The Complete Series

by Angela Scipioni

  Frances opened the refrigerator and said “Can I have some milk?” to no one in particular, as she grabbed a plastic gallon jug from the top shelf, took a glass from the cupboard, and hoisted her big-boned frame onto the kitchen table. She filled the glass unceremoniously, downed its contents in a series of uninterrupted gulps that made her rather pronounced Adam’s apple bob up and down vigorously, helped herself to two more refills, then used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. “Man, you guys have the best milk,” she said.

  Until Iris had started spending time at her friend’s house, she couldn’t quite understand why Frances would get so excited about something as commonplace as milk. But Frances was right; a glass of fresh, cold milk could taste like the most delicious drink in the world, once you took a sip of the powdered milk the Jejunes drank at their house. Mrs. Jejune seemed uninspired to figure out a way to make the drink palatable. It was stirred up as needed, so as not to go to waste, and rarely chilled in the fridge. Clumps of the undissolved powder were encapsulated in bubbles which remained suspended in the solution, and burst in the mouth on contact, coating tongue and teeth in a chalky grit.

  When the Capotostis ran out of fresh milk, their mother mixed up a batch of powdered milk in the blender, using cold tap water and ice cubes, and whipping it up until it was nice and frothy, adding a few drops of vanilla extract to enhance the aroma. She had a knack for baptizing the most commonplace foods with enticing names, thus her version of powdered milk was transformed into an exotic beverage dubbed “vanilla frappé,” which was such a hit, it was often requested even when there was fresh milk in the refrigerator. Having been to the Jejune’s house frequently to hang out with Frances and Michael, Iris couldn’t help drawing a correlation between the lukewarm lumpiness of their powdered milk and other aspects of the household. With their calm mannerisms and unemotional tones of voice, Mr. and Mrs. Jejune themselves struck her as lukewarm and lumpy. Their recently built house, unlike the Capotosti homestead, was insulated with aluminum siding that didn’t peel or fade; the interiors were tasteless but neat, and efficiently maintained. Furniture was dusted, rugs were vacuumed, lawns were mowed, leaves were raked and snow was shoveled, all according to the chore chart attached to the refrigerator with a magnet. Omissions of duty or improvisations in schedule were not tolerated under any circumstances, and infractions, however minor, did not cause shouting, only immediate grounding. All basic needs for food, shelter, and attention seemed to be met automatically, rendering unnecessary the butting of heads that occurred at Iris’s house, but at the same time depriving Michael and Frances of the satisfaction of fighting for and obtaining one’s just due, of the giddiness that comes with grabbing a bit more than one’s share, and of the indescribable thrill that presages each onslaught of guilt.

  “William!” Iris called out in the direction of the living room, “Popcorn’s ready! Come and get it!” Fresh from their showers, William, Charles and Ricci appeared immediately to grab a bowlful of popcorn and a glass of juice, then disappeared just as quickly back into the living room. Earlier, she had been forced to order Ricci back to the bathroom after he had emerged, his head of curls still matted and wild, his body still reeking of baby B.O., a sign that he had adopted his old trick of running the shower full blast for a good five minutes while standing off to the side, fully clothed, doing God only knew what to pass the time, while clouds of steam filled the bathroom and fogged the mirrors.

  Iris looked at Lily. Lily swallowed nervously, and looked at Frances. Frances grinned, and looked at Iris. “Now’s the time, ladies. It’s just us and the boys, and they won’t budge for awhile,” Iris said. “Lily, grab a few sandwich bags from the cupboard, wouldya?”

  Thus armed, Iris led the way up the stairs, closely followed by Frances, and Lily, several steps behind. They regrouped at the top, in front of the closed door that led to the bedroom Henry shared with Louis, and occasionally Alexander or John, when they were at loose ends between graduate programs, jobs, and girlfriends. Absolutely no one else was allowed in the room, save when it was necessary to retrieve something from the attic, a crawlspace under the eaves accessed by a small door on the far side of the room. Iris placed her hand on the doorknob, but withdrew it immediately, as if she had received an electrical shock. She rubbed her hands together, then tried again. She turned the knob and eased the door open, and a shaft of light from the stairway illuminated the chest of drawers standing against the opposite wall. She took a step forward, craning her neck to look around her in the semi-darkness to verify that no one had miraculously materialized in the empty room, that no silent body lay unpredictably in any of the three single beds that stood, deceptively monk-like, in a row against the wall.

