his chest. “Gonna do a little sightseeing? The Seaquarium is always fun.”

  “Well,” chuckled Gail, giving her husband a searing glance. “I’d love to take the girls around, but unfortunately I have a lot to do to get ready for the holiday. I was thinking that Mary and Hannah might like to just relax by the pool.” Gail placed her perfect wedges of melon into a glass bowl.

  Mary made her expression one of stoic disappointment. “Oh,” she said, with a brave smile. “That’ll be nice.”

  Ron regarded her silently for a moment. “Oh, come on now,” he said. “We can’t let you sit around the house all day.” He turned to his wife. “Honey, you do your shopping. I’ll take the girls around.”

  Gail smiled, her hand at her neck. “Ron,” she said. “Don’t you have to get to work?”

  “Nah . . . ,” he said, with a magnanimous swat. “I just get in the way there anyway.”

  Gail looked at Tim. “Well, you can all do something,” she said. “Tim doesn’t have school today.”

  Ron forced himself to acknowledge his son. “What do you say, Timmo?” he asked, his sarcasm bleeding into the edges of his words. “You want to get out of the house?”

  Tim abruptly deposited his cereal b
owl on the table. It sloshed milk onto the glass. “I’m going to Zack’s,” he said, as he rushed out of the kitchen.

  And on that day, as Gail drove from the tennis court to lunch with friends, then to the Galleria, she’d check her lipstick in the rearview mirror, only mildly annoyed that Ron had shown such alacrity as a tour guide for the orphaned Chase girls. It was, after all, better than having them alone in the house all day. So while Gail purchased gifts for her husband and son, and even herself, Mary was coyly biting her lip as she snapped pictures of Ron with her Polaroid camera. So Hannah and I can remember our trip.

  So it went for the next few days—the accidental meetings of feet and ankles under the table, the playful stretches that exposed a swath of smooth belly. Gail couldn’t really be blamed for not noticing. Mary was so careful, so subtle. As it was the holiday season, Gail had plenty of excuses to get out of the house away from her burdensome houseguests, so Mary’s most overt advances were timed with Gail’s frequent absences. But Mary made no such accommodations for Tim, whom she often caught looking at her as if she were something mesmerizing but terrible.

  Ron played his part well, too, lingering after breakfast when he would have typically departed for work, coming home early and offering to take the girls for a ride on the golf cart—all under the guise of being a good host.

  “They’re going to want to stay,” Mary heard Gail whine on Christmas Eve; she listened outside Gail and Ron’s bedroom door while they finished wrapping gifts. “You mark my words; they’re living high on the hog here, and this visit is going to end up being longer than a week.”

  “Oh, please, Gail,” snapped Ron.

  “I just think giving them that kind of gift is going to make things worse!” Gail’s voice whistled like a kettle. “It’s inappropriate!”

  “You can tell me what is and what is not appropriate when you earn a fucking dime, Gail!” bellowed Ron. “Because until then, every cent that is spent in this house is mine, and I’m the only one fit to deem what is and isn’t appropriate.”

  And on Christmas morning, when Mary and Hannah opened their matching gold lockets, Mary beamed and let her eyes go wet. “Thank you,” she said, her voice a sob-suppressing whisper. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  Gail gave Mary a tight smile and took a sip of her mimosa, her crossed leg bouncing while Ron beamed. “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “Isn’t it pretty, Bunny?” she asked Hannah, who was staring at her own golden oval. “It’s a necklace.”

  Mary pulled Hannah’s from the box and draped it over her neck, watching as Hannah brought the locket close to her face for inspection.

  “Can someone help me put mine on?” asked Mary, her eyes moving between Gail and Ron.

  After a moment, Ron spoke up. “Sure,” he said, in a manner that was intended to mask his eagerness, but Mary saw his pleasure as he started to stand. She walked over and handed him the box with a Bambi smile, then turned and lifted her silky black hair to reveal the curve of her bare neck.

  And as Ron fastened the gold clasp, his fingertips brushing her skin, Mary stared across the room at Tim, who appeared to be the one person who might have fully understood just what Mary Chase was playing at. But no one could have been more helpless to stop her.

  Ron was in good spirits the rest of the day, his mood having an inverse relationship to his wife’s. They both downed drink after drink, moving from mimosas to Bloody Marys to vodka tonics, but as Ron grew jovial, Gail became dark. She remained perched on a stool in the kitchen for much of the day, watching as her foolish husband openly flirted with her very young cousin. Maybe Gail thought she’d have a serious talk with him about it later. Maybe she thought she’d nip this transgression in the bud and put an end to his nonsense. You’re making a fool of yourself! she’d say. You realize that you’re old enough to be her father? She had no idea how close Ron was to the precipice.