  “O-say ar-fay, o-say ood-gay!” she whispered to her two accomplices standing immobile at the doorway. “Frances, you watch our backs,” she croaked, motioning for Lily to come into the room. Lily didn’t budge. “Unless you prefer to stand guard, Lily,” she said. Lily said nothing, just shook her head and walked toward Iris. An assortment of odd-looking pipes and a little metal scale cluttered the dresser-top; Iris pointed at the dresser drawers, indicating that their search should begin there. Each grabbing a knob, they slid open the first drawer; Lily kept turning to watch the door as Iris patted the stack of sloppily folded T-shirts, a jumble of unpaired socks, and a pile of frazzled cotton briefs. After easing the drawer back into place, they proceeded to open the second, which was crammed with winter sweaters. Iris probed the folds of scratchy wool with her fingers, but came up empty-handed. She signaled to Lily that they could close the drawer and move on to the bottom one, which refused to budge when they first tried to open it. When they tugged a bit harder, the drawer to grumbled and squeaked, then suddenly yielded to their efforts, causing them both to fall on their butts.

  “Shhh!” Frances hissed from the doorway, as the two girls scrambled to their knees in front of the open drawer.

  “Wow!” Iris said, her eyes widening at the sight of two black garbage bags. She pressed on them with her fingers, her heart beating quickly. “Either he’s really into collecting autumn leaves for his scrapbook, or we just hit pay dirt!”

  “What is it?” Frances called from her post.

  “Keep it down!” Iris ordered. “But come and take a look!”

  “Holy shit!” said Frances, peering into the drawer.

  “Okay, girls, let’s just fill up those little bags and am-scray!” Iris said.

  “Maybe we should just get out of here, Iris! He’ll find out for sure!” Lily said.

  “We’ve already talked about this, Lily. What’s he gonna do? Tell Dad?” Iris whispered. “Besides, no one will ever think it was me.” Iris had recently begun to appreciate some of the fringe benefits of always sticking to the rules and doing what was expected of her.

  “Exactly. Which is why they’ll pin it on me,” Lily said. “Even if it doesn’t get to Dad, Henry could blame me! Then what?”

  “I hardly think Henry would have the nerve to accuse you, of all people.” Iris and Lily locked eyes for an instant, then Lily dropped hers to the floor. “Now let’s get the job done and split,” Iris said, carefully untying the knot in the garbage bag. “Get a whiff of this stuff!” she exclaimed, feigning expertise she did not have, unless you could count French kissing a guy who had just smoked a joint. She took a plastic bag from Lily’s hand and stuffed it with the grass, ordering Lily to do the same. When they had filled six little bags, Iris tied a new knot in the black bag, fluffed it up so that its contents would not look depleted, though they had hardly made a dent in the stash, and closed the drawer. The girls backed out of the room silently, shut the door, and sprinted across to the room where Lily and Iris had first gone to bed as little girls, and between one fairy tale and another, somehow woken up as teenagers.

  “What a killing!” Frances said. “What is your brother doing with so much pot?”

  “Good question,” Iris said.

  “Maybe he’s keeping it for some
one,” Lily said.

  “Yeah, right. But that’s none of our beeswax. What we don’t know can’t hurt us.” Iris stared at the chubby little bags lined up on the bed. “You girls ready to give it a try?”

  “I guess so, but how?” Lily asked.

  “You have to roll it up in really thin paper,” Frances said.

  “Let me see what I can find,” Iris said. She rummaged through her dresser drawers, rustled through the items crammed in the closet, and emerged with a smile, triumphantly waving a shoebox in the air. “Eureka!” she said. “Tissue paper!”

  The threesome sat cross-legged on the bed and set to work. Lily cut the tissue paper into strips with pinking shears, the only scissors she could find in the sewing box, which gave the papers a fancy edging. Frances sprinkled the marijuana into the strips, which Iris rolled up into thick, sausage-like cigarettes, then carefully sealed them with tabs of Scotch tape. Lily stashed the leftover bags in a corner of the closet under a pile of dirty laundry, as Iris brushed wayward bits of grass and seeds off the blanket, then they filed out of the room and headed downstairs, each girl concealing a big fat joint in the palm of her hand.

  Fingering the illicit substance gave Iris a thrill as she peeked into the living room to check on the boys, remembering not to neglect her babysitting duties. William was stretched out on the sofa with Ricci, Charles lay on the floor, belly down, chin resting on his clenched fists, the cat kneading the small of his back, preparing to settle in for a snooze. Their freshly scrubbed faces were bathed in cathode ray blue, their eyes glued to the TV screen, their popcorn bowls empty and juice glasses drained. Iris snatched a box of stick matches from the cabinet above the stove, and led the group across the back yard, and behind the chicken coop.

  “I wonder if there’s a trick to lighting them,” Iris said.

  “Let me try. I spied on Michael once from my bedroom window when he snuck out the back door,” Frances said. “Give them to me, but I’ll just light one for starters.” Iris brought one lit match after another to Frances’s cupped hands, but they were all snuffed out by the wind before the joint could catch. Finally, a plume of acrid smoke rose in the night air. Frances puffed on the joint several times to get it going, then inhaled once, long and deep, and held her breath.

  “Why isn’t she breathing?” Lily asked, a look of concern clouding her face.

  Frances burst out laughing, exhaling the smoke. “Duh, that’s how you’re supposed to do it! You have to hold it in.” Frances passed the joint to Iris.

  “Shit, this stuff burns!” Iris gagged at the first puff.

  “You have to hold it in, I said!” Frances repeated, as she took possession of the joint again. “Like this.” She squinted her eyes as she sucked at the slow-burning tissue paper, for what seemed like endless minutes. She closed her eyes and held her breath for several seconds, before slowly exhaling the smoke. “Oh, man,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Geez, I thought you were never gonna come up for air!” Lily said.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Frances said to her. “Remember, it’s not a cigarette, Lily. You gotta hold it like this. You too, Iris.” She held the joint up, clasped between her thumb and index finger for the other girls to see.

  “Am I puffing right, Frances?” Lily asked.

  “You’re a natural, Lil. But you don’t say ‘puffing’. You ‘toke’ on a joint, or ‘take a hit’. Remember that, or you’ll sound so incredibly uncool.”

  “Thank you for your divine instruction, O Venerable Master of Future Potheads!” Iris said, giggling, as the joint completed another round. “I can’t wait to see the look on Michael’s face when he hears about this.”

  “I wonder what James would say if he knew. I don’t think I’ll tell him. Not yet, anyway.”

  “We gotta find a better solution than tissue paper, though,” Frances said. “This tape stinks when it melts.”

  Lily swayed on her feet, and Iris put her arm around her, as they both slid to the cold, damp ground, their backs coming to rest against the wall of the chicken coop.

  “Ah, the good old kitchen poop!” Lily laughed, blowing smoke into the air. “Always there when you need it.”

  “Hee-hee!” Iris shook with laughter. “Whaddya mean ‘kitchen poop’? Are you stoned or something? This here’s a chicken coop!”

  “I never got a chicken from there. But I do seem to recall getting some poop.” Lily took another deep draw on her joint and held her breath. Iris poked her in the ribs, causing her to exhale abruptly. “Ow, my throat! It burns! It burns!” Lily sputtered. “This shit can’t be good for singers.” Iris continued tickling her until the girls rolled to the ground, laughing until tears sprang to the corners of their eyes. Frances looked on, toking away until the joint was gone.

  “How the hell did those apples trees get to be so goddamn tall?” Iris said, lying on her back, hugging her tummy to quell the spasms.

  “Damn if I know!” Lily said. “They look so beautiful when they’re naked like this, just branches with tiny leaves, with none of that wormy fruit falling all over the place.”

  “We should tell them.” Iris rose to a squat, then pulled herself to her feet. She danced over to an apple tree and caressed its trunk. “You’re freakin’ beautiful!” she said.

  “You are amazingly beautiful, too!” Lily sang, skipping across the lawn in the dark, stopping to hug each of the cherry trees.