  Tim had disappeared to his room as soon as the gifts were opened and only resurfaced briefly for dinner, where he took a few bites of the beef Wellington and scalloped potatoes that his mother had purchased from a local caterer and heated in her professional-quality range. Gail went to bed soon after dinner as well, disgusted and annoyed by her husband’s display but thinking it nothing more than a middle-aged man’s pathetic diversion and taking two sleeping pills that night to tamp it from her mind. Mary put Hannah to bed, and then it was just she and Ron.

  He was sitting on the sectional when she came back downstairs, his arm resting on the seatback. Mary’s lip gloss was freshly applied, her hair was brushed, and in her hands was her Polaroid.

  “I want to take some more pictures,” she said. “This place is so pretty.”

  Ron patted the seat next to him. “Come sit.”

  Mary obliged and took the seat next to him. She stretched her long tanned legs out over Gail’s cream leather as she looked about the room. “Gail has such good taste.”

  Ron looked down and exhaled at the mention of his wife’s name. “Gail has expensive taste,” he said, and then he looked at Mary, this sugar-sweet young beauty who had never run up his American Express bill, had never insisted on private school for his pussy son, or made him go to couple’s therapy.

  Mary sunk down lower into the couch and rolled onto her hip to face him. Then she snapped another photo. “Merry Christmas,” she said, with a giggle, as he leaned forward, rubbing his eyes and blinking against the surprise of the flash.

  “Give me that,” he teased, as he groped for the camera, his eyes still closed. Mary tried to hold the camera above her head as he blindly reached for it. Mary let out small playful shrieks and laughed as she maneuvered away from his grabs. But then came the inevitable moment of their tussle when his body found its way on top of hers, their faces inches apart, and she smelled the liquor on his breath. And from the quick flash of doubt that crossed his face, Mary saw that she might lose him, so she adjusted her hips and bit her lips and let out a barely audible little moan. Then she loosely aimed the camera that she still held extended out in her arm to point the lens at Ron and herself. “Say cheese,” she said, with a coy smile, as she hit the button. His mouth fell on hers to the mechanical sound of the print being pushed from the camera.

  And though Mary felt reflexive arousal at Ron’s gyrations, she was able to judge his state of mind with near scientific clarity. At that moment, he was thinking of nothing besides being with her. He would have fucked her right there on his wife’s nine-thousand-dollar sofa.

  “Come on,” she whispered, her voice baby soft. “Let’s go to your office.” And she twisted out from under him, camera still in hand, and ran giggling to his office as he staggered after her, drunk with want.

  Mary put the camera to good use that night, using the nine remaining photos wisely, pretending it was all a playful little game. And when Ron flipped this beautiful girl onto her knees and had her from behind, she was sure that he had never before in his whole life been quite so happy.

  Ron fell asleep that night on the leather couch in his office, naked. When he was lightly snoring, Mary extricated herself from his embrace and set to work, gathering up the photos that had been strewn around, then heading up to her and Hannah’s room to pack. She worked silently and quickly, refolding clothing and zipping the bags in the dim room, her hair tangled, her lips feeling raw.

  At just before six in the morning, Mary loaded herself up with their luggage and brought it down to the garage, setting it just behind the automatic door. Then she went back up to the bedroom for Hannah. She slid her arms underneath her sister’s sleeping body. Hannah gave a startled intake of breath as she was lifted, then she settled against Mary, her eyes never opening. As Mary hurried down the stairs, Hannah made small noises, as if her consciousness were floating up to the surface.

  The cab glided up just as Mary peered through the glass of the garage door. She pressed a button and the door rumbled to life, rising obediently.

  Seeing Mary carrying Hann
ah, the driver had gotten out. “Can you get the bags?” Mary asked him, tilting her head behind her to the luggage that sat on the concrete floor.

  The driver just nodded, looking at the beautiful Mary and the sleeping Hannah and the hideous grandeur of the house behind them. And as Mary settled Hannah into her seat, he hauled the three bags into the trunk, got back into the driver’s seat, and with unuttered urgency, sped away from chez Dackard.

  “Where are we going?” asked Hannah, whose eyes were now open.

  Mary adjusted in her seat, feeling the vinyl stick to her skin. She twisted a finger though a loop of her sister’s hair. “Away.”

  Though Mary couldn’t have known it, Gail had already roused, the rumbling of the garage door having woken her. She had seen the bed empty next to her and shuffled down to Ron’s office. Ron, still naked, raised his head when his wife entered the room. It was with a politician’s practicality that he immediately wondered what exactly Gail knew, where exactly Mary was, and how exactly he could explain it all away.

  Mary, as it turned out, was at that moment pulling out of Cocoplum Estates, staring at the bright red sunrise that had made its advance in the morning sky.

  “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” said Mary, as she angled her head to better see the road, her arm around Hannah.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that there’ll probably be bad weather later.”

  From the front seat, the cab driver met Mary’s eye in the rearview mirror. He was a black man who wore a short-sleeve button-down shirt and a baseball cap. If Mary had asked, he would have told her that his name was Terrance.

  “You going to the airport?” he asked, his words long and languid.