  Iris jetéed over to the peach tree, and pressed her lips against its dry bark. “Hey, even this tree kisses better than Frankie!” she squealed. Frances shuffled after Iris and Lily as the sisters stopped at each tree between the chicken coop and the garage, hugging and kissing them, stroking their bark with their hands and their egos with compliments, wishing them a good night. They eventually found themselves in the kitchen, gulping down humongous glasses of orange juice with ice to extinguish the burning in their throats, and tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths. Canned laughter and pre-recorded applause drifted in from the living room, where the boys slumbered peacefully, exactly where Iris had left them.

  Iris stood up and pounded the pedals in an effort to get enough traction on the slushy pavement to pump her way uphill, but the harder she pedaled, the more the bicycle slipped and slid. It was five-thirty in the morning, and she had exactly fifteen minutes before punching in for her shift at the new McDonald’s across from Chili Plaza, where she was part of the breakfast crew. By six o’clock the early birds would already be trickling in for their take-away orders of hotcakes and bacon-and-egg sandwiches.

  The thin nylon uniform she wore beneath her hooded windbreaker did little to prevent the early morning chill from penetrating her bones, but she was soon sweating from the exertion. Although it took a tremendous effort for Iris to climb out of bed, once she was up and running, she was happy to have a head start on the rest of the world. She always worked the same shift as Lynn, a pale, blond girl who lived with her divorced mother and smoked Kools. In the early morning hours, she and Lynn amused themselves by playing little games with the grim, grey-faced customers they served. Each time one approached the counter to croak out an order in a sleep-encrusted voice, the girls launched a competition to see who would be the first to elicit a smile. They had nicknames for all the regulars, and invented stories about their private lives, such as what they may have done the night before or what was on their agendas for the coming day, based on the way they looked and acted and dressed. Often customers still bore the impression left by the folds of a pillowcase on their faces when they walked in, which made Iris feel sorry for them, having to get up so early on such a nasty morning, even though she herself had gotten up earlier to serve them. Some men in suits and ties looked like they took themselves too seriously when they walked in the door, but when they got closer, and Iris saw the flecks of toothpaste on their ties, or the pieces of toilet paper stuck to razor nicks on their necks, she liked them better.

  Iris was more disturbed by the procession of sad-faced women who squi
nted at the menu board hanging behind the cash registers, their eyelids at half-mast, weighed down by remnants of sleep, hastily applied gobs of eye makeup, and the stagnant air of resignation. Two of the saddest-looking women, regulars that the girls referred to as Morticia and Lucretia, invariably revealed lipstick-smeared incisors when they bared their teeth to order, suggesting that they had just returned from a feeding frenzy on the vampire circuit rather than from a night safely tucked away in their comfy suburban bedrooms. Iris wasn’t crazy about her job, yet she considered herself fortunate to be behind the counter, with a future ahead of her, rather than in front of the counter, with her future behind her.

  By nine o’clock, the first morning rush usually subsided, and the girls on the breakfast team were famished. No free food allowances were granted employees, but thanks to the strict enforcement of the restaurant’s quality control policy, products had to be discarded after sitting under the warming lights for a certain number of minutes. So unless production was calculated perfectly to match the flow of customers who hurried in and out, frazzled by their tight morning schedules, there were always excess products at the end of a rush.

  “I need to use the ladies’ room,” Iris called to the shift manager in the back, as Lynn nodded her agreement to cover for her. Lynn picked up a pen, and added a tally stick in the column on the daily waste sheet that corresponded to the egg-and-bacon sandwiches. Iris stealthily lifted a small Styrofoam box from the food bin and tucked it under her uniform, relishing its warmth against her tummy as she trotted off to the rest room. She didn’t really mind having her breakfast in the toilet, except when a customer had just stopped in to take a dump, like today, leaving an unappetizing odor to battle for supremacy with the sickly sweet scent of the deodorant that was sprayed with remarkable zeal by the super-efficient cleaning crew. Iris locked herself in a stall, trying not to breathe through her nose as she sunk her teeth into the toasted English muffin, through the layers of melted cheese, Canadian bacon and fried egg, savoring the commingling of flavors and consistencies, imagining the nourishment rush to her bloodstream, replenishing her energy. It tasted divine.